Silence


Fiction / Friday, March 20th, 2009

I look out over the water and see nothing.

I look back, and the only thing I can see is the pinpoint of light from the boat shed, and many smaller scattered points around it – from the houses, mine and those of my neighbors. I wonder how much time it would take for them to notice I was gone.

Would they think that I was still working late as usual if they didn’t see me for a few days? Or would someone see the little tell tale signs? The newspapers piling on the porch. The unkempt grass on the lawns. Or maybe the lack of garbage? The rubbish produced by an orderly living, replaced by a creeping disorder.

Maybe someday I would know. It seemed unlikely. And unimportant.

All those years of working had taken their toll. And tomorrow was going to be the first of many Mondays which wouldn’t be spent in rush hour traffic. Or slow death in meetings.

I had no idea what I was going to do next, but I clearly knew what I was not going to do.

I had thought it would take a little more effort to pluck myself away, but it was painless – as though the anticipation of the freedom was a drug against the pain.

Truly now, the world was my oyster. A gorgeous well-stocked yacht. All the electronic gadgetry to guide me where I needed to go. No bonds to hold me back.

I wondered why I hadn’t done this before, even as I knew why.

I had never won the lottery before.

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