Flash Fiction: Nothing Left Here

It's not about life for me anymore. It's about love, loss and cold day old spaghetti. There's a half-empty can of Pepsi sitting beside the container in the refrigerator. It won't satisfy my thirst though, and it's probably as flat as sugar water by now.

I lean over the leavings in bare feet and boxer shorts. The glow of the refrigerator light stretches across the dim apartment. It feels massive and empty.

There's a knock at the door. A man appears in a bright white suit--bright enough to sear my eyes in the dark. His face is wise and cheerful with smile lines around his mouth.

"It's time," he whispers.

I take one last look at my darling Madeleine, stretched across the couch, frozen in a daze. Her chest rises and falls with each shallow breath.

She had told me once she was depressed--something bothered her. After seventeen years in this dump we'd fallen into a rut, but I didn't want to hear it.

She has a tissue pressed against her mouth and the blood soaked knife still hangs from her other hand. I take one last look at my crumpled corpse in the glow of the refrigerator light.

I should've listened, but I never listened.

The man in white guides me away.