Writing Prompt #144: Why?


Why do all good things end in tragedies?

It was fall when everything changed. Before that, I woke up every morning to the aroma of perfectly brewed coffee and my favorite chocolate cookies on my nightstand, made by the only person mattered to my world, Nicholas. Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt. Even though we were barely making it, with Nick a mechanic and me an unpublished writer, he still did the best he could to shower me with inexpensive sentimental gifts like an antique hairbrush he picked out at the thrift store for two dollars or a string of pearls for five. I wasn’t the type of girl who needed any of those things, still, it was sweet.

We didn’t have a television in our one-bedroom low-rent apartment. So nightly, we would sit beside the antique table and I would read what I’ve written that day under candlelight and no matter how tired he was, Nick would listen with enthusiasm while sipping his wine. Then he would critique, giving constructive feedback on how to make the story better and I would listen with intent.

So why do all great things have to end?!

It was a Sunday. Nick was off and he had convinced me to take a break. “Come on, you need a break sometime,” he said as he massaged my shoulders. I was having a mild writer’s block. My every thought felt fragmented and every word I wrote felt wrong. I looked to the stack of journals at the corner of my workstation but nothing helped.

I dropped my pen and shut my notebook. “Maybe you’re right.” I sighed touching his hands on my shoulders.

Together, we decided to take a stroll down the promenade. We haven’t gone to the promenade for a while and thought maybe it can provide me with some inspiration. The promenade is a cobblestone path full of pedestrians, tourists, shoppers, and window-shoppers like us. No cars nor any other forms of transportation is allowed, not even bicycles. Together, we held hands, browsing from window-to-window and occasionally wandered into a shop just to spend a few seconds pretending to be someone we’re not. Then in the last shop of the promenade, a tea house next to my friend Elizabeth’s flower cart, there would always be some kind of free sample.

Happily, we each carried a small cup of the sample tea and made our way back. “So any inspiration?” Nick asked and kissed my forehead.

I chuckled, “It’s possible.”

“Well, let’s get home before it goes away.” He drank the remainder of the tea and aimed the cup at the trash can. It went in. We were laughing by the time we reached home and had no idea how it started. “I better let you work. Craft me a brilliant story, okay?”

“And where will you be?” I asked. There wasn’t an answer. “Nick?” His hands were gripping tight around the edge of the table and his head lowered. “Babe? Are you okay?” Gently, I placed a hand on his back.

He nodded. “Yeah, just a headache.” What happened next was in a blink of eye, he turned and wrapped his arms around me one second and the next, I was kneeling next to Nick’s unconscious body. “Nick? Nick!” Desperately, I reached for the phone and dialed 911.

I was too late. By the time the ambulance got here, Nick was gone. It was a brain aneurysm.They had to place him in a body bag. I couldn’t even look and in that moment, I felt a sharp pain in my chest as my heart broke into a million pieces.

Why does it hurt so much?

A response for MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie’s Writing Prompt #144

It’s been too long since I did a collage prompt. 

12 thoughts on “Writing Prompt #144: Why?

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