There were flowers and a bottle of whisky on the porch. A note hung from one of the flowers. Handwritten.

Get your shit together.

Instinctively, she knew from whom it was. However, she stopped herself from thinking about it too much. How could she after everything? How could he, after everything, still buy her drink?

She took the flowers and threw them in the trashcan. The bottle of whisky was decent. The golden liquid filled half the glass. She sat down on the porch and looked at the schedule paper of the art classes. Only next week Wednesday. Impatience burnt like a flame inside of her. The questions still floated in her mind. A desire to know more was kindled and her mere existence seemed insufficient to fill the gap. The images of K filled her mind but the newfound obsession with the Camus figure also remained. Who were these figures and why did they tug at her like this?

The liquid burnt her throat but it cleared her mind. Answers seemed to fill her mind contra the previous day's questions. But the answers did not relate to the more philosophical questions. These answers were built on rage.

The luxury of questioning life's deeper meanings faded and was replaced by the anger she felt against life. Tears burnt her eyes as the memories of her sister flooded her body. Her fingertips stung her skin; was it her sister's fingers that touched through her own from the nether world? The tears rolled down her cheek as she closed her eyes and the flashes of memories flickered in front of her like an old movie.

Dust covered the books. It was not the dust from her home but the bookshop. The books were old, she smelled them. Thousands of fingers left their marks on the page edges. Notes erased, permanent thoughts penned down. Edges turned around as bookmarks. Lost thoughts. The books found their way to the only shelve in her apartment. They weighed more than the grams; knowledge and wisdom seeped through the pages; she could sense that. But she did not know how to perforate the pages, there was no way she could dive into the philosophical depths, especially not with the weight of her own anger pressing down on her heart. Again, she yearned for the mysterious K figure, as if he had the answers to her questions, as if he might be able to take away the anger that kept her locked in her own mind. But she needed to wait, impatience does not make the clock tick quicker, time slowed down the more she wanted it to go faster.

She walked past the flowers in the dustbin and spit on them. Her father's handwriting had not changed.

Postscriptum

I am thinking of translating this story to my home language Afrikaans to send it in for publication. But this might be the whisky thinking and not me. The Afrikaans publishing space is strange. Most of the publishing houses are owned by a single company. Sameness over diversity I guess.

In any case, I hope you enjoyed the story or the continuation of the story. This is the first longer writing piece I have attempted in about 10 or so years. I drafted a full-length manuscript many years ago. It is hard work!

I hope you are well, stay safe, and happy reading!

All of the photographs are my own, taken with my iPhone. The musings and story are also my own creation.