Ficlets

The Writer Is Temporarily Frightened

I spent the rest of the day napping, trying to catch tidbits of sleep here and there, but sleep wouldn’t come. It would not yield.

I wanted to rest desperately. I had been up ever since five in the morning, and my body was starting to experience the consequences of waking up at such an inhumane hour.

As I was about to go back to the state of dizziness I called sleep, Mrs. McCarthy’s voice startled me out of all chances of gaining comfort.

“Aidan…honey, it’s the…”

“Undertaker? I’ll be right there.”

I wrenched myself away from the couch and stood up, cloaking my shoulders with a blanket I had picked up in my room.

With trembling hands, I took the phone and pressed it to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Miss O’Callahan? I am calling to inquire about your father.”

“Yes, you have the right number.”

And so commenced my conversation. We talked about many things – flowers, where the burial would take place, but he asked me a question that frightened me.

“Miss O’Callahan…will it be open-coffin?”

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