This is the final installment of a 100-day challenge to write a new vignette every morning.
She wrote him a long letter, but he didn’t read it. Clarice knew this, of course, when she committed pen to paper, but she wrote the letter anyway. Like exorcising a demon, she poured the words out and then let them go.
Her keys found her hand, and she pulled on her coat. Driving on autopilot, she let her audiobook play in the background but didn’t really hear any of the words. Someone had gotten on a spaceship—or off? She’d have to go back in the recording to be sure.
When she put the sedan in park, she felt a surge of panic: She hadn’t paid any attention during the drive. A wonder no one died, she thought and then laughed to herself about irony.
Clarice knew the way by now, so she didn’t pause to look at the map. The brisk walk did wonders for her hangover and fortified her more than she anticipated. The morning air smelled earthy and maybe a little too sweet; freshly cut grass and uncovered dirt mixed with wilting flowers.
She reached her destination within minutes and slapped her envelope down on the headstone.
“I win,” she said, spitting where the headstone met the ground. “I hope the worms get you good.”
Leaving the envelope where it lay, Clarice turned from the grave.
Miles Away 