You remember falling. But you’ll be fine. You know what those keys will sound like. They’ll clink as you choose the one that feels just right. The doorknob will be cold at first, but it will warm as you twist it. When you walk inside, you catch that lingering scent of his cologne and you can almost taste his lips. You’re home. But as you bend down to unlace your boots, something feels wrong.
Edgar collapses in the entryway. Irvin hears the sound from the kitchen and rushes to Edgar’s side.
“Oh Edgar, no, no, no,” Irvin says. “Are you okay? Tell me you’re okay.”
“Irvin, I’m fine,” Edgar says. “I was just a little dizzy, is all.”
“No worries,” Irvin says. “It was just a bump, you’re going to be okay.”
They struggle to get Edgar back on his feet, but he collapses against Irvin, his eyes wide and unfocused. His mouth hangs agape. Irvin tries to snap him out of it, to no avail. Irvin dials 911.
“Hello?” Irvin says. “Yes, my husband fell and he’s unresponsive.”
You fell. It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. Someone’s holding you. You're certain you know his voice, but you're not quite sure where from. His touch is similarly familiar. And yet, that sense of familiarity is like a snowflake on the tongue; there, then gone. His gentle hand against your cheek fills you with peace. You know he knows you, you can see the care in his milky eyes, the concern in his wrinkled brow. You can smell something sweet; a cologne, perhaps?
Edgar’s keys are still in the front door, which sits ajar. The EMTs arrive and race inside to find Edgar’s head cradled in Irvin’s lap, Irvin’s weathered fingers gently stroking the last remaining coiffed wisps of Edgar’s hair. The EMTs strap Edgar onto the gurney and wheel him to the ambulance.
“Please, may I ride with him?” Irvin says.
“It’s Irvin, right?” the EMT says.
“Yes,” Irvin says. “Please. He needs me. He’s my husband.”
“Absolutely,” the EMT says. “Dispatch filled us in.”
You feel something soft and thin in your hands, though you don’t know where your hands are. That familiar figure is still there, watching you with concern. You wish you could place him. There’s a smell—sweet, familiar. You almost remember what it means.
All but one of the EMTs hurry Edgar into the hospital. Irvin grips a side rail for support as he tries to get out of the back of the ambulance. The remaining EMT notices and jumps to offer a hand. After helping Irvin down, the EMT walks him into the hospital.
“I need to see him,” Irvin says. “He needs me.”
“Sir,” the receptionist says. “I just need you to fill out some forms first. I assure you, your husband is in good hands.”
“But they aren’t my hands,” Irvin says. “You don’t get it. He needs me. The doctors warned me. They said he shouldn’t be on his feet. They said he needed rest. I tried to make him, but he wouldn’t listen. I have to know he’s okay. They said he wouldn’t be able to take another fall. I have to see him.”
“Sir, I understand. The forms,” the receptionist says.
You hear the words, but their meaning slips away like sand through your fingers. They want you to sit up straight, to follow their fingers, but you can’t, so you fall into their arms again and again. If only you could explain to them… You try, but when you open your mouth, no words come out.
Irvin scribbles as quickly as his shaky hands allow. He double-checks each sheet of paper and thrusts the clipboard to the receptionist.
“Thank you, sir,” she says. “Just take a seat while I check these for you.”
“No, please,” Irvin says. “Let me see him.”
“Sir,” she says, looking at the clipboard. “We have a strict protocol…”
Irvin slips away from the desk to find Edgar. He encounters a nurse, who directs him to Edgar’s room. A doctor exits as Irvin approaches.
“Is he okay?” Irvin says. “Is Edgar okay?”
“Are you the husband?” the doctor says. “You might not have much longer.”
You see someone you must’ve seen before. He was there when you fell, right? But the feeling fades away. Your vision is starting to dwindle. Maybe if all that commotion would stop, you could focus better. The beeping and shouting makes your head feel like it’s splitting. It all dissolves as he takes you in his arms, and the world goes quiet. The last thing you see is his smile—soft, warm. Everything goes black. Before you follow the light, you remember something: a whisper of memory—a hand on yours, a door clicking shut, his scent in the air…
A tear slips down Edgar’s cheek. Irvin wipes it away with a trembling finger. Edgar takes a shuddering breath and presses himself into Irvin’s embrace.
“I love you, Edgar.”
Author’s Note
I wrote this flash fiction piece for the Madness & (May)hem challenge hosted by
. Coming in at just under 900 words, this piece really pushed me to consider that old phrase: less is more.
“Spiraling.” Photograph by Micah J. Marrapodi, 2023.
Oh my stars, I felt this one deep as I read it. I love the balance in perspectives, the pacing, it is so wonderful 💞
This was an incredibly emotional and beautiful piece of flash fiction, Micah! I really loved the breaks throughout as we jumped from one perspective to another. It really made the story flow smoothly while also covering a lot of ground.
Thanks for entering the challenge!