Mrs. Hawkins was an elderly woman living alone amidst a few farms, including her own. Her husband had passed away many years prior, and her children had grown to the point where they no longer visited her. As her friend, I was the only one who would come to see her.
Until that day.
It had been several months since my last visit when I parked my car in the driveway and then I saw her—the remains of her.
She sat on the porch rocking chair, her skeletal fingers fused with the wooden armrests. Her face was dry and shriveled, with rotting skin dangling from her skull, staring at me through hollows where eyes should have been.
I hurriedly called the police to report her condition.
I should have stayed nearby.
I should have waited for the ambulance to take the body away, but something inside me was screaming to flee.
To run as far away as possible.
So, I jumped back into my car and left.
It wasn't until I got home that I understood what had driven me to act this way.
During the time I was there, that rocking chair.
The rocking chair had been moving the whole time.
