Melancholia in Pictures

Copyright PennameWombat January 2020

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

This is one of my entries for the 2020 "750 Word Story Event."

*****

Patricia Drake sat in her cube on the comfortable mattress that was hardly wider than her body. She was three inches shy of six feet and if she'd had those she'd stretch wall to wall.

She reached toward the small corner sink, filled a glass of water, swallowed half, set it on a retractable shelf. She used her wristlet to turn on the flat screen above the foot of the bed. The facility offered every movie and television show ever made. She said "random" and frowned when it chose "The Golden Criminals" then shook her head and paused. She'd chopped her thick and curly black hair into an old woman's buzz cut and for the first time it didn't shake around her face. She chuckled, snorted, let the movie play.

The floor space just allowed her to walk between the bed and the wall.

She grabbed one of the few paper books on embedded shelves above the bed and pulled out a hidden envelope with an inner sleeve of color prints. Like everyone she'd been allowed only what fit in a single box. Clothes were printed, boringly unstylish but available in a panoply of colors and endlessly recyclable.

A pretty young woman, blonde, thin, barely over five feet. She beamed next to a dark-haired man the same age, black-rimmed glasses, his smile as broad, bare chin and jawline firm, her head leaned against his shoulder. Both in shorts, tees. Unfocused figures in a backyard. Brilliant blue sky.

That same woman, red blouse and dark blue skirt that ended just above her knees, the same man in a black graduation gown and cap with red trim. A single puffy cloud floated above them. Unfocused gowned figures behind. They'd aged little.

Tiny lines now around their eyes but not sadness. The man's cream shirt under his blue suit matched her wedding gown. His hair and glasses had changed little, her straight blonde hair gathered high to let strands fall around her face. Puffy, white clouds with shadowed grey.

Patricia blinked to clear the sudden liquid in her eyes.

The woman's short sleeved dress white with red roses. It flowed around her abdominal bulge, the unmistakable shape of late pregnancy. Her smile now was tender, satisfaction more than joy. At her left the man's smile was similar but his head was turned slightly to his left and downward. A boy, three, maybe four, held the man's hand and laughed, his hair just lighter than the man's. A park, much of the sky grey, only a frame of blue.

Patricia again blinked as her finger touched the boy.

Two boys, not quite teens, the darkish haired one, the other's not quite blonde, between them a thin girl with a black mop of curly hair, younger but gangly and barely shorter than the smallest boy. Behind them the blonde woman again stood next to the man, their faces serene, all had straps around their wrists and wore shorts and tees. A mountain meadow, pines and aspens reached for white peaks capped by clouds that offered subtle threats.

Patricia smiled at the girl's olive skin and black hair against the others' paleness.

Stoic faces, blonde ponytail and short streaky grey in black, fatigue bags under eyes. Two boys, teens, taller than the woman but neither matched the man. Youth showed them sad more than grim. The girl centered, young teens but her figure already beyond the woman's, her face a depth of grief. They overlooked a flat valley full of humanity's buildings, dark sky above, threats no longer subtle. Just below, the markers of a large cemetery.

Blinking failed to prevent the drops that rolled down Patricia's cheeks.

Two young men no longer boys, a woman and man toward middle age. Grim, focused, jeans and camo, leather jackets. An SUV stuffed but for the seats. The girl absent. The sky a maelstrom of cloud at war with the sun.

"Mom, dad, Ben, Ted," Patricia whispered, "are you safe?"

The room chimed.

"Yes?"

"Pat, dinner?" Murmurs.

Andy. She smiled. Others.

"'minute," she restored the pictures to their sleeve, bumped the other. A photo slid.

A young woman and man, a curly black mop and shaggy brown head, olive skin. Her transparent red blouse made visible those large, perfectly round breasts and matched the large 'U' alongside them. Grins.

"Why'd you take her up THAT hill THAT night?"

She hid the envelope and wiped her face. The mirror showed reddened eyes but they were rather common here.

"Coming."