Overcast

By Christopher Willings

She had expected relief. In her mind, the thought had built up over the decades. How often did she look forward to the days when her sacred vow had been dutifully fulfilled? Every day for the last forty-two years. Freedom was always such a joyous fantasy.

The sun should have been shining brighter. The birds should have been flittering by, singing sweet songs of rapture. The trees and the grass, the small bird bath in the back yard should have been all the more vibrant. The world itself should have come alive again in celebration of the dawning of a better future. All these things she had expected as well.

The tree in the back yard had once been a beautiful thing, full of hope and happiness. It had in the years following become a twisted and gnarled eyesore. She always had wanted to remove it, sight of its decay and perversion had driven her to tears many nights. It was always planned to be the first thing to go, but now looking at it she perished the thought of calling someone to take it down. It had been planted, and no matter how terrible it became, it wasn't right to chop it down. She had been raised to believe that.

The hate and disgust that she had been made to feel in this prison was supposed to be gone. In a very literal since it was. But instead of being replaced by sweeter feelings, instead she only found herself hating, and disgusted with, herself. She hated that she felt grief, felt loneliness. And she felt disgusted that all she wanted was for time to reverse and for things to go back to the way things were. She longed for those terrible, awful days.

The sun was not out today; overcast. The birds were few and their cries only served to punctuate the silence in between. The grass was starting to overgrow and blew balefully in a stiff breeze. And that old, decrepit, stood leering at her in effigy; reminding her every day that there is no such thing as a brighter tomorrow.