I have nothing to say... so read my Story!

I'd like to be able to fill my ongoing blog with as much content as possible, but after digging deep I've found that I don't have all that much inside at the moment! Here's a story I wrote for this creative writing class I had been taking. Enjoy!

Pals
By David Morgan

The shock crawled up his spine, jolting his stomach and exploding at the base of his skull. Frank sat stunned, staring down at the spectacle on the ice below. He sat four rows up from ice level and could barely see what was going on, but he knew. The arena medical staff had filed onto the ice, surrounding the fallen hockey player. That familiar number seven who had sped up and down the ice only moments earlier now lay prone on the cold white surface, motionless. It was Randy, Frank's oldest friend. He tried to get close but was waved off by the coaching staff. The crowds grew restless as the medics lifted the unconscious player on to the stretcher. Cell phones lit up as audience members made calls, no doubt contacting loved ones to tell them what had happened.
Frank's mind flew to Sally, his wife, who had been friends with Randy since high school. Randy had been a central figure in their combined lives from the very beginning; from the day Frank and Sally had first met and tumbled into love, to their marriage, to the day they learned of Sally's inability to have kids, Randy had been there. She would want to know what had happened. Glancing at his watch, he figured she'd be getting home from work right about now. On the ice below the medics had wheeled the stretcher out of the arena and the teams were headed back on to the ice. The announcer had been speaking the whole time but Frank heard none of it. His mind raced; seeing his friend lying on the ice, his normally tanned skin now as pale as the ice that had held him mere moments earlier, Frank drifted back to happier days of high school hijinks. Life had crawled through a series of events culminating in this possible end; it couldn't end like this. As the game resumed, Frank made his way out of the arena and to his parked car. Sirens screamed and lights flashed in the distance, the ambulance had just left.
The ride home had been quick and uneventful. Unlike Frank's mind which was filled with concern for Randy and scattered memories of happier times, the streets were clear and barren. His home was shrouded in darkness when he finally arrived. He glanced at his watch; it was almost nine, Sally should've been home by now. The sound of rustling leaves startled him as he climbed out of his weather-worn vehicle; a small fox darted out of the shrubs surrounding his home. The sight of a fox, or any of the other woodland animals that called the busy ravine spread out behind his house home, would typically give him reason to pause and smile at the wonderment of nature.
"Damn foxes," was all he was able to muster, his mind too busy to be amazed.
He shuffled inside, entering through the front door; he could see the dim light of the living room's only lamp just ahead. His wife sat on the old beaten sofa that had seen much better days. She held a handkerchief in her hand, also well worn and wet. Her face was fixed with a sad frown, fresh tears trickling down the sides of her mouth. She still wore her pollen-stained apron from the flower shop where she worked. He moved to her, caressed her hair as though he were comforting a wounded pet.
"You heard?" he said.
"About Randy? Yes, Adam called with a message for you; said the doctors were close to stabilizing him. Heart attack."
Frank sat down on the chair opposite his wife.
"Figures. He ate bacon by the truck load," he said, smiling weakly.
"Every morning, and every night. Since high school," Sally's frown had softened, "It was what drove him. All the wrong things drove him."
"Really. Remember that time at Andrea Richardson's party? The night before his Bio exam; we stayed up drinking and dancing, wasting the entire night away. He drank more than I anyone I’d ever met.”
Her frown was gone, replaced by a weak smile.
“And he went to the exam the next day, no hangover or anything,” she said.
“It was incredible, “ Frank laughed, “I could never drink with him after that; I think I slowly started to wean myself from beer on that day.”
Sally chuckled. They were in high school again, sitting outside the rotunda in the courtyard, their skin soaked with warmth of the sun. They were sixteen again, the three of them. Her smiling mask cracked and the tears threatened to break free once more. Frank put his arms around his wife, holding her tight as her sobbing began.
“It’s alright,” Frank whispered.
His wife, it seemed, had more than enough tears for the both of them.
Their embrace finally ended when Sally drifted into a light sleep. The day’s events appeared to have drained her almost to the point of collapse. It tore at Frank’s heart; he and Randy had been the closest of friends, yet he hadn’t even come close to shedding a tear for his fallen friend. There was no doubt that his mind was wracked with concern for Randy but the feelings had not filled him as it had his wife, and she was not typically an emotional person. Was there something wrong with him? Was he still gripped in the cold hands of shock from witnessing the event? Frank could feel the weariness eating away at him; he needed rest. He walked to the bedroom, throwing his light jacket on the chair adjacent to their queen-sized bed, and dropped. A relieved sigh was barely audible as his head hit pillow, the day’s tension hissing out of him. His eyes closed and sleep approached to take him away from the anxieties of conscious thought, yet something kept him awake. Something was jabbing him in the neck, beneath the pillow. His hand darted under the pillow, searching for the source of his discomfort. The sharp corner that had been disturbing him belonged to a small yet relatively thick, black leather bound book. He’d seen this book before, it belonged to his wife. It was well worn, the corners rubbed down from constant contact. Frank had seen her write in it from time to time; during those moments that she thought she was alone he’d see her. A diary, it had to be. He reached over to the bedside table, pulling open the drawer, intent on depositing it safely out of sight. He stopped.
“What is this?” he whispered aloud.
His eyes caught sight of a picture that had slid out of the book and onto the bed. The weariness that had threatened to take him was swept away by the pounding in his chest of his heart. It was a picture of Randy, his arm wrapped around Sally. They were young, the picture must have been almost twenty years old, standing in front of Randy’s uncle’s cabin. Frank had only been there once before it had burned down during his junior year of college. Sally hadn’t been with him that time, although they had been dating at the time. He set the picture back down on the bed and opened the worn journal. His hands shook near uncontrollably as his eyes searched what he knew to be his wife’s personal diary; he flipped through it, afraid of what he might find yet compelled to search further. The first entry was dated September 7, 1982; the words that followed threatened to rob him of his sanity.
“I know I said I would stop, but I can’t. The truth is… I don’t want to,” the words tore into his heart, a serrated blade couldn’t have cut deeper.
He flipped through until he saw the date June 17, 1990, the day before their wedding.
“I’m getting married tomorrow! I’m excited and scared at the same time, I guess that’s natural. I always knew this day would come; I know Frank is going to look incredible in his tuxedo. And Randy… it’s going to be hard seeing him standing right beside Frank during the ceremony. Sometimes I wish he was the one I was marrying; the feelings haven’t changed, even now with the wedding so close. It’s going to be hard not seeing him for two weeks, but once the honeymoon’s over I’m sure we’ll fall back into the groove. Oh my God, I can’t believe I wrote that… now of all times, it’s such bad luck. That’s enough, I’m going to bed, big day tomorrow.”
His heart was in his throat, ready to fly free and slam through the wall of their bedroom. The words wouldn’t come, words had not been created in this, or any other language, that could convey the fiery rage and bitter sadness this betrayal had brought up in him. He threw the book down and went to find his wife.
She sat motionless in the dim light, staring out the nearby window. The fire still burned in Frank’s chest, his heart now a pile of sad ashes. As he approached her, he could see her thin legs hanging limply off the old sofa; she didn’t even look at him as he entered the room. The light from a passing car shone on her face from the window, framing her face like an out of date photograph that had been handled too many times. Her thin frame now looked positively skeletal in Frank’s eyes, her worn clothing hanging on a body that had been starved for mere hours and not the week her posture suggested.
“Come on,” Frank said, moving to where his wife sat motionless.
Her lack of response lit another fire in Frank’s chest, this one fueled by wearied disgust. He put his hands to her shoulders and pulled her to her feet.
‘I said come on! We’re going to the hospital.”
She was puzzled.
“The hospital? Now?” She asked.
Frank nodded.
“Yes; don’t you want to see Randy?”
“Yes,” the tears threatened to break free once more.
“Then get your coat and come on. I’ll be outside.”
Frank released her and walked off, stopping just outside the front door. The chilled night air ate through his flimsy jacket, but he didn’t feel the cold. A fox stood on his front lawn, he couldn’t be sure if it was the same one from before, watching him. It looked poised to run, ready to explode into a sprint of speed, but remained motionless. Their eyes locked and the fox didn’t flinch. It was almost as though the fox was waiting for him.
“It’s your move, Frank,” he could imagine the fox saying.
And it was his move, it seemed like it always was. He glanced back at the door behind him; Sally should be coming any minute now.