The Last Sound

This one imagines the quiet unravelling at the very end, when even memory and love are no longer certain.

…

The last sound they heard was a breath, released. They clung together, she in the pretty dress he bought for her birthday — her warm face buried in his neck. Her body shook, and he held her closer — then the world started to drift away. Slowly at first: the leaves floated lazily into the sky, and so did the small objects. The smells followed soon after: the Saturday morning cut grass, her proudest sourdough loaf, the earthy aroma of Colombian coffee. The surfaces of things shook themselves off and coiled, preparing to depart.

She tried to speak, but the words didn’t come out. They were somewhere else now. He remembered the way she had danced, once, her limbs moving gracefully, her face radiant. He reached for his wedding ring but felt nothing. Were they ever married? He was numb, he realised,

and more than numb.

His lips moved to speak her name, but he couldn’t remember it anymore, and he was not surprised when the graceful, flying things tested their wings and drifted away, serene as predators.

“No,” he thought he heard her say, “I never —”

But he wasn’t sure.

Their breaths left their bodies, mingling one last time. Hands
dissipated,
then feet, then arms, legs —
piece by piece.

Bowels unravelled, ribcages opened, eyes unvisioned, ears dissolved.

The wind caressed her grief, then even that was gone.

Faster now — laws, countries — even kingdoms slunk off without looking back.

Books — words absconded, backs hunched, heads bowed.

Friendship, love, fear, contempt and hate were joined by Self, and seemed surprised when Other joined them.

Vows were the last to go.

Where they had been, a last trace of warmth lingered for a moment, and was gone.

---

…

You might also enjoy the reflective piece Controlled Descent.