The Coffin

Robert Rosford sat at the barely standing dining table; his home was decrepit and in disarray. Robert bore a somber expression, his tie loose, his collar unbuttoned, his dark grey suit stained with defeat, his black loafer creased and cracked. Robert took a swig from his bottle; strewn about were bottles upon bottles of empty whisky. Robert sat quietly contemplating in the dimly lit room. Suddenly, there was a knock. Robert made no attempt, instead choosing to take a drink. The knocking persisted, never waning, nor did it get aggressive. This continued until the door creaked open; with gentle steps, someone was approaching; Robert remained unfazed. A woman stands before him dressed in black. Her black mourning veil was as elegant as her figure. He did not make eye contact, nor did he recognize her. She knelt to look into his eyes. She could see that they were empty, not a speck of life.

She took the bottle from him. “ Robert, I know it's hard to bear, but please come to the funeral.”

Robert got up, shouting, “No! No!” as he trashed the room—the sound of empty bottles clinking as they rolled. The woman could only watch silently as she clasped her hands in front of her.

Robert faced her and shouted, “Begone from me, for I rebuke you.”

“Robert, everyone will be waiting,” she said quietly as she left, gently shutting the creaky door.

Robert held his head in frustration, gritting his teeth as he reminisced about his failures. He fought conflicting wars, losing his mind and soul. Robert clutched his head; the throbbing pain radiated like glowing red-hot metal. He reached out for his comfort, looking at the half-empty bottle, he saw his reflection. His eyes are heavy and worn, his lips a permanent frown. Robert slammed it into the ground. The bottle burst and shattered; the glass shrapnel twinkled like glitter. He stared at the puddle as a cockroach scurried over for a sip. Robert groaned as he grabbed his long coat and bowler hat. It was a cold night, and street lamps barely lit the way. Robert hunched tightly into his trench, hands in his pocket. His footsteps were hefty and sloppy, click, clack, clop. He soon arrived at a storefront; a yellow hue exerted through the glossy stained glass pane. What caught his attention was the swirling red, white, and blue pole. Robert pushed the wooden door open.

A small bell jingled, followed by an enthusiastic voice: " Welcome. Would you like a shave, tooth extraction, or maybe surgery?” His enthusiasm dropped as he realized who it was: “ Oh, it's you again, Robert.”

“Give me a bottle of hooch,” demanded Robert.

“I can’t do that without a doctor's note, Robert.”

“Well, write me one.”

I can't do that for you, they are onto you.”

Robert slammed some cash on the counter.

The barber looked into Robert’s miserable, lifeless eyes, “Look, money is not the problem, but I don't want to lose my establishment.”

Robert pointed at him. “You are a dentist, right?” The barber nodded. “ I dabble in dentistry.” “Good,” replied Robert before slamming his head onto the counter, popping off a couple of teeth. Now, my mouth aches. Get me my medication.”

The barber shook his head and said, “ I can't believe you. " He then handed Robert a small glass bottle.

“Keep the change,” said Robert, pointing to the teeth on the counter, utterly disgusting the barber.

Robert took big gulps as he stumbled; everything around him was a blur. Robert's misery never waned. He just kept walking, barely lucid; soon, he found himself at the dock, and he couldn't remember how or when he got there. His eyes were heavy and burning, and before he knew it, he drifted to dreamland. Robert awakened; his coat was lightly dusted with snow, his eyes were crusty, and his head was nagging. It was in the dead of night. The first thing he did was fiddle around for the bottle. Robert was relieved to have found it, bringing it up to his lip, anticipating a sip, but nothing came out. He groaned as he slumped back down.

“Robert,” said a familiar, gentle voice.

He looked groggily. It was the lady dressed in black.

“You again! Why won't you let me be?” he shouted.

She watched him silently as he lay at the dock in a pile of rubbish.

“Please come, Robert, they are all waiting; I am waiting for you.”

Robert threw the empty bottle at her, saying, “Silence, wench. I don't care who you are or who is waiting for me. They never knew me. Depart from me.”

She softly spoke once more, “Robert, the hour grows near, please show.”

Robert stayed motionless, ignoring everything.

She said, “Come to the old church, the one you used to go to with your family when you were young,” as her steps echoed off the pier.

Robert lay there like a statue. He watched as snowflakes danced around him, finding comfort in his coat. Finally, he decided to get up from the pile of trash, pat the snow off his trench, and rummage for his hat before heading off. He soon came face to face with the main road, left toward the church, or right back to the abyss. Robert had made up his mind and chose a path. The cobblestone road was now blanketed in shimmering white snow; not a footprint was visible. The snow started to fall in volleys. Robert could barely see anything; his only glimpse of hope was an occasional orange-yellowish hue radiating from the lamp pole. However, he was not deterred; though it had been a long time since he walked down this path, he still remembered. Soon, he arrived. It was the same as it had been all those years ago. The building was made of stone. Its deep grey color made it look dull.

“Just as I remembered,”

The colorful stained glass windows exalted vibrant light, piercing the darkness.

Robert pressed against it, hoping to catch a glimpse.

“Bah Humbug”

Robert lingered, his ears caught wind of the church hymns.

It instantly brought a wave of remembrance. After a long while of staring at the grand door. Robert took a deep breath, mustering all the courage he could, and pushed the doors open. The golden, bright lights blinded his eyes, and next was the smell of incense that hit his nose. The sound of the choir brought tears to his eyes. Few people were in attendance, sitting in the pews. Robert took his first step; his worn loafer touched the red carpet down the aisle. Each step was heavy. Robert slowly made his way to the front, inching closer and closer to the coffin. Finally, he stopped just shy of the coffin. He turned to his left and saw his father sitting in the front pew, all alone. He did not look at Robert, choosing to stare at the crucifix. His father had an expression that Robert had never seen before. He looked to be hurt and sad. Robert turned to his right and saw the lady in black looking calmly at him with a soft smile. He turned around and saw the few faces that came, yet none of them looked at him. Robert turned to the coffin and peered into it for the final leap; there, he saw nothing but a dark hole. Robert felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and a familiar soft whisper in his ear, “It is time, Robert.”

Robert knew what it meant; his memory rushed back as he climbed into the coffin.

“I'm sorry, Father.” His final words.