short story
In week 52, the little town already shimmered with the anticipation of festivities. Strings of twinkling lights adorned street corners, their glow reflected in the frosted windows of small houses. The air was somehow alive with the scent of candied almonds, cinnamon, and vanilla - sweet bakeries waiting to be shared. Yet amidst this explosion of life and light, Henrik remained unmoved in his own house. Only now did he notice the splinters on the frames of the old windows. It irritated him. How could one have lived in a place for so long and never discover something as provocative as that? Thirty years in the same house, married to a woman named Bente. She never had much interest in cleaning, like most women her age did.
Henrik looked up from the bed where he rested his body in the afternoon. Naps like these started to occur more often than before. Probably age or hell knows why…The door was open, and he could see the light from the lamp in the kitchen. Very faint but just enough to see clearly. When was the last time he changed the light bulbs? Or maybe the last time HE did that? Maybe 4 years ago? Or 6? Henrik got up and walked around the house for a moment until he saw the old plates. Small tea cups were there too. They had gathered dust over time. Why did she even collect them when she didn’t even polish them? Wasn’t that something you do when you collect all sorts of crap?
Henrik took his box with pills and swallowed a handful of them with lukewarm water, and then grabbed his cigarette box. As the flame flickered to life and touched the tip of his cigarette, the first inhale hit him with a rush of warmth, pulling him out of the heavy fog of his sadness. The bittersweet wave of nostalgia washed over him, carrying flashes of his younger years—when the world was a vast, untamed promise, each day unwritten and brimming with possibilities.
Now, every movement was deliberate, every breath a reminder of the disease that gripped his body, unravelling him piece by piece. The cigarette trembled in his unsteady fingers, a cruel contrast to the steady, unbroken rhythm of his past, when his hands had been strong and his future limitless.
Henrik looked up at the cupboard with the plates. He no longer spared them a glance, knowing they wouldn’t remain in his house much longer. The small glass doors of the cupboard did not open. “Come on!” He got angry and used all his strength to open the cupboard until it gave out.
Glass and porcelain bounced and flew all over the place, and a small piece flew into his face. A second later, a small cup fell, adding to the broken china on the ground. “Well”, said Henrik “, Bente will take care of that”.
For a minute, Henrik wondered where she might be, but then a sudden thought struck him -probably anyone with self-respect would be willing to spend more quality time away from his miserable presence... Carefully, as much as he could, Henrik took the plates and cups and put them down in a cardboard box. He put on his jacket and shoved the keys in the pocket of his leather jacket. It had been a few years since he last drove, not that he didn’t know how, so he headed out on foot. Went out to the Red Cross shop and handed the ladies at the counter the filled cardboard box without saying a word. Henrik stepped out into the street and saw that it was beginning to get dark. He sighed in relief as if that particular china was a burden that added more weight to his heavy life.
It was past 3 in the afternoon, and the clouds were long and transparent. When was the last time he went out for a walk? Not recently for sure! It was too unbearable to look at all these energetic people. Energetic enough to laugh and move around, with no rollators and accompanied by themselves only!
Each step now felt like a quiet triumph. The rhythm of his feet against the pavement was a soothing reminder that, despite the tremors and stiffness, Henrik was still moving forward, and this helped to refresh his mind. The crisp air brushed against his face, and for a moment, the simple act of walking became a victory over the weight of his condition.
After about fifteen minutes, Henrik walked in the dark until he saw a neon sign. He had forgotten his glasses at home, but the word “Bodega” was big enough to read. He entered the cosy, timeworn charm, its low beams and dimly lit interior soaked with the stories of decades past. Henrik used to come more often, but the last time he had beer in the Bodega was when his son turned 18 and the whole family celebrated.
Henrik looked around to choose a spot. Faded photographs and vintage beer ads adorned the smoke-stained walls, while mismatched chairs and well-worn tables lent the space a certain “hyggelig” air, unpretentious and inviting. A faint aroma of beer mingled with the occasional smell of fried food, as locals leaned on the polished but scuffed wood counter, exchanging jokes over clinking glasses. Henrik felt strange. There was only a small group of people, and the whole room smelled of something naggingly recognisable.
Henrik sat down next to a lone man. Both were silent. Only their bodies felt close enough to touch each other’s hollowness. Henrik could hear Kim’s “In a Little While” playing, and turned to the guy for some small talk. Aren’t pleasantries often a way to save ourselves from being engulfed by awkward solitude?
The man looked much younger. Henrik saw him drinking from a small porcelain cup, like the ones he had just left earlier. “Funny!“, Henrik thought and forced his eyes to focus more. He noted he wasn’t a man at all. He was a teenage boy with tears in his eyes. “Are you okay, my boy? What’s going on?”Henrik asked. The boy didn’t answer but turned around, revealing a deep gash reaching from his left shoulder to his lower back.
Henrik’s eyes widened. The boy stopped smiling; his expression turned cold and empty. He collapsed to the ground with a heavy thud. Henrik noticed that the boy had a gun hidden inside his jacket. He grabbed it abruptly without anyone noticing. Henrik didn’t have his phone with him, so he asked one of the people in the bar to call the police and pointed to the body.
When Henrik opened the door, the wind blew in his face, rain poured in, and the weather was completely different from just a couple of minutes ago. The sky was entirely black, and the sounds of screams were coming from the distance. Henrik was following the wails, unsure exactly where he was heading. He had almost reached home when he saw two individuals in front of his neighbours’ house. They looked like thieves, and when he fixed his gaze, he saw they had weapons in their hands and looked dangerous. They were murderers! Henrik stepped back and was about to hide behind a large willow tree when they noticed him. Henrik took out the gun from earlier and readied to fire. To his surprise, the gun was empty, and he panicked. Henrik could hear his snorting breath over the wind. He couldn’t run. He couldn’t hide. So he just sat quietly on the ground, putting the gun down in despair.
Henrik saw a red car driving up the dirt road. It stopped so suddenly that it skidded and slid into the nearby ditch. Henrik felt the weight of his decisions and his fractured memories pressing down on him. His life had been a blur of rancour, loneliness, and regret, but now it was ending in chaos. While the sirens grew louder and armed men scooted closer, a woman approached from the vehicle. As she ran closer, he realised he was looking at his wife, Bente. Soon after, the officers found an unarmed, ill man who had been announced missing.
“You’re late”, Henrik muttered, closing his eyes and lying on the grass, but now it seemed she didn’t hear him.
“He got lost twice last week. Again.. without the phone…Everything started to fall apart after we lost our young love,”- uttered Bente through tears while they were lifting Henrik and heading to the ambulance.
The two people, his neighbours, helped Bente to collect a few scattered pieces of china, and no one knew why Henrik had a porcelain loop handle around his ring finger.
