by Clarkson Wroe

Created on: February 28, 2009

Forever no more.

Six weeks, it was six weeks since the shot, the shot that rang out from Spinney Copse the shot that had sent the crows skyward in startled panic. Six weeks since the tarots Thirteenth card, in the guise of a plump police sergeant and a grey faced female constable, knocked at the door dispensing sympathy and cups of tea. Six weeks since the note.

She sat in his office, angry, lonely and frightened. Why? Why had he done it? Why hadn't he trusted her, told her of his problems, trusted her to help him sort them out, trusted her to stand by him, even in the disgrace and shame. Why had he abandoned her when his note said that he loved her?

The room was cold, it was his room and he had abandoned it as he had abandoned her. She fingered the silver locket around her neck, a youthful present from him, the inscription yours forever'. And bitterness overwhelmed her, "Liar", she spat the words out, "not forever, not even for today, never again".

She contemptuously viewed the large oak desk that stood before her, a microcosm of his life. The poinsettia bought for Christmas, a tradition, now withered and unloved like she herself, the embossed business cards in their silver plate box bearing the words The Law Firm you can Trust' what a sham, the radio covered with six weeks dust that she knew would be tuned this Sunday morning, as always, to the Archers omnibus', he had been old fashioned like that, for all his flash cars and new laptops.

Her stare settled upon a gilt frame and with pale trembling hands she picked it up, she saw herself laughing out of the photograph, Roc 1995' her newly dyed auburn hair tossed in the Cornish breeze, the boys tumbling on the beach behind her. The boys, oh her poor boys.

Her gaze then fell upon the jar of pencils, always fastidiously sharpened. Except one she noted. One pencil its lead blunted, used. Was this the pencil that had written the note six weeks ago, was this the pencil that scrawled the bitter words that had destroyed her life? She snatched it from its jar and snapped it in half with the swift motion of a farmer breaking the neck of a sickly bantam.

Then as the February hail, blown up the valley from Spinney Copse, battered upon the leaded windows and the man outside hammered the For Sale' sign into the ground she sobbed, a gut wrenching, heart rendering sob uncontrolled and worse still un-consoled.

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