Forsaken

A torn man tries to cope with death just as his wife appears and he attempts to communicate with her.

            Why is this world so cruel? All of these battles are happening around us. The wars are everywhere, whether they are between two rival nations or between groups of people in a local neighborhood. The violence and hate lies everywhere, and no matter how hard we try or how many people gather to stop it, it persists. The hate persists, and we only get angrier and more frustrated, sometimes to the point that we place ourselves in an uncontrollable rage. There is no way to control it, and nothing can be done to stop it.

            I sat alone, while shards of moonlight rained through my window and onto the polished oak desk before me. The only light was that of the moon, but not by own choice. The bulbs all over the house were either blown or broken, and I had neither the money nor the patience to replace them all. Blank pages�"only covered in smudge marks and an occasional wrinkle�"laid beside a broken pencil on the desk before me. On the floor to my side was a fallen lamp surrounded by glass. It all made no difference to me, however, for every room in the house was messy and unkempt.

            I could not seem to separate my face from my hands. The blood on my fingers covered my face along with the salty streaks of tears shed hours before. In my lap laid a knife its blade still wet with the blood of someone else. I could not stop shaking in terror.

            For hours I had sat there, weeping with my face in my hands. For hours I had sat there, thinking about my broken life and how it had shattered so quickly.

            As the silence and stillness began to overtake me, I felt a light touch on my shoulder, as though that of a woman. Quickly, I reached up to touch my shoulder, but I felt nothing more than my shirt. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was behind me, watching. Then the illusionary hand on my shoulder squeezed.

            As quick as I possibly could, I leapt out of my chair, grabbing the bloodstained knife in my lap. As soon as I landed, I turned around and pointed the tip of the blade toward…toward her…

            “W-what?! You…you aren’t supposed to be here…are you?” Fear and anger exploded within me, and I almost leapt forward in madness. I couldn’t help but stare at her beautiful smiling face, though. I watched as her fiery hair waved in the wind from the open window on my right.

            A clatter reached my ears as the knife in my hand fell to the floor. I was only half aware of my own actions until I sat against the wall of the study, weeping into the palms of my hands once again.

            “I am so sorry,” I told her as I looked up with vision blurred by fresh tears. Her only response was a smile. “I’m so sorry.” I could hardly speak clearly for the shock of seeing my wife so perfect and unscathed.

            “I-I didn’t mean to do it. I didn’t mean to do any of it.” I stood and took a few steps toward her. “You know me. You…you know I wouldn’t do anything like that…don’t you?” Still, she only smiled at me in response. I walked up to her to put my arms around her, to embrace her one more time�"

            But I went right through her, and I stumbled to the other side of the study. Frightened, I turned to see her face once again, but she was no longer smiling. “W-what?! I said…I said I was sorry…didn’t I?”

            Her countenance became a mask of anger. “What is wrong?” I asked as I slowly backed away from her. “I am sorry!” The scream surprised me, and I was immediately full of remorse. Her expression still didn’t change.

            Before I could apologize again, she looked down to her right. I followed her gaze�"just in time to see her finger detach from her hand. It disintegrated completely before it even reached the floor.

            I was disgusted and terrified at once, and I could hardly speak. Then the rest of her hand fell, decaying just as her finger had. “Stop it…” I said, or at least I tried to say. Terror kept me from speaking clearly, but when her whole arm disconnected, I couldn’t help but scream at her. “Stop it! I can’t take it!”

            She looked at me and smiled, just as the rest of her body began to fall apart. Everything around me began to spin in a dizzying cloud. I turned and flailed my arms helplessly, trying to orient myself. There was an intense pain in my shoulder as I collided with the nearby bookshelf. Before I could react, I was on the floor with a shower of books descending upon me.

            My head was pounding with such an excruciating agony that it felt as though hundreds of hammers were pounding down upon my temples. I had to squeeze my eyes shut to try to fight back the pain, but it persisted. I finally looked up, but my wife was nowhere to be seen. I just lay on the floor, agonizing over the last few moments. Why had she been there when it was obvious that she shouldn’t have been? More importantly, had she really been there? I had no answer for these questions, and now that she was gone I could do nothing.

            The pain stole over my thoughts, however, because the headache had intensified to a fierce pounding. With much strain and effort, I stood up and walked over to my desk. The moonlight that flooded over the oak furniture had gotten much brighter as the night had progressed and the sky had become considerably darker.

            In the top right drawer of my desk was a bottle of aspirin. There were maybe three or four pills inside; I couldn’t think clearly enough to count them. I emptied out the bottle into my mouth, and with the aid of the week-old glass of water on my desk I swallowed them. My headache slightly ceased, though the relief was probably just my own imagination. With a sigh of annoyance, I turned around, and I saw my wife once again.

            “Marissa?” I smiled at the joy of seeing her once again. “I thought I had lost you again.” Just as before, she only smiled in response. “You know that I love you, don’t you?”

            The memory of her body rotting away flashed before my eyes. I looked at her, puzzled. “What have I done to disappoint you? Have I done anything to hurt you? Why would you torture me like that?”

            Her expression hardened as she looked deep into my eyes, and she spoke to me. There were no words reaching my ears, nor could I hear her voice in my head. It was almost as though I could feel her words.

            Everything, John. Everything…

            “But I didn’t mean to…I didn’t…” I slumped onto the floor, the wall at my back. “Marissa, please forgive me. I never meant to…I never meant to do any of it…”

            John…

            “No, don’t speak. You don’t need to. The guilt itself is unbearable. Your voice only…only worsens it…” I almost broke into tears once again.

            Her face only hardened even more; her eyes were as thin as slits. I looked up at her in confusion. She wore an intense frown that gave me an unsettling feeling.

            “Wha-?!”

A sudden, piercing scream filled my head. Images of the night’s previous events flashed through my mind, brought forth by the painful yell. I could not shake it off, nor could I will it away. The scream became a vicious roar.

            It was so familiar, though. I couldn’t ignore the fact that I had heard it before. The memory came back to me; it was the same scream I had heard only hours before.

            The anger came back to me. It all came back to me in that moment: the rage, the sorrow, the fear, and the insanity. I could no longer hold myself back.

            I picked up the warm, bloody knife at my side. “Stop it!” I pleaded, but the scream continued. “Shut up!” I stood up, holding the knife up as well. “You backstabbing b***h! Shut your damn mouth!” I threw the knife straight at her head.

            She disappeared immediately�"as did the incessant scream. The knife stuck into the far wall, an inch deep in the wood paneling.

            Everything was quiet and still. The only sound that reached my ears was my own heavy breathing. For half an hour, I sat in the solemn silence of the study. I could do nothing but watch as the last of the blood on my hands dried.

            My thoughts repeatedly returned to Marissa’s scream and the memories it had resurfaced. The emotions that exploded from me surprised me, and so had my actions. I looked to the far end of the room toward the distant, dull gleam of a bloodied blade.

            I pushed myself to my feet and walked to the far end of the room. Before me was the red stained knife, its blade deep in the wood of the wall. After much effort, I wrestled the blade free.

            I stared at the ridged metal; I studied the small imperfections and intricacies of the handle. Why had all of this happened to me? Why had I been forsaken in life?

            “Marissa…” I had to do it, I told myself. “I can’t stand it, Marissa…I can’t…”

            A burning agony swept up my arm and into my shoulder. The tips of my fingers felt fire, and then they began to grow cold and numb. I embraced the chill, and I waited until the numbness had extended throughout my hand. My eyes darted down to the blood dripping from my knuckles.

            Several moments passed as all feeling and all pain passed from my hand. I pulled the knife free from the palm of my hand, bringing forth a new wave of fire and agony.

            John!

            I turned to see my wife standing in the center of the room once again. “Marissa?!” My voice quivered with pain. “P-please…please don’t leave me…again. I-I need you…I need you here…with me.”

            She had a grim smile, and for several moments we stood in silence. We were locked within each other’s gazes, a silent conversation only we could have shared. As we stood there, our souls became one and our minds intertwined.

            Finally, she shook her head and sighed, backing slowly away from me. “No…Marissa…” Her form began to fade. I reached out to her. “You can’t…y-you…” She was gone.

            Before I had the chance to think any further, my muscles gave out, and I almost fell over. The pain in my hand was unbearable. With as much strength as I could muster, I walked over to my desk. I could see my hand more clearly from the moonlight passing through the window. It was covered in blood, a grotesque hole torn through the middle of the palm. I tried to move my fingers, but I couldn’t. From the sight of the bloody hole in my palm I knew my hand was useless now.

            As quick as I could, I ripped a long strip of cloth from the bottom of my shirt, wrapping the makeshift bandage around my hand as tightly as I could. I could only hope it would help with the pain.

            I dropped the knife onto the desk, and then I proceeded to the door that led out of the study. Opening it revealed a long hallway stretching far to my left and right. Neither direction was my destination, though. Instead, I crossed the hall toward the closet door on the other side.

            The storage was dark, but I didn’t need a light to retrieve what I needed. I reached forth and pulled out a light brown, leather jacket. I quickly donned it upon my shoulders. Then I pulled out an old shovel. The metal on it was rusted, and the wood was close to rotting, but it would still serve its intended purpose.

            Without even bothering to shut either of the doors, I strolled back into the study and approached my desk. The window above it gave an excellent view of the yard, but the night was dark and a low fog had crept onto the land, giving the sight an eerie appearance. It was perfect.

            I turned around and walked to the center of the room. There before me lay my prize, my greatest possession, the one true love of my life. I knelt down, laying the old shovel to my side.

            “Marissa,” I whispered, lightly touching the cheek of my wife’s corpse. She was still beautiful. The gown she wore lightly washed over her luscious curves, her hair flowing to her left like a frozen river of fire.

            I lightly brushed her cheek with my hand, following the curve of her jaw down to her soft neck. I couldn’t help but wince when my hand touched the blood staining her chest.

            “I am so sorry for everything, my love,” I whispered as I reached down and gently lifted up her head. With only a moment’s hesitation, I leaned forward and placed my lips upon hers. They were cold and stiff, but for several moments we stayed in silence, sharing one final passionate kiss.

            It took all the willpower I had to keep myself from breaking down into tears as I pulled my mouth away from hers. I slowly lifted myself to my feet, picking up the shovel at my side along the way.

            Although I didn’t want to believe it, I knew in my heart that one thing was true: It was time to finish this. No one would ever have to know…

Author's Note

(Note from Feb 2012): Haha, where to even start with this one? I began to write this story early into my junior year of high school. I was really wanting to push myself to finally write a short story on my own instead of for a class, and I also wanted to pull away from my "easy to fall back on" fantasy roots. Lastly, I wanted to attempt a story written in first person. I don't really remember how the idea came to me, or how I planned it out in my mind, but I do remember the weeks I spent furiously writing (both at home and during class). I remember passing it off to my friends asking, "what do you think so far?" far too many times. I eventually turned it in for my English class that year, which turned out to be a great decision.

Authors Note currently a "work in progress", will try to have it finished in a couple of hours.

Reviews

[Stephanie Mathis]

Wow... I like this!! I both like and dislike the character - which is a very good thing. Means that I can go either way when it comes to the rest of the story. You have more??!

[AaronPhobia]

Excellent write... Open to pretty much anything to why the guy killed his wife. Love it, love it, love it :D

-Aaron