Becoming the real me

Thomas sat in the chair, staring at the blank television he had not bothered switching on, preferring to nurse the drink in his hand in the darkness. At 36, he felt his life was over, tragically cut short, like the life of his childhood sweetheart who had been cruelly snatched away from him a year ago. One moment, his wife Alyssa had been laughing and joking in the passenger seat next to him, the next moment she was silent as the car driven by the drunk driver ploughed into her side of their car. 

Sure, the driver of the car had gone to prison. Yes, he had been paid compensation, and their life insurance had paid out, but nothing could compensate for the loss of his wife. He had taken to talking to himself during moments of such morose reflection, and when he was drunk, his dead wife would even reply to him. 

“I need to pull myself together,” Thomas said to the empty room. 

 “Yes you do,” his dead wife’s voice echoed in his head. “Do what you have always wanted to do.” 

 Thomas stared into the darkness for a while and reflected on his 12 years of marriage. They enjoyed a good sex life, albeit perhaps a little vanilla, despite his ignored hints to spice it up. He had told her about how his fantasy would be to invite another man to their bed. He told her about his bisexual desires and his deep-rooted fantasy to share a cock with her in every way possible. She hadn’t been upset but had made it clear that it wasn’t for her; she was quite content with just the two of them. 

Now it was just the one of him, and he knew he had to drag himself out of this rut, but he just didn’t know how. Pouring himself another large glass of gin, he heard his wife’s words swirl around his brain: “You have to move on.”

“No woman will ever replace you,” he sobbed. 

“Who said anything about another woman?” her words whispered in his mind as he fell asleep in the chair. 

  *****