Min☆

You nearly begged your mother after calling her over to tell you something to make everything make sense.

‘I heard his voice, I swear, I heard his fucking voice and I felt warm air, l- like it was his breath or something right against my ear.’ 

She was supposed to be your crutch, but she asked, ‘Baby, have you been sleeping?’

You blinked and she settled her hand on your knee and frowned.

'Mum-'

‘I know,' she shushed you, 'but the last couple of months have been difficult for you, and John wouldn’t want you to be torturing yourself like this. You need to look after yourself.’ 

The notes were sitting right next to you on the coffee table and you leant over and snatched one of them, pointing at the block-capitals scribbled in the middle of the page. ‘I have!’ you exclaimed, ‘I know what I’ve heard – the knock at the door, h- his voice and they’re not just a figment or anything; that’s his handwriting, mum.’ 

‘Darling,’ she said. Her chest swelled with the breath she took and she took hold of the paper in your hand. ‘There’s nothing there.’ 

The ticking of your heart stopped. Every muscle and tendon ceased and, had it not been for your bones, you would have melted right there and then, hoping to seep through the cracks in the floorboard to escape the sharp chill of horror that crept up your spine as you turned the piece of paper back to you.

His writing was still there, very much so. But the look of concern sitting on your mum’s brow and the knot in your throat smudged. They looked like streaks of mascara strewn across the page.

‘But I–’ I can see them. 

The words stuck to the roof of your mouth like a glob of melted chocolate, but no matter how many times you poked at them with your tongue, they refused to shift.

So, instead, as you fell into your mothers arm like you’d just resurfaced from the water in a swim lesson, you choked out, ‘Don’t mind me.’ 

You felt like you were on John’s cheap fishing boat as she rocked you side to side. Damn bastard was a tight arse with his money, never spent it on anything for himself, all whilst you walked around with a wedding ring which made your mortgage queasy.

It was all you could see as you rested your head on your mothers shoulder, sobbing your little heart out. She rubbed your back and shushed you even though it did nothing to quell you. 

Things had been hard enough, you wanted John back like your body needed oxygen and your mind had opted to play tricks on you. Mum couldn’t see the writing so it had to be false. It had to be your head. Of course it was your head because John was dead. The man you loved was gone and all you had to show for it were a couple blank pieces of paper, his clothes and dog tags.

And he was a big man so to have something so small to replace him… well, it simply just wouldn’t work and your mother’s arms were an insult to the memory you were trying to drown yourself in. 

Nothing could fill John’s boots. Not your mum and not the mind taunting you. She took you to bed like you were little again, tucked you in and planted a kiss in the centre of your forehead, requesting that you call her if you need anything and for you to not move. 

‘Stay put and get some rest, flower; you need it.’ 

You nodded and closed your eyes. She stayed until she thought you’d fallen asleep and you waited, still with your eyes closed, until you heard the front door close and her car pull out of the driveway.

You felt like you were seven with your Nintendo DS tucked beneath your pillow again, creeping out of bed for a midnight snack when, in reality, you grabbed the letters off the table and went back to your room where, in the corner by the wardrobe were going to the boxes of stuff you’d taken down from the attic. 

John didn’t have many worldly possessions and when the pair of you moved into your home together, he’d pulled up with two boxes which contained all the valuables from his apartment and childhood (according to him). You sat on the floor with the notes, intent on tucking them away. Really, you didn’t know what to believe. You felt like you were going crazy. Maybe you were, but there was something in there that could surely give you some form of closure. 

John’s journal – the one he’d kept when you’d first been going out together. You’d been through it before with the author right beside you. 

‘I can’t believe you used to journal,’ you said, watching him flick through the yellowing pages of the leather bound book. ‘I didn’t even know you kept one.’ 

‘My mum was always pushing me to keep one. She bought me one after I first told her about you and told me I’d want to remember that time for the rest of me life,’ he explained. Sitting to his left were a bundle of photographs you’d taken during your wedding and honeymoon. 

On the top of the pile was a photo of your first kiss as man and wife. He flipped to the back of the book where there was a pocket and plucked the photo from the top of the pile. 

‘And she was right.’ 

You turned to the back of the book and pulled the photographs from out of the pocket. At the top of the pile was your wedding photo, exactly where it was the last time the pair of you had gone through it together.

But John had shown you the other photographs: your first date down on the docks in Liverpool, the pair of you grinning ear to ear when he graduated from cadets and finally enrolled into the army, your proposal, first house and so much more.

He’d been there since the beginning. Well, since things started to matter and memories started to stick and now you were stuck, alone, and all you had to show for him were the photographs. 

Tucking them back into the pocket, you took hold of the letters and put them there too and dropped the journal back into the box. There wasn’t much more in there aside from old school trophies, medals, and a few old hats that retired.

You got him a new one every year for his birthday and he’d kept every single one. With that thought, you got up and went back to bed, pulling the cover over yourself like your mother had done. You’d have to put the things back up in the attic; they couldn’t sit there in the corner of the room forever.

Life would have to move on, but you didn’t want it to. You didn’t want the sympathy, you didn’t want the thoughts, you just wanted him. 

You just wanted John. 

And it wasn’t like you’d actively made the decision to leave, your brain was doing everything to make sure you stayed put with your hands actively digging into the heat of his memory. Turning on your side, you opened your eyes and exhaled, petting the pillow like it was his head. 

‘Why’d you have to go?’ you mumbled with heavy eyes, ‘Too busy saving everyone else you forgot to save yourself.’ 

But that wasn’t the man you wanted to remember and it wasn’t the man in those boxes. Captain Price was just another part of him, it wasn’t John.

Price was firm and brutal, but John… your John was soft and kind. And you supposed he still was there with you, but not in your bed and certainly not in spirit. 

Rather, he was an amalgamation of all his earthly possessions which sat in the corner of your room and watched you drift off to sleep. 

Nothing spectacular, just a way to see who could hold their breath under the water the longest. You’d always lose because, even with all those cigars he smoked, he still had the lungs of Captain Price. 

He’d resurface with his eyes squeezed shut, spluttering on a mouthful of gritty, salty water, and after taking a big breath, would always blurt out the same line. 

‘Knock, knock, who’s there?’

The first time he’d done this, back when you were teenagers and he was a cadet, you’d been silly enough to entertain him and his humour only to realise that it was a set up as, when you answered, he lunged forward and pulled you under with him again.

Only, this time, his mouth was on yours and resurfacing for air felt like a crime as opposed to survival. And it was like that every time you went to the beach. 

You still thought about it, even though that stupid box was at the forefront of your mind.

It was still sitting on the ground where you’d found it and the coffee cups were still in the cupboard cause you’d raced to put your shoes on, grabbed your keys and left the house. As you moved towards the car in the driveway, you saw a pile of dirt sitting by the fence. 

‘That stupid fuckin’ dog,’ you huffed as you pulled open the car door, making a mental note that you’d have to tell your neighbours that Buddy had gotten out of their garden, again. 

John loved that dog, even if it did dig the holy hell out of your back garden.

Strange, you thought, he never usually does it in the front. 

On your ride to the beach, you’d stopped at your local coffee shop and the waitress, Molly, smiled. 

‘Let me guess, an iced latte and a cup of tea for John?’ The words left her mouth before she could catch them but that didn’t stop her from slapping her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh my God, Mrs Price I am so–’

‘No,’ you’d said, waving her off, hoping to chase away the knot in your throat, ‘It’s fine, but uh, could you make that two teas, please?’ 

One sat in the cup holder in the car, lukewarm, whilst the other burned your chapped lips as you walked along the beach. The water was murky and the gulls were crying like they knew something was wrong. With the sun tucked behind the clouds and the wind which blew a gail, you felt unwelcome. Still, much like your late husband, you stood your ground against the odds and vowed not to budge until you wanted to. 

As the water crept up the beach and left a frothy imprint on the ground, you dug your heels into the sand and felt a seashell crunch. When you took another sip of your drink, for a moment, in the corner of your eye, you felt like the cup of tea in the car was right beside you. 

You heard his voice and when you took a step back from the water, you were back beside him. He was handsome, had just been promoted to Captain and you’d left the house to celebrate. A family dinner would have been the normal choice, but he didn’t want that. 

‘Tell me a joke.’ 

‘Seriously?’ you asked with a scoff, ‘You’ve just hit a career high and that’s what you want? Me to tell you a joke?’ 

‘You heard me, didn’t ya?” he said. He turned like he was a cadet doing drill again, and said, ‘tell me a joke, lovie.’ 

Licking the coffee from your lips, you cleared your throat and said, ‘Knock, knock.’ 

He had a shit-eating grin as he asked, ‘who’s there, darling?’ 

‘Captain.’ 

‘Captain who?’ 

‘Captain Price.’ 

‘It was so bad that you gave me a pity laugh even though you looked like you were sucking on a lemon,’ you mumbled, grey-eyed and lonely as you turned to your right. That cup was still in the car and there were no imprints of his shoes in the sand. John wasn’t there. 

You don’t know why, but that realisation hit like the news of his death all over again. Your lungs crumpled like a piece of paper, and you heaved out a plea, ‘Tell me this is a joke, John.’ The froth of the sea soaked into your pants and you spilt the remnants of your tea into the sand as scraped at the ground below you. ‘Tell me you’re not really gone.’ 

When you picked yourself up off the ground and dragged your feet as you walked back to the car, the sun came out. It winked at you as a crowd drifted past it, but you couldn’t even muster a smile back at it. All your energy was reserved for the drive back home and for the phone call you were going to have to make to the repair man. 

That was the punchline. 

When you got back home, you pushed open the door to find everything the way you’d left it. Almost. You realised quickly that there was another note in the box. The one you’d read that morning was sitting beside it, open and airing out. 

‘What the fuck?’ 

Dropping the keys in the bowl beside the door, you rushed to the box and snatched the note out of it. 

Knock, knock. 

As though on cue, there was a knock at the door. For a moment, you didn’t move. You stayed put and simply stared. They knocked again and you finally picked yourself up off the ground to answer it. Although, when you pulled the door open, you were greeted with a perfect, unobstructed view of the driveway. 

‘Hello?’ you called out, ‘Who’s there?’ 

You stepped outside and looked further only to come up short. No one was there; it was probably some kids playing a prank of something and you scoffed. What a coincidence. A horrible coincidence, nonetheless. You closed the door with a slam, creasing the piece of paper still in your hand. 

It fell to the ground when you saw that yet another note was in that box.

I. 

Really, you felt stupid when you called out, ‘I who?’ 

The house was void and your voice bounced off its walls like you were standing in a Church.

There was a heat, like the one you would feel in the morning when John would hold you like a damn vice, mumbling out incoherent blabbers which you assumed were requests for you to quit moving. 

‘I am.’ 

It came just how you’d seen it on the TV shows, y’know, the men in suits with the boots and uniform folded up and pooled in between the curves on the inside of the shoes were his dog tags. They said nothing, robotic as they held out what remained of the man who’d promised to fix the creaking floorboard by the stairs (and the stupid fucking cooker too). 

That was the first thing you thought of. 

Not that John was gone, not that you were never going to see him again – none of that. No, it was the faulty hob and the creaky fucking step that squealed as you slammed the door and rushed upstairs to the bedroom you shared with him, his belongings bundled in your arms. You could smell the smoke and ash on his uniform as you dropped them down onto your bed. And all the times you’d told him to take his boots off. 

‘Take your boots off; we’re not in a trench, John, you’re safe here.’ 

He rolled his eyes and scoffed as he leant over and undone one of the laces with his right hand, ‘God forbid a man be a little prepared – and I don’t know how old you think I am, love, cause I certainly don’t fight in no trench.’ 

‘You know what I mean, smart arse.’ 

John said nothing but smiled. 

Whenever he smiled, he reminded you of a quokka. A shame he wasn’t as happy to be photographed as they were; for his funeral you used the same photograph you’d used for the banner you’d had printed for his birthday only a couple months ago. Some of the guests noticed, you saw them frown when they were handed the Order of Service outside the Church. 

Closed casket.

You hadn’t seen him since he left you with a chaste kiss on your mouth before leaving for that bastard mission. It was supposed to be like any other. You got your usual call he gave you whenever he was away, heard his voice and his laugh but before he hung up that time (the last time), he stayed on the line for five seconds longer than usual, even though he told you he had to go. 

Initially, you hadn’t given it much thought; it was only five seconds.

Five seconds to you then meant nothing. But hindsight was a fucking bitch, she was and she knew it, and the night following on from his funeral, you laid in bed, face hot and sticky as you howled thinking about the breath you heard during those measly five seconds. You heard air fill his lungs and the rasp of an exhale. He was probably smoking, and his hands were full and that was why he left you hanging for five more seconds than he should have. 

Those five seconds were all you thought about during your first month without him. That last breath – the final breath of his that you would hear. And you cursed yourself for not asking him to stay just a little longer and the possibilities that came with this presented themselves in your sleep. 

In one instance he chuckled and told you a story and only bothered to hang up when he was sure you were sleeping on the other side of the phone. In another he exhaled and told you he couldn’t stay and you counted on one hand that he took four breaths to tell you that. Four more breaths. And when you woke up to an empty bed and turned to face the pillow wearing one of his jumpers, you broke down into a fit of tears and buried your face in the plush fabric of what should have been his chest. 

It should have been because he took four more breaths, you heard them and, for the first five minutes after that dream, you were convinced he was alive. More convinced than when he was telling you the story because you know the story was just a repeat. But those breaths… they were new. 

Not to mention there was something else. 

When you went down stairs intent on still grabbing two mugs, the creaking floorboard yelped like it had never done before in its life and it snapped beneath your foot. You grabbed the bannister to keep yourself from falling into the small pit created, only to realise that you wouldn’t have fallen far as a small wooden box caught your foot. 

You tossed the splinted planks of wood to the side and fell to your knees, taking the box into your lap. There was a rusted golden latch keeping it closed and the contents of it sealed inside. Similar to the floorboard, it squeaked as you peeled it open to reveal a folded up piece of paper. 

Your hands shook as you took hold of it, unravelling it like a knotted shoe lace you’d been fidgeting with for what felt like forever. It was John’s handwriting, messy, blocky scribbles staring up like you with dead eyes. 

Sorry for dying. 

Had he left it at that, you don’t know how you would have felt, but when you looked further down the page, those dead eyes of his blinked. 

You were wrong, by the way, love. It was three breaths. Not five.

It came just how you’d seen it on the TV shows, y’know, the men in suits with the boots and uniform folded up and pooled in between the curves on the inside of the shoes were his dog tags. They said nothing, robotic as they held out what remained of the man who’d promised to fix the creaking floorboard by the stairs (and the stupid fucking cooker too). 

That was the first thing you thought of. 

Not that John was gone, not that you were never going to see him again – none of that. No, it was the faulty hob and the creaky fucking step that squealed as you slammed the door and rushed upstairs to the bedroom you shared with him, his belongings bundled in your arms. You could smell the smoke and ash on his uniform as you dropped them down onto your bed. And all the times you’d told him to take his boots off. 

‘Take your boots off; we’re not in a trench, John, you’re safe here.’ 

He rolled his eyes and scoffed as he leant over and undone one of the laces with his right hand, ‘God forbid a man be a little prepared – and I don’t know how old you think I am, love, cause I certainly don’t fight in no trench.’ 

‘You know what I mean, smart arse.’ 

John said nothing but smiled. 

Whenever he smiled, he reminded you of a quokka. A shame he wasn’t as happy to be photographed as they were; for his funeral you used the same photograph you’d used for the banner you’d had printed for his birthday only a couple months ago. Some of the guests noticed, you saw them frown when they were handed the Order of Service outside the Church. 

Closed casket.

You hadn’t seen him since he left you with a chaste kiss on your mouth before leaving for that bastard mission. It was supposed to be like any other. You got your usual call he gave you whenever he was away, heard his voice and his laugh but before he hung up that time (the last time), he stayed on the line for five seconds longer than usual, even though he told you he had to go. 

Initially, you hadn’t given it much thought; it was only five seconds.

Five seconds to you then meant nothing. But hindsight was a fucking bitch, she was and she knew it, and the night following on from his funeral, you laid in bed, face hot and sticky as you howled thinking about the breath you heard during those measly five seconds. You heard air fill his lungs and the rasp of an exhale. He was probably smoking, and his hands were full and that was why he left you hanging for five more seconds than he should have. 

Those five seconds were all you thought about during your first month without him. That last breath – the final breath of his that you would hear. And you cursed yourself for not asking him to stay just a little longer and the possibilities that came with this presented themselves in your sleep. 

In one instance he chuckled and told you a story and only bothered to hang up when he was sure you were sleeping on the other side of the phone. In another he exhaled and told you he couldn’t stay and you counted on one hand that he took four breaths to tell you that. Four more breaths. And when you woke up to an empty bed and turned to face the pillow wearing one of his jumpers, you broke down into a fit of tears and buried your face in the plush fabric of what should have been his chest. 

It should have been because he took four more breaths, you heard them and, for the first five minutes after that dream, you were convinced he was alive. More convinced than when he was telling you the story because you know the story was just a repeat. But those breaths… they were new. 

Not to mention there was something else. 

When you went down stairs intent on still grabbing two mugs, the creaking floorboard yelped like it had never done before in its life and it snapped beneath your foot. You grabbed the bannister to keep yourself from falling into the small pit created, only to realise that you wouldn’t have fallen far as a small wooden box caught your foot. 

You tossed the splinted planks of wood to the side and fell to your knees, taking the box into your lap. There was a rusted golden latch keeping it closed and the contents of it sealed inside. Similar to the floorboard, it squeaked as you peeled it open to reveal a folded up piece of paper. 

Your hands shook as you took hold of it, unravelling it like a knotted shoe lace you’d been fidgeting with for what felt like forever. It was John’s handwriting, messy, blocky scribbles staring up like you with dead eyes. 

Sorry for dying. 

Had he left it at that, you don’t know how you would have felt, but when you looked further down the page, those dead eyes of his blinked. 

You were wrong, by the way, love. It was three breaths. Not five.