Tea

Gloomy and dark, the weather blends into the heavy weight carried within the atmosphere. The gentle rhythmic tapping from the rain awakes Constance Smith from her drowsiness. Today was a different day.

Constance sits up slowly, rubs her eyes, and stares out through the bleak window. The room feels humid; stuffy with an eerie sound of dead silence. Hunching over her crossed legs, she sits in absolute silence, repressing against the events that had just happened less than two weeks ago. Out of an act of self-consciousness, she glances over at the other empty half side of the bed. Shaking her head, she brushes herself free of sleep and stands up.

The house is quiet.

Fingers wrapped around the boiler handle, her mind wanders off into countless thoughts. She listens to the unsteady sound of tea brewing contrasting against the ambience of the room. Watching the crimson clouds of aroma diffuse within the hot solvent, she pauses.

What a pity, she thinks to herself, that I'd have to learn to make breakfast by myself from now on.

And there she was suddenly, plunging into reality. Someone had suddenly turned on the fluorescent lights in a dark room--and it was too bright. Too bright. Head reeling and eyes spinning with no place to rest her stare upon; her legs buckle over, giving away her stance of stability. With the now half-empty cup clutched between those pale white fingers, she watches her white T-shirt absorb the boiling liquid seeping into her now reddening skin. She screams, but makes no noise. Someone had discarded her voice-box--and now here she was, a sad, lonely puppet sitting on the cold ceramic tiles of a kitchen floor. Weak and shivering, she eventually breaks into a fit of sobs, gasping for air.

If her husband hadn't died--she would have been happy with the way things were. More so if he hadn't tested the injection on himself without proper guidance. If only the research team at the healthcare center had found a proper vaccine. By then, they'd probably need to cure him of his depression before giving him proper treatment for the disease.

And then she realizes that she was going to be late. The funeral starts in half an hour.

After all, it was barely a month ago when the life of Asher Smith, Constance Smith's beloved husband, ended abruptly.