Written in response for E.M’s Weekly Writing Prompt. I am trying to figure out an opening line to my latest project. Going to my writing group, I need to rewrite from the start, but knowing what I do now.
The text prompt is
I had no idea where I am going, but I knew he is going with me.
As his coffin lowered into the ground, hitting the soft earth with a thud, I leant into to the only person who understood. Poppy, his twin sister. I couldn’t cry, there were no tears left. My eyes were a hollow shell, where I could neither feel or move forward.
I remembered nothing much of the incident that killed my husband, or even how his motorbike ended up in the ditch. My doctors said it might never happen or I could, over time, patch pieces of it together.
Graham, truth is, I’m struggling to breathe without you. Struggling to even form words in my mouth to say I’m sorry. It was my phone call in the middle of the night, causing us to go out in such a hurry. My contact, who has since disappeared into the ether.
Was it to do with my newspaper headline? Did I dig too deep? Did it cost him his life? We both knew the risks, but didn’t take them seriously enough. I rub the palm of my hand, where I was clutching the stem of a rose.
‘We’ve got to go Sarah,’ Poppy says, steering me away from the grave.
I can’t help looking down, my gaze fixing to the name tag on the pine coffin – Graham Masters, thirty-five. It is like I am stuck in dream, revolving. Catching the glimpses of a life I could have had with him. One thing that is certain, I will find out what happened that night.
I don’t care what the police told me – that the black ice contributed to his motorbike losing control. He was too good at staying safe. Too good at making sure I was safe; not that I need saving.
‘Goodbye . . .’ I whisper, finally walking away.