The Inevitable Dream

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The Inevitable Dream

The Inevitable Dream

Date setting: 1875

My immortal love lies immersed in the deepest of silence, reposed within the darkness of her grave. In death, so they say, sleep is for those yet to breach the bounds of earth until God has forever made his presence known. I fear that Elizabeth (my wife) is not at peace. Trying many times to rid myself of this burden, the somber shrills of vexation have apparently encroached their themes and assigned themselves to my soul.

At the beginning of our courtship, she confessed her prior engagement to another man. Although meeting me, she said, changed the course of that future, and soon we were married.

Then, with her death, the weight of grief hampered me such that any future progress or recovery seemed useless. Filled with persistent thoughts of gloom, their sorrowful inner chants adhered upon me an odious strain. Never again, I thought, will she enjoy her favorite smell of jasmine, nor will she witness the bright sensation of the multicolored trees of autumn.

At home, she'll no longer feel the soft sheets of our bed, where rapture and candlelight exposed her soft face and features with a complimentary glow. It's a memory that often occurs in my meditations, as does the exquisite perfumed scent she sedated me with so often.

Those months before her passing were unpredictable, if not confusing. Her happy demeanor slowly faded. She was often absent at various times for what seemed like odd reasons. After visiting a doctor, she passed it off as just a checkup. Yet days later, the discovery of her pregnancy left me confused when witnessing her reaction, which appeared somewhat ambiguous, as though she were troubled by it.

Then, one day, she committed suicide with a revolver I kept in a bottom drawer in our room. The horror of discovering her blood-soaked remains left me in shock. A nightmare began to reiterate its explicit scene in the weeks that followed.

I would envision myself kneeling prostrate in the cold snow before her tombstone (which always appeared misspelled), holding that same revolver she used to end her life. Then, at my knees, a deep pool of blood would appear, caused by a wound to my forehead.

I felt compressed within the realm of distress where insanity pushed me closer to the ends of stability. How far the space between us...the thought of it left me breathless. The idea of comfort for her seemed out of reach. I imagined a tomb of dark torment and the lack of my warm hand for assurance. As absurd as that may sound, those thoughts remained consistent.

In that summer of such despair, I recall sitting on a bench in our favorite park, pondering my own dissolution of this world. There seemed to be no other alternatives other than the disposal of my useless life. The simple act of a passing gentleman saying hello and engaging in a short conversation was enough to extinguish any thoughts of self-inflicted harm.

The bleak sensations remained, however, as if an ache had returned to establish its influence. The sight of a couple strolling down the avenue arm in arm felt heart-wrenching. The path of a passing trolley seemed to conjure up a scenario of suicide for one in such a miserable state searching for a fatal end. And yet, any premeditated plan for my death was always, in some way, averted or suspended.

Then something happened that changed my life. The following winter, at her grave, with the intention of finally ending it all in the same manner as directed in those recurring nightmares, a voice called out from behind in the bitter tone of one in anger.

"So, I've finally found the b*****d I've been waiting for!" 

Turning around, there stood a strange tall man in a black overcoat. 

"Excuse me," I said, "have you mistaken me for someone else, perhaps?" 

"No, I haven't." 

"Then who are you?" 

"You don't know who I am, do you?" 

"I must admit, sir, I don't." 

He then told an unbelievable story. Leaning on a cane in his right hand, he stood with the character of one who might resort to violence, but found himself more willing to state his point directly.

"Sir," he said, "despite her situation in life, I once loved Elizabeth so much I planned a wedding that would bring us long happy years together. But for reasons unbeknownst to me, her outlook changed. Sometime after, I witnessed her in your presence. Her love-loss for me was a deep mistake, and my hatred for you progressed from that day forward. I only kept my distance in the hope she would come to her senses and return to me. After your courtship, then marriage, I wanted to kill you."

It was then I realized the identity of this man, Elizabeth's former fiancé.

I acted in a way contrary to my recognition of his identity. 

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.

He then appeared with a conviction much more pronounced toward the likelihood of violence. Feeling the discomfort of the cold snow beneath my knees, I stood and uttered the only words I could think of: "I don't know who you are or why you're here, but you know nothing about my late wife."

In fury, he shouted back, "I knew everything about Elizabeth! She loved me! She should have dismissed you as the fool you are right away! It was for your money she married you, not love. 

"I've been to this cemetery many times just waiting for you to show your face. She couldn't bear the thought of you discovering the secret she held that would possibly result in divorce and expose her as a tramp to all who knew her. You had no idea she was a prostitute before I rescued her from that seedy life, did you? Or that I provided for her before your intrusion.

"That baby was never yours. That baby was conceived on my bed - it was mine, you b*****d!!" 

Hearing this, I erupted in rage. I pulled out the revolver from my pocket and shot him four times in the torso. He fell, groaning, with shock etched upon his face. He must have died within a very short time because his hands were clutching his chest where the heart resides.

Leaving the scene at a rapid pace, utter confusion took hold of my senses, and a quick decline of judgment followed. Running away, the distress in my legs and chest was excruciating enough to force me to the ground in a nearby alley untouched by snow and concealed from the sight of others.

Why I didn't kill myself is a mystery I cannot explain. My head was throbbing; drops of sweat covered my face; my legs continued to echo with pain. Eventually, I regained strength, allowing me to get back to my home, but not without the devastating title of murderer which now labeled me forever. Imagine my horror from this terrible confrontation. To say it cast a shadow over the memory of Elizabeth would be an understatement. My inner spirit lay in shreds over this awful turn of events.

For days, anguish overwhelmed me. Fear held its daily grip, leaving me shaken to my core. Five days later, men from my workplace were sent to investigate my condition, only to be turned away at my frantic request. How could I ever exist in a normal life again?

Sleep evaded me. Every sound I heard, each click of a shoe from a passing neighbor, the scrape of a tree against the window, all startled me into a bout of fear and anxiety. How did everything become so harsh and terrifying? At one point, I even suspected a neighbor of plotting to turn me in while on his walk past my house, a walk he had taken for years.

Seclusion became of the utmost importance. My eating habits suffered, causing painful discomfort and deterioration to my frame. My health in shambles and devoid of any exercise to sustain me, I became miserable, losing all respect for myself. And yet, I still could not extinguish my despicable life.

I became a coward who sat in a corner of my room, whimpering like a child who's been punished. Madness had now taken over. News of the murder was spreading.

Then, on the thirteenth day of my being in exile from the outside world, I could no longer suffer in silence. I turned myself in to the authorities, my vile appearance apparent to all present.

After my confession and trial for my crime, they sentenced me. Now, incarcerated for life, I sit and ponder all that has happened. Could my unrest have somehow coincided with a silent cry from her ghost? And what of the misspelling on the face of her grave in my dreams? Could that also have been some odd sign of betrayal? Finally, what of that day at the cemetery? Would I have really ended my life had the critical moment not been interrupted?

This afternoon, I am scheduled to meet a guest in this Godforsaken cage. He is a doctor. The chief officer persuaded me to talk to him at length, for I have been having trouble lately. The dreams have returned. They're not the same dreams, however; for now, there is another element involved. I see myself sitting on a bench in the park. A shroud of fog permeates my surroundings with gloom. There is a tree beside me.

From a distance, I see a man, woman, and child approaching me. Each has a look of anger portrayed on their faces. Their appearance is of a black-and-white hue, with a tepid color sprinkled throughout, giving off such an odd and disturbing character to each. As I stand to go, I suddenly feel a tightness around my neck. Then, in front of me, everything begins to sway as though I were hanging from one of the mighty limbs of the tree. I awake in pools of sweat and feelings of panic.

This has gone on for days. I feel as though my thoughts are not my own.

This morning, as I awoke, I felt a change, as though some foreign voice were directing me to an unpleasant end. There is a scent that is familiar, yet it lasts only for moments. The quiet tapping of a cane on the floor has also gained my attention, as does the crying or wailing of an infant...

Some may consider it to be a psychotic imbalance of the senses that has caused me to snap. To be honest, I no longer care. My end is inevitable. Perhaps I will find the answers that have eluded and tortured me into misery. Whether they be good, or just the beginning of a new chapter of another deplorable fate, remains to be seen.

But for now, you must excuse me. I have something I must attend to before the doctor comes. It seems the sheets of my bed have somehow become entangled in a sort of oval noose that is hanging down from the light fixture in my cell. It's funny, though; I can't even recall how it got that way.

So to that end, I say goodbye, albeit with a heavy heart. There are voices calling me now, that have become more audible. I can hear them, and they're getting closer. I feel as though I'm in a dream, the Inevitable Dream I have avoided for a long time, though now I feel completely at peace with. It's too bad the good doctor didn't get here a little sooner. It looks as though I'll be...hanging around a while. Though somehow, I don't think I'll be alone.

Kerie Elaison

Non compos mentis.

The end.