The Mill House
I moved to the small mill house soon after he left. It wasn’t depression that I suffered from, but apathy. I believed I loved him, I believed a lot of things… Yet when he left, I felt relieved on one side, and on the other side, clueless about myself and my belief system. And that lead to apathy. On some days, I wouldn’t bear to move, to work, and the simplest things, the necessities would suck all the life out of me. It became clear a vacation was badly needed so I packed all the wrong clothes, as I always do, and just left. I picked one of those countryside retreats that promise to „reconnect you with nature, in a peaceful setting where you can enjoy the simple pleasures of life” and a lot of rest. I rented it for the week and then for the rest of the year.
At first, the crackling wood annoyed me. As I stepped anywhere in the house, the creaks and cracks would follow me. The shadow of a funnier self jested more and more with my growing annoyance. It all ended on that furious night of July. A mid summer storm was on its way, the wind hollowed and I was waiting outside thinking of ways on how to get back at the laughing wood. Should I set the wheel free and let the water break it? Or were the sunshades going to get it? The sky grew darker and heavy rain followed.
Soon enough he showed up running, probably to secure things before the storm but I never asked. I startled him for a second, standing in the rain in front of the house, but I stared back daringly because I hadn’t had my revenge yet and he wouldn’t take it from me. He came closer and closer forcing me back into the house while my surprise increased. The hollow weeks before, the storm, the tension, something or all led to us having sex.
He let himself out after a short while and no words, I should thank him for that. I crawled back on the couch empty minded. And under a blanket I listened to the thunders and the rain drumming all around me. I fell asleep to that music and the next day the crackling wood was my friend.