The Weight Of Time

A Story by Rowan O'Neill

A story about grief, loss and empathy for others.

The evening was an anonymous as the last twenty-nine days. The thick, November air misted the window with delicate drops of condensation, quivering as I drummed my chewed fingernails on the frosted glass. I tried to make out the street with the obstructed view I had, watching monochrome silhouettes pass under the faint glow of the streetlights. They strode with purpose, engulfed by heavy winter coats, their scarves fluttering in the biting wind. I was satisfied enough inside, safe from cold creeping up my spine, forming goose bumps along my forearms, seizing my hands until they go numb. My biology teacher Miss Quale told us how the body reacts to cold weather. She mentioned vasoconstriction; when the non-essential blood vessels constrict to preserve heat. It kind of works, but you’d still consider wearing a few layers if you didn’t want to die from hypothermia. How I love winter.

Heavy footsteps shifted across the worn floorboards outside the apartment. Dad was home, early for once. The lock shook a little as he jiggled the front door open. When a place becomes as outdated as my Father’s habitat, basic things tend not to function anymore. Including the door, all the cabinets, the oven, and on particularly unfortunate occasions, the shower. You wouldn’t guess it by looking. The apartment resembled what a narcissist with obsessive-compulsive disorder’s accommodation would look like. Not a shred of paper out of place, as homely as a crypt. Only expected from a man like himself.

© 2014 Rowan O'Neill

Author's Note

Opening two paragraphs to an upcoming story. I'll love all types of feedback please.
Thank you!

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Featured Review

Lydia Shutter

I could almost feel the biting wind after reading your words. The imagery is vivid and powerful. You have piqued my interest. I can picture the apartment and would like to know more about the father figure in the story. Not sure where you are going with this, but it is interesting. Good work. Lydi**