Through It All

Image: grave. Text: "This isn't funny. David is dead. I went to his funeral today. Leave me alone."

Through it All

Short story by Iris Carden

Yet again, the phone rang. Yet again, she answered. Yet again, all she heard was static. Yet again, she hung up, annoyed.

She went back to looking over the old photo albums. Memories. Times long gone. Times that could never come again.

Again the phone rang.

“Just what do you want?” Carla yelled as she answered again.

There was static.  Then a feint voice.  “Carla. Carla. Are you there?”

That voice. It wasn’t possible.  It had to be some kind of sick joke.

“Carla,” the voice came again.

“No.” She said. “It can’t be. Whoever you are stop this now.”

“Carla,” the feint voice came again, “it’s me.  It’s David.”

“This isn’t funny.  David is dead.  I went to his funeral today.  Whoever you are leave me alone.”

She hung up.

The phone rang again.

“Carla,” the voice sounded even more feint, as if it were getting further away.  “Carla, please don’t hang up.”

She hung up.

The phone rang. She ignored it.  She set it on silent. 

She went back to the album.  Photos of her and David. Photos of the good times. The times before it all went wrong. Why did it all go wrong? Was there any way she could have changed things?

The doorbell rang.

She opened the door.  Eric, David’s brother, was there.

“I know you’re not going to believe this,” he said, “but I have to tell you anyway.  I had a phone call.  The voice.  It sounded exactly like David, only somehow far away.  I know it sounds crazy, but it was him.  He said to tell you he always loved you. He never stopped.  Through everything, he loved you.”

By Iris Carden

Iris Carden is an Australian indie author, mother, grandmother, and chronic illness patient. On good days, she writes. Because of the unpredictability of her health, she writes on an indie basis, not trying to meet deadlines. She lives on a disability support pension now, but her ultimate dream is to earn her own living from her writing.

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