Sighing into the dark room that was my den, a hiccup bubbled forth as I tried to drown the sweet memories of the past. Looking around bleary-eyed, I noted how her scent — a mixture of apples, cinnamon, and cranberries — still seemed to float on the musky air, teasing me with what once was. Extending a longing hand I tried to clutch the memory of her enticing aroma to my heart, only to drop my hand lifelessly onto my dirt-encrusted lap.
My greasy, thin hair clung to my forehead as I shook my head despairingly.
Slowly, I forced my hand up off my lap, just to drop it next to my half-empty whisky glass; my index finger caressed its perfect finish tentatively, as if afraid, it too, would vanish if I took my eyes off of its smooth, sweating body. Turning from my drink with repulsion, I swiveled in my rusty computer chair to peer out the window to the sinister scene below. The waning moon reflected through the only window in what I used to call my study — now my tomb — as if the moon were perishing with my soul.
Everything I looked at evoked a vivid memory of her — she haunted me! Oh how her green eyes sparkled whenever she laughed, or how she would come down from the shower with a huge white towel wrapped around her tiny head to contain the dark locks that usually hung around her shoulders — all smiles and kisses when she saw me working late and how she always knew what to do to make me come to bed early — the longing was unbearable, the desire unquenchable. Lover, I miss you.
A month’s worth of beard assaulted my fingertips as I scrubbed my face violently with my worn hand, my vain attempts to rid myself of the pain. A sob rocked my frame shattering the still air. The moon drifted behind a cloud and there was darkness.
Clutching my head, I moaned in perpetual solitude, alone in a huge barren universe. It was her anniversary today — The day she died. I shuddered. For an entire year I’d managed to survive without her loving embrace. How had the time flown without me knowing? How had I gone so long without hearing her voice? Three hundred and sixty-five days without a loving remark, 8,760 hours without her touch on my skin, 525,600 minutes without her smooth lips pressing against mine, 3,153,600 seconds all without catching the scent of her hair. Oh just to hold her in my arms again! Just once more — I begged the night!
“Why her?” I asked the shadows. “Why my darling Faith?” I continued before falling silent again. My voice seemed like that of a stranger, broken and hoarse from a lifetime of tears.
Why hadn’t I gone with her? Why didn’t I go with her? I accused myself in vain. Choking back a new well of tears, I sniffed loudly, my nose running into my mustache. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered — not without my Faith. What could I have done if —Nothing. I’m useless. I couldn’t save her from her cursed fate. I couldn’t stop the one responsible for her death. Worthless. My frail body shook with self-loathing as I pushed myself up from my desk chair. Squeezing my eyes shut, I mumbled almost incoherently:
“I’m nothing but a feeble old man who can’t protect what he loves. I wasn’t worthy of the gift she gave.” A fleeting ghost fluttered from the corner of my eye, its white form darting about, minding its own business. What’s that? A light? No. Nothing. Shaking my head to clear my thoughts, I shuddered, my weakness tangible in the air; I could taste my failure.
“Doctor,” a voice echoed.
“No, there was no doctor,” I interrupted. “No one could save her. No one,” I argued forcing the voices back, my own voice stern, as if daring them to argue. Silence. Alone again. A giggle interrupted the stillness of the air, my heartbeat skipped wildly.
The drawer…
The top desk drawer contained my life: a gun and a badge. Both ineffective to save the one I loved. Opening my bloodshot eyes, I peered into the drawer. A gun and a badge — my life — a tattered picture of my once vibrant love — my death. Striking the contents of my desk to the floor, I roared deafeningly as disgust surged through my body.
“I DON’T WANT TO LIVE LIKE THIS!” I screamed before collapsing into a heap on the floor, sobbing.
To Be Continued...
Wow... you're really purging some demons with this hard-boiled blog entry! I enjoyed it.
A few style quibbles... "shook my head despairingly", "roared deafeningly" and "my bloodshot eyes" (and a few other points) all suggest a perspective outside of the narrator -- they imply somebody watching/listening to the narrator. It's almost as if you have first imagined this scene as a movie, and are translating it to prose.
Posted by: Dennis G. Jerz at January 28, 2004 11:07 AMPlease continue this--I am anticipating the rest of your story. The passion in your writing is beautiful.
Update! Update!
Posted by: Karissa at January 28, 2004 6:21 PMJerz,
This story is meant to seem like the main character is outside the realm of what's going on. You'll see in the end.
Posted by: Rebecca Villano at January 28, 2004 7:43 PM