A PRECIOUS LIFE

A loving obsession with a girl gave the 1st person writer of this account a terrible choice to make

It was dark. Night had fallen, I’d fallen asleep on the sofa in front of the television and now, waking up, it was dark. The television was still on, but the sound was down and it was running through a newsreel that I’d already seen.

It was the knocking on the front door that had woken me, so I climbed wearily off the sofa, not really knowing why I still felt tired after sleeping since the afternoon, but I did. It must have something to do with the day I’ve had. It’s exhausting killing a lover.

I mean, a lover is someone special. You have met her (I’m a bloke so my lover is a her), spent maybe years falling ever deeper and deeper into love with her, and then discovering in an ugly jolt that there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for a real and genuine love, After all, life is so short and wasting any of it is wicked, and I’d just wasted my own. My mum taught me that kind of thing, about the value of life itself, and she taught me well, and died when I was still young enough to be unsure of everything.

I’d loved Amy for as long as I can remember. To me there never has been a time when she hadn’t been an important figure in my life. Even when I was a schoolboy in short pants I’d looked at her, tried to be close to her in class or in the playground, tried to find an excuse to whisper this or that to her. And when she pulled her cotton dress off and pulled on her blue p.e. pants I tried to not make it obvious, but I thought her legs, her thighs, were practically the most perfect legs in the whole world.

It wasn’t just one thing about her, but all of her. Too many gorgeous elements to the girl for me to start listing them here. Though I might mention her cascading waves of auburn hair that tumbled past her shoulders…

It carried on to the next school, the secondary modern where we changed for p.e. and games in a changing room and not the classroom, with different areas for girls to those for us boys, but I could still see her when she was ready to go out with the rest of the girls, all of them giggling, jolly hockey sticks waving, whilst I lined up bored for rugby.

Then we left school and went our separate ways, though her separate way involved going past my home, so I hung around behind the curtain, waiting for her, my heart singing Amy to me.

So it was the greatest of joys when she finally spoke to me, both of us seventeen by then, and with a smile on her face murmured “why are you always looking at me?”

What could I do? Tell her I wasn’t, or blurt out the truth, “I like looking at you because you’re nicer than nice..”

I blurted out the truth, awkwardly, and that was that. I had crossed the Rubicon and we were friends for life. We started, what did they call it, stepping out together. She worked in an old fashioned department store called Woolworth’s and I drove a council van, doing small repairs to the council stock of rented houses. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t see her. Oh no, I found a thousand excuses to pop, innocently, into the Woolworth store, and she always seemed to be looking for me.

And when we could, we talked.

There were so many things I didn’t know about her and found myself discovering. Trivial things like her favourite colour was blue and not girly pink, her birth sign from the zodiac was Sagittarius whereas I was a Gemini, and then to more important stuff like her mother was widowed and had been since not long after Amy had been born.

Then there were other things, personal things like she was allergic to cats even though she’d love to have a house full of cats but couldn’t to she’d never had a boyfriend before and didn’t quite know what to do.

I told her there’s nothing to worry about when it comes to being my girlfriend because I don’t expect her to be any different than what her heart tells her to be. Decent of me, but I did mean it.

“Then I’ll take my time,” she said with a smile, “let’s explore the world together, shall we?

“It’s a mighty big place for us to cover in just a couple of hours,” I joked, and she laughed that special, lovely laugh of hers and suggested we just took a little look at our tiny corner of it, then.

Which we did. Hand in hand then arm in arm we wandered round the streets near her home until we somehow ended up at my home without me apparently intending it to happen. But she knew I lived there, she said so.

“You can come in for refreshment in my corner of the world,” I said that first time.

And she smiled that wonderful white-teeth smile of hers and did come in. Mum was there and was all over Amy because she knew I’d fancied a girl for ever and now she met her she approved of my choice. She even gave us a glass of plonk each, to cement our friendship.

“I’ve never had any wine before,” Amy said, inevitably smiling gorgeously.

“You can have tea or coffee if you prefer it,” mum said, though I guess mum knows a bit more about girls than I did back then.

“No, this will by lovely,” smiled Amy, and it was. Then we carried on exploring our corner of the world, talking as we went.

“I like your mum,” she said, “such a lovely woman.”

“I’ll meet yours soon I expect,” I said.

“She’s in a wheelchair,” said Amy, nervously, “she has been since my dad died.”

“Oh dear,” I said, “is there nothing that can be done?”

“She’s dying,” Amy still smiled as she said that catastrophic thing, “she is really ill and the truth is she wants to die. She told me lots of times that she hasn’t really wanted to live since the one big love of he rlife passed away. I sometimes think the kindest thing a daughter could do is help her on her way. But I’d get into serious trouble if I did that and my love for her isn’t quite strong enough for me to overcome that obstacle.”

It was a horrible conversation and I soon managed to change the subject before we arrived back at her home.

But the seed was own.

And the very next day I decided to call on Amy myself and when I did I found the most horrendous mess imaginable. Amy said it hadn’t been her, not at all, but someone had taken something sharp and cruel and made a thorough mess slaughtering her pathetic mother until she had finally bled to death.

And Amy, too. The very dearest love of my life, she lay in the carnage with her mother, their bloods mingling into a torpid mess.

“What happened?” I asked Amy, who was just about conscious.

“I did it,” she replied, “I helped her on her way. Now, darling, please…”

I know what she meant. She had tried to kill herself having succeeded in helping her mother out of a miserable life, but had failed. And I knew that if I loved her, truly loved her, I would finish the job she’d started.

And I really, really loved her as I picked up the blade she had dropped onto the floor and slashed it across her precious throat and helped the rest of her blood to melt out of her body.

It was hard work, and there was a heavy knocking at the door.

I opened the door after the third heavy knock. I was expecting it. I didn’t deny it. I had murdered the only true love of my life and whatever consequences that might follow were wholly immaterial to me.

© Peter Rogerson 30.08.23

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Reviews

[emmajoygreen]

My oh my, what a story! At the start I thought this was going to be a charming gentle tale, you words laid kindly and whimsically. Seems you, the writer, had other intentions and what extraordinary intentions they are, sir! Not saying more about what eventually happens, that is for other readers to discover but will say, BRAVO! you had me dumbfounded by the end . few have silenced me before!! Great tale, thank you so much for sharing.

' “I’ve never had any wine before,” Amy said, inevitably smiling gorgeously.

“You can have tea or coffee if you prefer it,” mum said, though I guess mum knows a bit more about girls than I did back then. ' Big smile at that!