The Hush

By Richard Davis

The woman did not want the man sleeping beside her whilst she was ill. She said she needed her own space, and he made her feel uncomfortable. She knew he did not want to be in that bed, lying next to her, which was the truth. He did not want to be too close to her because he feared he might inhale cancer dust off her skin. This was what he believed, and it terrified him because he was an ignorant man. It was the first time in forty years of marriage they had slept apart.

That first night alone in the spare room he lay awake all-night staring at the ceiling and listening to the darkness. Cats fought in the backyard. A car crawled by at two in the morning playing loud music and he wished he was going wherever the car was going. And then there was silence, but silence is never pure. There was always something to be heard deep inside it. Small interruptions like her weak cough. The dripping tap in the bathroom he was meant to have fixed years ago. His own heart beating steadily, oblivious to the situation affecting him, like the organ was no longer a part of him. He watched the hours slide by on the small alarm clock. Advancing luminous numbers glowed back at him, stealing away life.

She was alone. He was alone. She did not want him in there with her. She hated him seeing her all rotten and dying. She knew he was a cowardly man without the strength to follow a thing through to the end.

The second night alone he thought about her sickness, like raking over hot embers to deliberately feel the pain again. He had been bitter about it ever since her diagnosis years ago. But she helped him through it. She had the patience of a saint and stayed with him until he stopped drinking. Her sickness was his excuse to get numb. Not once did he ask her how she felt, or how he could help her. He knew he was a coward. He knew she had the strength of many men, or the mightier strength of women. He accepted she was naturally stronger than him. Except when the rot started eating her alive.

There was a thick covering of snow on the ground when she asked him the question. The first snow of winter had fallen, and the village looked different. It was white and clean and there was a soft peace from the hush the deep snow brought. The only tracks in the snow were ones made by cats and birds and foxes. She asked him if he had cleaned the shotgun recently. He told her he had done it yesterday, which was a lie, but the way she asked made him uneasy. She had asked him the question through relentless waves of biting pain. The look on her face was detached, distant. She said she would love to see the gun. Her father had left it to her when he died decades ago. The man said no and went downstairs to make coffee.

He sat by the window and stared at the falling snow until he stopped crying.

At noon he opened a bottle of whisky. He had managed not to drink for a week. He wanted to be there for her. But she knew him better than he knew himself and pushed him away. He knew she did it for his sake, to try and save him from his own suffering.

The woman rang a little silver bell to let him know she needed his help. He put down his glass before one drop had passed his lips. He was annoyed by the ring. It made him feel like her servant. Every time she rang the bell it angered him.

The gun cabinet was in the cellar. He turned the key and opened it. The gun felt heavier than usual. The wood was warm but the gunmetal was like ice. His actions felt like part of a plan he had no control over. It was like she was driving him, possessing him. He heard the bell ring again and cursed under his breath.

By the time he reached the bedroom he had calmed down. He smiled at her ashen face. She once had beautiful brown eyes brimming with life. Now they peered at him through a morphine mist, through a washed-out brown. She held an empty plastic beaker. He knew she thought she was smiling at him, but there was no smile. He had not seen one for a long time. He took the beaker from her hand and placed the gun on the bed beside her in the space he had occupied for forty years. He left the bedroom and returned to his drink.

It was past midnight when he retrieved the gun and locked it back in its cabinet.

He went outside for some air. It was snowing again. He paced around like he was lost, pressing his slippers deep into the fresh snow. He felt sick and blank. Like half his life had poured away into a gutter. He lay down on his back in the thick snow and shivered. Snowflakes touched his face. He slowly made an angel with his old arms and old legs like he had seen kids do. He stopped and listened to the hush and decided to let it take him to see angels, or devils, he no longer cared which way he went, just so long as he went.