The Return
Weekly Prompt: The Betrayal
I wake with a start. Look at the clock. 3:13 a.m. Ugh. But what’s that strange noise? And where’s my husband?
The strange noise. That was the furnace. Overnight it had taken on a strange, high pitched hum. Was it about to explode? I didn’t like it. And where was my husband? Downstairs maybe? Checking out the furnace? I didn’t hear any movement. Maybe he couldn’t sleep and went out to the front room to read. I turn back over and fall into anxiety dreams.
I wake to the same eerie hum, my husband still gone. I sense a headache coming on — one of those anxiety headaches, no doubt. I rub my neck and inch out of bed, shivering as my feet touch the cold hardwood floor. Wrapping myself in my thick housecoat, I slip into my moccasins and walk out to the front room. No hubby.
“Babe?” The call just bounces off the sudden feeling of emptiness. I tighten my housecoat.
That’s when I see it. Rain. Rain? What? It’s February on the Canadian prairies. Rain is never a part of our world this time of year.
But it’s not just raining, it’s pouring. Heavy sheets of water creating rivers along our street, with just a hint of snow in the hidden places around tree trunks and house perimeters.
“Babe?” I yell again. I’m starting to get a little scared. What world is this? The upside down? A parallel universe? My active, sci-fi-loving mind kicks in.
I open the patio doors. A gust of wind whips heavy drops at my face. I slam the door shut. Well, the rain is real.
That’s when I see him. A little child playing in the rain. A child? We live in a 55+ complex. There are no children here. And where is my husband?
I watch the child come closer. A little boy, with a plastic boat in his hand. He keeps putting it into the small gushing streams and chasing after it. He looks up. He smiles. My breath stops. I know this boy. Don’t I? Somewhere deep in my subconscious, I know this boy. Those bright blue eyes and narrow face. Those curly, blonde locks now sticking to his face. He’s still smiling and then he waves.
The wave. I know the wave — but how? And what’s so unique about a wave? And where’s my husband?
“Babe? Where are you?” My voice is shaking, but I can’t take my eyes off the boy, who’s now returning to his play.
As if things couldn’t get any weirder, a big red balloon comes floating down toward the boy, completely unaffected by the torrent.
Then I see the scene for the first time. The boy in the yellow slicker and boots, the little boat floating along towards the drain, the red balloon arriving, enticing him to follow.
I also recognize the boy from baby pictures taken 55+ years ago.
“No-o-o-o-o,” I scream. “No-o-o-o-o,” I yell again through the window. “Don’t take the balloon!” Hysterical, I race for the door. O God, don’t let him take the balloon! Please, oh please. I’m crying now. And shaking. Fear grips my heart AND mind. How is this happening? I am so afraid because I know. It has returned.
