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A Story by Alice14

Grandpa was my best friend and the closest I had to a Father, we spent endless hours sitting by the fireplace in his bedroom, drinking as we shared stories and a bottle of whiskey, until he would ultimately drift into a drunken slumber. Now I sit in his armchair alone, memorising this room for the last time, the emerald curtains draping onto the oak floorboards, a large rug hugging the bed posts - stained with red wine and whiskey from late night conversation. My eyes halted on the bedspread, where they had found him. Blood remains encrusted into the sheets on my Grandma’s side of the bed, and a smashed perfume bottle has soaked into the wooden bedside table. A photograph on my Grandpa’s table that lay staring at the ceiling stole my attention, a portrait of my Grandparents on their wedding day. Honey hair trickled down the lace of her dress, and a radiant grin sat on her face as she stared into my Grandpa’s eyes. His hand lay gently upon her hip as he beamed down at her, and the slight grey of his suit paired beautifully with her gown. He had spent many nights devoting his love to her without her in sight, he was infatuated by her, repeatedly telling me the story of their love and how deeply he longed for her after she had passed - yet it had seemed he held an almost guilt about her passing, as though he blamed himself. Placing the photograph back onto the table I noticed the drawer was ajar, and I peeked inside. A grey moleskin journal sat at the top and I began flicking through the pages, most of them were too damaged to translate yet two of the entries were still legible.

June 20th, 1995

I’m currently sitting on the porch, watching my darling Marie plant her new flowers. We went to the farmers market yesterday and she was admiring these carnations, which she said would look beautiful in our garden, so I treated her to them. We had the same flowers at our wedding and they’ve definitely grown on me. She's wearing her favourite dress, a dusty pink which matches her olive skin perfectly. I gifted it to her on our first anniversary. She had been admiring it for weeks, glancing at it in the shop window every day on our evening walks, whilst I was busy admiring her. She has tied her golden hair into a loose braid, and her summer freckles have started to appear. She looks so radiant. I wish I could marry her again.

I have smoked possibly 30 cigarettes this past hour, and my bottle of rum is down to the last drops. I know what I must do but I love her far too much. This morning I visited the local gunsmith and purchased a silver revolver, engraved with roses - the first flowers I ever bought Marie. She deserves to have her life taken from something almost as beautiful as her. My fingers have been tracing the engravings the entire morning, and I have yet to pull the trigger. She is not like the other’s I have killed, they were nobody’s, they weren’t Marie. Pointing a gun to their head while they stare at me in the eye has never had an effect on me, but this time it is far different. I cannot look her in the eyes when I do it, I cannot watch life leave her. I cannot see her tears. She's placing the final flowers into the ground and I must do it now.

November 5th, 1998

Every night I sleep on Marie’s side of the bed, drink from her teacups, smell her perfume, and read her final words within her journal. I cannot continue living in her shadow, waiting for her return when I am aware it is never coming. I long to speak with her again, to explain to her, to tell her how much I adore her. She was an angel and I wish to hug her again, to smell her vanilla scented skin, to feel her hair brush against my cheek as she kisses me. I have stayed isolated these past years in hope to find peace with my mistakes.

Three years ago I believed I had no other option, they had told me they would kill her if I didn't do it myself, but we could have ran, I could have spoken with her, and promised her protection. I should have never done it. My guilt is overbearing and my tears burn my cheeks. This heartache will kill me if I do not do it first. Tonight I shall use the same revolver I used on Marie to take my own life. I shall have my final glass of whiskey, smoke my last cigar, and die in the spot where she once slept. My darling Marie, I will find you again, and I will explain it all.