Silence hangs in the flat. It is so heavy that Robert doesnt even notice at first what wakes him. No alarm, no clatter in the kitchen, no running water from the shower. Nothing but the steady hum of the fridge against the wall and the distant rumble of traffic outside the window.
He lies there and listens. Yesterday the place was alive: the floorboards creaked under Ethels quick steps, the pages of the novel she was reading rustled in the armchair, even the irritating scrape of her cats claws on the sofa fabric. Now the cat has gone with her, and the sofa sits empty and foreign.
The first impulse is to grab his phone and text someone, Meet me at the pub, urgent! and pour his grief, bitterness and rage into a few drinks with mates. To tell them what she was like No, he stops himself from even thinking about that. A lower, more animal instinct nudges him toward finding anyone, anyone at all, just to fill the yawning hole beside him for one night. A quick route to selfdestruction, familiar and tempting.
Instead, Robert pushes himself up, walks to the kitchen and turns the kettle on. While it heats, his eyes fall on the coat rack in the hallway where Ethels favourite knitted shawl still hangs. The axe in the head, he recalls a line from an article he read a week ago, at the height of his despair.
Alright, lad, time to pull the axe out, he mutters to himself.
He starts small. He gathers every item she left behind that he didnt take: the shawl, a forgotten paperback, a driedout ink bottle, a mug with cartoon cats. He packs them neatly into a cardboard box, not throwing them away in a fit of spite but tucking them away carefully to be given back later, without drama or blame. He then washes the sheets, airing out the lingering scent of her perfume. He deletes the shared photos from his phone and empties the trash folder. Each act feels like pulling a dirty bandage from a woundpainful, but necessary.
Time becomes the next opponent. It presses on his shoulders like a heavy load. Hours that used to be spent on meals together, trips to the cinema, endless, pointless but sweet conversations now sit empty. He needs to fill them, not with booze or selfpity, but with himself.
He signs up for a gym membership at the local sports centre. The first sessions feel like hell. He pushes himself until hes nauseous, venting his anger, disappointment and hurt onto the machines. Drops of sweat on the rubber floor look like tears. Week by week his body grows stronger and his mind steadier.
He also enrolls in an Italian classsomething they had always wanted to try but kept postponing. Now he goes alone. Complex grammar structures push the intrusive thoughts out of his head. He even travels to Blackpool, the seaside town she never wanted to visit. Sitting on the pier at sunset, he feels a light, bright melancholy and a flicker of freedom for the first time in months.
There are hard days too. At night memories can rattle him awake: Ethels laugh as she threw her head back, or a trivial argument they once had. He doesnt chase them away; he lies and lets the pain wash over him, as the article advised, allowing it to rise and fall like a tide. Occasionally he hops in his car, drives out of town, climbs a deserted hill and screams at the top of his lungs. He shouts until his throat is raw, until the coveted silence finally settles inside him.
One afternoon he digs through old paperwork and finds their wedding photo. Robert expects a surge of sorrow or anger. Instead he simply looks at the smiling, oblivious couple and thinks, Yes, that was real. It was beautiful. And its over.
There is no lingering hatred, no desperate wish to turn back time. Only a mild nostalgia and the understanding that this chapter has closed.
That evening he meets his friends at a local pub. They laugh, swap news, make plans. Robert realises he hasnt thought about Ethel all night. He is simply present, whole, though a scar still marks his heart. He catches his reflection in the café windowlean, composed, eyes clear. He hasnt seen himself like this in years, perhaps never will again.
The axe is out. The wound has healed. He feels ready to move forward, lighthearted, toward the life hes always imagined, which is just beginning.
A sudden, foul stench hits his nose. Robert cant grasp whats happening. The room sways as if emerging from fog. He lies on the sofa, still dressed, surrounded by crumbs and mysterious stains.
He tries to sit up and the world tilts. His head feels like its splitting. A cold wave of terror runs down his spine.
The clean, bright home from his dreams is gone. Hes in a squalid flat. Empty beer and vodka bottles litter the floor like fallen soldiers. An ashtray overflows with cigarette butts on the coffee table. Dirty laundry is strewn everywhere, and the TV displays a static nighttime programme.
He drags himself to the bathroom, clutching the doorframe. The harsh fluorescent light sears his eyes. In the mirror he sees a strangera unshaven man with a bruised, swollen face, eyes bloodshot and full of shame. It is him. Robert.
All the clarity, the strength, the sense of wholeness he felt earlier in the day evaporates, leaving behind a bitter, nauseating hangover and an even worse soulhangover.
It was all a dream. The whole journeypacked boxes, gym, Italian lessons, the pier sunsetwas a clever trick his mind played to escape unbearable reality. A escape that seemed to last an eternity but was really just one night.
He touches his face in the mirror. His skin is oily, his stubble catches his fingertips. This is his present. Not a successful, fit gentleman, but a downtrodden figure drowning his pain in cheap spirits and selfdeception.
The silence in the flat returns, louder now. It is no longer the hopeful hush of a new beginning, but the deadend hush of a deadend. The most terrifying sound in that hush is the ticktock of the clock, mercilessly counting the time he wastes.
The dream was not a cure. It was a mirror held up to his true self. The reflection was so repulsive that he wants to shut his eyes again and run. But there is nowhere left to run.
Robert stands, looks at himself, and is shocked beyond words. The dishevelled man in the grubby tshirt, the chaos around him, the sour taste in his mouth, the scorching emptiness inside. The dream felt vivid, real and the waking moment feels brutal.
He picks up the first empty bottle on the floor and hurls it into the waste bin. It smashes loudly against the rim. He does the same with the second, then the third. He does not scream, does not weep. With a stonecold expression he begins a war against the mess he let his life become.
He gathers all the rubbish, loads bags with bottles and shards, throws the window open, letting cold, fresh air flood the room still thick with stale alcohol fumes. He brews a strong cup of coffee, his hands shaking.
He returns to the mirror. His gaze is still tired, wounded. Yet somewhere deep in those clouded eyes, like a faint glimmer in a dirty puddle, a spark flickers. Not hope, but a cold, white anger at himself.
He reaches for his phone, scrolls through contacts and finds the number of his old schoolmate, Alex Turner, who offered psychological help a month ago. He had saved the number but never called. Now he dials.
Alex? his voice creaks like an old door. I need your help.
He puts the receiver down, takes a deep breath. The path he saw in his dream was a mirage, but it pointed somewhere. Robert realises that to become the clear, strong man from his nightvision, he must walk through this hell in the real world, not in sleep.
His first step isnt the gym or the language class. It is the shower. He will wash away yesterday, the unshaven, bruised version of himself, and start again. From the very beginning. Tomorrow.
