The Cracked Egg
John had broken the egg and now it was too late. They say there's no use in crying over spilled milk, but this was different. Spilled milk you could clean up and go on with your life, but this egg. . . John had gotten the egg when he had left the bank on Thursday. An old, hunched over woman had come up to him grabbed his hand and had placed the egg inside. She had looked up at him with her glassy eyes and warned him to take care of the egg and not to brake it. Then she had disappeared into the crowd. John had stood there, stunned. He had still been processing what had happened. Then he had looked at the egg in his hand. It had looked like any other brown chicken egg. Suddenly, somebody had bumped into John. The egg had slipped and had begun to fall. John's reflexes had kicked in and he had surprised himself when he caught the egg again, safe and secure. He had chuckled to himself at the absurdity of it all, but he had taken the egg with him. He had placed it in the car's cup holder and had later sat it down on the kitchen counter in a nest of napkins. The next morning though, when he saw the egg still sitting there he had thought how stupid it was to him to have an egg just sitting there. What was he gonna do with it? The old woman had told him to take care of it, but what did she know? He'd just fry this egg for breakfast. But when he had cracked the egg into the pan he was startled to find it empty. The moment felt completely surreal. Something else was off, not just that the egg was empty, something else was missing too. Suddenly he heard a woman behind him “Hello.” He turned, but nobody was there. “It's me.” He turned again. He knew that voice from somewhere. “I was wondering if after all these years you'd like to meet.” Was that Adele playing? He turned off the radio, but the song continued playing. He opened up the cabinets trying to identify the source of the song, but there was nothing there. In his frustration John slammed the cabinets shut again, but he was terrified to find that they didn't make a sound. All he could hear was Adele's singing accompanied by the piano. John tried to speak, and it must have worked, as he felt his vocal chords vibrate in his throat, but he couldn't hear. Finally, the song finished and there was a moment of silence. John clapped his hands, yet couldn't hear anything. Then there was the soft piano again and Adele's “Hello.” John screamed, he ran around the apartment banging on the walls and doors. He couldn't hear. Or rather, all he could hear was Adele. He covered his ears with his hands to no avail. He tore open his apartment door and ran out onto the corridor where some of his neighbours were already gathering in confusion and anger. They pointed at him and their lips were moving, but he couldn't hear them.