Heres the basic story line that I want to go with, which is tied to a current assignment that frames the story around 1 central adjective:
The man stumbles around in a dark room. He opens his mouth to speak but no utterances leaves his tongue. He then sees ghostly images of a woman, continually haunting him, but he cannot close his eyes, or rather…he doesn't want to? There is a sense of familiarity to this poltergeist, but he cannot grasp what that is.
He suddenly jerks awake, tearing his thoughts away from the reoccurring nightmare. It’s been 33 days now, but the dreams kept plaguing his mind, awake or not. He wipes away his intense cold sweat from his brows and gets up.
As he walks past his dresser he sees his late wife, who passed away due to some illness that both the doctors and professionals have yet to explain to him clearly. Or maybe it was his unwillingness to listen that every time he steps into the hospital, he ears start ringing and all sounds become muffled, along with a sinking, drowning sensation. His mother tell him to eat, to hangout more, but something is clouding his head, filling it full of undesirable thoughts, especially when he closes his eyes.
He somehow manages to get downstairs without losing his balance this time, which he was surprised by, because he had no recollection of ever moving after he woke up. He walks over to the kitchen and stands there, trying to remember why it is that he is there.
Oh that’s right, he needs to take his painkillers, because ever since that incident, he non-stop migraines have been intolerable. She kept all the meds in the kitchen pantry for some reason, but he’s too lazy to move it all into the bathroom, he convinces himself. He tries to forget all this as he grabs a cup of water.
Out of the reflection of the cup he sees a tired, completely drained man staring back at him. “What did he do to deserve all this”, he asked. Pushing that from his thoughts he forces the pill down with a large gulp.
He goes upstairs and finds the cleanest, least wrinkled shirt and pants he could find and gets dressed, as well as he could in these circumstances. He then goes to the mirror downstairs next to the garage. He looks straight into it and forces a smile, thinking, “c’mon, cheer up…for him”.
His car backs out of the driveway, leaving an empty house with a tear stained note on the kitchen counter, and the only legible words are “—— Age: 9 —— Oncology Department ——6:00AM ——”
He will not show sadness, because right now he is still needed by someone.
“I have to be strong.”