Short Story: Melancholy by Cari Frantz

Mallory stirred her cup of black tea and sighed as she leaned back in the squeaky, rusty kitchen chair. Her hair, which hung limply at her shoulders, seemed to pull each thin strand towards the floor. The wrinkles and lines were not entirely invisible in her sallow, veiled face. Her eyes, which were as grey as a dead wildflower in winter, squinted up at the old clock on the wall, waiting for the hands to reach three o’clock. Clutching her leg, Mallory kneaded the muscles that had become stiff with age and stress over the years. Silently, a tear slipped down her hollow cheek and fell onto her jet black pencil skirt, where it disappeared instantly. She didn’t seem to take notice, or care to wipe away the mark it left in her caked facial makeup. Steadily, she gazed on at the clock on the wall. Her stare was dead; she didn’t seem to be thinking at all. Mallory removed her hand from massaging her sore muscles, and placed it gently on the table. The clock struck three. As silent as the grave, she stood and picked up a hairpin from the table. Twisting her hair into a simple bun, Mallory fastened the hairstyle in place, not seeming to notice the wispy strands that still hung about her face. She strode over to the mantle above the ashy fireplace and picked up a black lace veil, which she placed on her head. The veil looked as if it hadn’t been worn for many years, and indeed, it hadn’t. The lace was torn, chewed and ragged; the hat didn’t look as handsome as it did in its glory days. A rose, which had been fastened onto the headpiece many years ago, was now wilted and lifeless.

After pinning the hat in place, Mallory trudged with what little grace and dignity she had left. Towards the door she walked, straightening her crooked back as tall as it would go. Placing her hand on the doorknob, she twisted it and cracked open the front door. She turned, and observed the room from which she had just walked. Her life was contained in this small, simple living room. Her artifacts, treasures and lessons learned. The laughter, the sorrow, the pain. Always, someone had been there with her. Someone who would enjoy every moment, scream at the pain or thrust through the hardship. With her. Now, as Mallory watched the room with a vacant expression, she began to grasp the truth. She was alone. The sound of soft, tiny feet scurrying throughout the halls was silenced. The tones that were heard after a first music lesson; screechy voices, an out-of-tune piano and straining guitar notes, were now muted. The tears and cries that screamed from the room due to the death of an unborn child, seemed to hush itself from the room.

All these memories seemed to flash before Mallory’s eyes as she lamented on days past. Suddenly, as if realizing the moment had come, she took one final look upon the apartment, and stepped outside the door into the bitter air.

The funeral service she was to attend was the last she would ever need to be present at. Her son. Her daughter. Her husband. All killed in the train wreck that lasted ten seconds.

As Mallory prepared to step into the little black car that waited beside the walkway, several tears began falling like snowflakes. Her eyes began to flow like a stream of running water. She didn’t care. She didn’t need to care. Her life was over. Dead.

The silence was deafening.

She screamed as the tears began to consume her.

Never, had she felt so alone.