Short story - Lapse limbo

The living room hasn’t been cleaned for weeks. Crumpled, empty bags of chips, energy bar wrappers and drink bottles, are strewn across it. He usually blames it on the ceiling fan for scattering it all around. The fairly large coffee table doesn't have a square-inch left unoccupied. Unread newspapers, pamphlets and bills lie all over it, haphazardly. Two unwashed mugs stand on one corner, while another lurks below the table, abandoned. The couch, thankfully, has almost nothing on it; surprising, judging by the rest of the room. This is because he moves around on it a lot and often sleeps overnight on it; dozing off while the TV is still on. 

As the morning light hits the sprite can, which still has an ounce left in it, he walks in from the bedroom. He isn’t yawning or squinting. His eyes are wide open and his heart is speeding. ‘What was it?’, he thinks to himself, ‘I knew it a second ago’. He is frustrated because this is the fourth time it has happened to him this week. He forgot again.

It’s 2 in the afternoon and the office is filled with the clicking of mice and clacking of computer keys. He is staring at his screen but his mind has wandered off. It is busy trying to piece things together for the umpteenth time. It had been the exact same dream. He was intensely searching for something; something very important. And at the end of it, he had felt so much better than he has been feeling for days. It was the exact same dream. However hard he puts his mind to it though, he can’t remember what he was searching for. He had to know what it was.

It’s 8 in the evening. He is sat in his living room at one corner of the couch, head in his hands. He is just sitting there, letting time slip by. He has already given up. 

The next day isn’t very productive either. Neither can he finish his work for the day, nor does the mystery unravel even a bit. Back on the couch by evening, but this time with the TV on, he lies there staring at the ceiling fan. The emptiness seems so permanent. It was over a year ago that she had left him. He couldn’t hate her, how much ever he tried. His chest weighed a tonne. The pain seemed insurmountable. It took him months, but he finally did manage to get over it. He had just found a groove to get back on track, and now this. This was beyond what he could handle.

It’s 4 in the morning and the TV is still on. He had passed out, while still lying on the couch. And now, he is dreaming the same dream. 

‘Of course I remember, how could I ever forget?!’ he thinks to himself. And then he starts searching for something all over the apartment. 

They used to write letters to each other; physical letters. It was their thing. Long distance relationships are not easy and they had to get creative if they wanted keep it alive. But, it turned into a sour thing when they began fighting through the same letters. She wanted him to join her. He wasn’t putting enough effort into it. Things reached the point of no return and the writing stopped. It had gotten way too serious for quaintness. The breakup and the quarrels leading up to it happened over the phone. He was seething. She was distraught. His ego had made it all about his pride and individualism. Neither of which he cared about right now.

But there was one last letter. A letter she chose to write for him after everything was over. A remnant of that special thing they had. He didn’t open it. And soon enough, it was misplaced and forgotten. 

About 3 weeks back, he received a call from a mutual friend. An unfortunate news ripped his heart and mind to shreds in an instant. It left him lifeless. 

There had been an accident. She was gone. 

Everything derailed. He was reduced to a barely functioning man. Meaning and purpose had vanished.

And then came the dreams. The exact same dream over and over. In it, he would restlessly search all night for her last letter; breathing deeply, like a madman, all through. And when he finally found it, his heart would flood with emotion. Her last words to him, as he imagined them to be, would be magical and healing. He would feel a sense of peace, an oasis of comfort, in a world of pain; a momentary stillness at the eye of the storm.

It’s 6:57am. He wakes up breaking a sweat. Eyes wide open and heart racing, he jumps up on his feet and repeatedly presses his palms to his temples. ‘Not again, not again!’, he says to himself, forlorn and agitated. ‘What was it, god damn it! What the hell was I searching for?’

All the while, her last letter lies neglected under the coffee table, perfectly hidden from view.