Goodnight, Love

Short story I wrote for a college class.

Most nights ended the same for Alan and Sarah, regardless of how their day had been

spent. Whether fighting or madly in love, when it was time to submit to dreaming, Alan would blow out a candle and wrap his arms around Sarah, holding her tight. Sarah would whisper a loving “goodnight”, and the two would drift off.

Recently, things had been getting to Alan. His manager was expecting a draft of his

script. He had only a month left. Alan had hit wall after wall. Day after day, he would look down at the page blankly. He couldn’t decide on an ending. He hated the beginning. It was too late to start over. He had to make it work with what he had.

“I’ve written a hundred pages of nothing,” he would groan to Sarah.

“It’s not nothing,” Sarah reassured him. “It’s amazing. You’re too hard on yourself.”

“You can’t see it!” he snapped back. “You’d like anything I wrote.”

She only wanted to support him. But Alan didn’t want her support. He was growing

miserable inside. And worse, he was getting comfortable in it.

He had been short with her. Alan’s demeanor was cold, like an empty vessel. He was difficult to approach. Sarah felt as if his script was taking the life out of him. She didn’t care if his writing became a success. She just wanted him to be happy.

The nights only made the days worse. Alan wasn’t sleeping. After the word “goodnight” had left Sarah’s lips, she would close her eyes and before long, be fast asleep. Alan would attempt to follow her lead. She made it look so easy. He would nuzzle his head against her neck, placing his left hand on her breast. He was pressed right up against her back. As cozy as he was, his mind would not stop wandering.

Alan would turn over and look around the room. He would beg the darkness for

inspiration. Nothing came of it. The silence was deafening. It screamed at him.

“You have nothing,” he would tell himself over and over.

Alan turned back to Sarah and put his arm around her. Sarah’s right hand rested on her belly. It opened up to accept Alan’s. He placed his inside hers and their fingers intertwined.

“What’s wrong with me?” he asked himself. “I have everything I need right here.”

He was determined to make progress the following day.

That morning Sarah and he had gotten into an argument. It didn’t matter what it was

about. When Alan sat down to write he had already forgotten about it. Yet it was all he could think about. He put his fingers on his keyboard and waited for the story to come to him and the words to fall out. But he couldn’t shake his mood. Sarah left midday to see her sister, planting no kiss goodbye on Alan’s cheek.

“I’ll see you tonight,” she called back as she closed the door behind her.

Alan stewed in his unhappiness. He slammed his laptop shut and paced the room. He was pulling them apart at the seams. It wasn’t as easy as sewing them back together.

Sarah got home late and knew better than to ask what Alan had done that day. When he made real progress, he couldn’t stop talking about it, and would tell Sarah every little detail he had come with. Sarah loved being his confidant. When Alan truly felt good about himself, he respected her opinion. She loved seeing the behind-the-scenes of a writer’s process, as her notes and suggestions would often play out in his writing. On this night, like so many others, Alan had nothing to report.

“How’s Mallory?” he asked as the two crawled into bed.

“She’s good,” she told him. “She’s looking for a house right now.”

Alan felt a wound open as those words left her mouth. While Sarah had meant no

malintent, the mention of buying a house made Alan feel even smaller. Their studio apartment never felt like enough. Alan knew if he could only focus and work tirelessly, the two could live wherever they pleased. But the more their small quarters made him feel insecure, the less he was able to create.

“Goodnight,” Sarah whispered, having waited for Alan to respond.

Alan turned over. It didn’t feel right holding Sarah close that night. He didn’t feel close to

her. He felt they were being stretched apart so thin they were on the verge of tearing with any sudden move.

A few hours had gone by. Sarah was sound asleep. Alan looked up at the ceiling,

paralyzed. So much anger was built up inside him, but he had no idea how to let it out. He felt like a timebomb. He didn’t want to destroy what he and Sarah had. Deep down, he knew it was only a matter of time.

Sarah’s right hand peeked out from under her arm. It looked funny by itself, appearing

almost disconnected from her body. Alan turned over to examine it. It was so fine and delicate. Alan missed Sarah’s warmth and gentle touch. He reached out his own hand and placed it between her fingers. Even though Sarah was asleep, her fingers wrapped around his. It felt instinctual. He could feel a love that felt so lost during daylight.

The next day, Alan couldn’t find the words. His feelings had been so profound the night before. But the morning light filled him with nothing but bitterness. He thought if he could make it to the night he could capture the feeling once again. Maybe even put it to words and tell Sarah how he felt.

“Goodnight,” Sarah said that night, resting her head on a pillow.

Alan didn’t even try to fall asleep with her. He waited for the feeling to come back. After some time, he was once again intrigued by Sarah’s hand. He couldn’t make out her wrist in the darkness. It was sticking out at an awkward angle, almost like it was attached to her neck.

Alan listened to Sarah’s breathing as he watched her fingers twitch only slightly.

Suddenly, her two fingers outstretched and motioned for Alan to come closer. Alan felt his body pull towards Sarah’s. He pressed his body against Sarah and placed his hand in hers. The feeling had returned even more pronounced than the night before. He was overwhelmed with love for the beautiful woman lying beside him. Why couldn’t he just tell her? His mind raced frantically. And then, a moment of calm. He had it.

Alan shot out of bed and rushed into the den. He took a seat behind his desk and typed away on his laptop. The typing didn’t stop. Alan couldn’t take his eyes off the screen.

When Sarah awoke, she went looking for Alan in the house. When she came to the study, a shy smile formed on her face. She didn’t want to interrupt his process. She just watched him work. In that moment, it was like nothing else existed to him. He was swept up in the story.

“How’s it coming?” Sarah asked when Alan finally made his way into the kitchen.

“I figured out the ending,” he beamed. “And it makes the beginning make more sense. I was stuck on it for so long and it finally hit me.”

“I’m glad,” Sarah smiled. “I peeked in the study, and you were typing away.”

Alan looked deeply into her eyes. He wanted to tell her he would have nothing if it

wasn’t for her. But even if he had nothing at all, he didn’t need anything if he had her love. That was clear now. If he had that, and only that, he would be alright. He wanted to thank her for her unconditional support, for being his greatest muse and inspiration. But he couldn’t get over the cold of the daylight.

“Tonight,” he thought to himself. “I’ll feel it again tonight and I'll tell her.”

That night, Alan eagerly crawled into bed. Sarah could tell something was on his mind, but she couldn’t read him.

“Goodnight,” said Sarah.

“Goodnight,” Alan replied.

After Sarah had fallen asleep, Alan waited for her loving hand. In time, it crawled over to him from under the blanket, before resting on his chest. In an instant he felt her love.

“I love you,” Alan whispered.

The words felt good leaving his lips. It had been so long since he had said it. He held her hand tightly and closed his eyes.

“I love you,” he said again, this time louder.

He squeezed her hand tighter, as feelings poured out of him. He worried if he let himself feel any more he would crush her hand. Alan was ready to say it again, this time at a volume likely to bring Sarah out of her sleep. He started to pull her hand closer.

And then, he saw it. Her hand came with him, but not the rest of her.

“The fuck?!” he let out, letting go of her severed hand.

Alan was horrified. The hand started to slink away. Sarah did not stir or rustle. For a

moment, Alan was frozen in shock. He quickly checked Sarah’s body, only to find both her

hands attached like normal.

“What?” Alan exclaimed, breathing heavily.

He started looking for the hand in the sheets and under the bed. It was gone. He wanted to wake Sarah and tell her everything, but he couldn’t find the words.

Alan didn’t sleep that night. What had he witnessed? Had he imagined it? No, he couldn't have. It was real. That much he knew. It couldn’t have been a dream. He had never fallen asleep. Then what was it? And what was it doing? Had it been the same hand that called out to him a few nights ago? The same hand that he embraced? Every night between dreams when the two lover’s hands would touch, had it been Sarah’s hand at all?

“Good morning,” said Sarah as she awoke, turning around to see Alan.

She could tell something was wrong by the look on his face. However, this was nothing new. Sarah figured something was bothering him that he couldn’t vocalize, which was true. She got out of bed and went about her day. Alan spent the day a ghost, questioning everything he ever knew.

While writing, Sarah put her hand on Alan’s shoulder, prompting him to spin around in a panic.

“Jesus!” cried Sarah. “I was only saying hi.”

“I’m sorry,” said Alan. “I just don’t feel like myself today.”

That night, Sarah did not say goodnight. It had long been Alan’s turn to communicate.

She was willing to wait, but not for much longer. Alan could feel her impatience but knew no way to better things. He couldn’t even touch her without the fear creeping in.

As Sarah slept, Alan lay awake. His script was due in two weeks. He was near finishing

but couldn’t shake this horrible feeling. He felt an impending doom, like he was being followed by some dark presence. Alone, he lay in the same bed as Sarah, yet felt far removed from her. They were turned away from each other. He was terrified by the idea of touching her or being touched by her. Something was deeply wrong. He used to have the night to comfort him. He would dread the mornings but long for when it was time to sleep. It was then they could be together. Now he had nothing.

Sarah, awoken by the morning’s sunlight, rolled over to Alan, expecting to be met by his typical cold. This morning, Sarah looked upon Alan before screaming in horror. Tears of blood painted his face. Alan’s eyes had been gouged out.

“Good morning,” he said to her.