A Reflective Tale

     A Reflective Tale

     This is my story, or rather our story, about love and life and all of the hell that accompanies it. I'm sitting here at my antique oak desk. I rather enjoy the musty scent that flows from within it; it dates back almost as far as myself.

     It has been nearly a century since I last saw her face; each second taking me farther from her. For a while after I began to fear that I would forget what she looked like, how her hair parted so perfectly revealing those constantly blushing cheeks. But yet, still to this day, her face is all I can see when I shut my eyes.

     This is the story of the ending of her life; the story of her stubbornness. The story of how I watched her wither away until she was simply a bag containing the dust that was once her bones.

     Amelia gracefully descended the stairs leading into the kitchen of the old victorian house; her skirt swayed behind her like the ghost she would soon become. We had found the house back in the summer of 1952; she was so young back then. At ninety four she was the oldest surviving member of the Matthers family. Her eyes scanned the room looking about here and there until they finally met with my own, “good morning,” she called to me.

     Her voice was different now, it had grown raspy over the decades, a testament to the time passed. She walked with a slight limp, a oddly pleasurable reminder of our honeymoon spent hiking in the mountains of Europe, “good morning,” my voice was still smooth and rich, my first spoken words of the day never failed to fill me with guilt, “and how are we this morning?”

     She took her time crossing the room, placed her hand upon my knee and gave it a slight squeeze. Her hands still miraculously contained all the strength they had in her youth, “still kicking,” she said giving my ankles a slight tap with her bare feet. Ever the optimist.

     “Oh, and by the way,” she reached into her breast pocket and extracted a small felt box, “happy anniversary.”

     I took the box in one hand and her hand in my other. The stark contrast of our respective flesh made me wince, I saw her do the same, though she will deny it if I were to ask. Carry on I tell myself.

“Thank you dear.” The box contained a a pair of sparkling silver cuff links. The center of the first read 19, the second read 48. Seventy years for her, almost an entire lifetime; for me barely a beat of my heart. 

     I had met her after the war, or after the Earth war rather. My people had sent me to the Earth to help end the war before it ended them. I helped create the atom bomb. I was the main technician behind the entire Manhattan project. You will not find my name in any history books however, and my existence will officially be denied by any governments involved. Yet here I sit. I met Amelia when she was helping the injured infantry men. I fell in love with her. I never should have done that but my firm belief is that love will give you no choice in the matter.

     I was told by my people to leave it be, to return home. I hadn't; although during the next few decades I selfishly found myself wishing that I had.

     You see, my people don't age the same as Earthlings. It is no oddity at all for us to live nine or ten times longer than is expected on Earth. I have been married seventy years to the day now; all the while knowing that I would get the short end of the stick when it came to 'till death to us part.

Amelia knew this was part of the deal heading into things. Our hearts said yes when our brains should have said no. Day after day, year after year I watched her grow old, wither as she grew closer to the end.

     She is dying now. No medicine can save her life. The cancer has a grip that it will not surrender. If the tumors don't take her this fall then the winter winds will take their toll on her. It will be slower perhaps, more painful, but in the end the results will not change.

     I reach into my pocket to retrieve her gift, she gives my hand a gentle rap and tells me that we agreed on not giving gifts this year; that was before the diagnosis. She could never restrain herself from buying me at least a small something. She tells me that whatever I got her this year can wait until next. She still hasn't excepted the news. She never will. Ever the optimist.

Trip

 When I was writing last week I accidentally skipped two pages in my notebook. Their emptiness was bothering me so I decided to see if I could create a story on only two pages. This is what happened. 

Trip

     1:27 AM. It's the same time each night. It's funny how your body will find a rhythm for itself given enough time. The bathroom was only a short distance down the hall. Each night he made his way through the heaping pile of clothes that he neglected by daylight. In his sleep induced stupor, not unlike that of drunkenness, he managed to trip each and every night, whether it was on the way to the toilet or returning to the comfort of his covers.

     Last night marked the fourth in a row. If three had not made it a trend then four did so undeniably. In the surrounding darkness of the previous night it was upon returning that he tripped. As he lay there attempting to reenter his dreams he made himself a promise, tomorrow would be the day that he would once more see the carpet of his bedroom floor.

     He was moments from sleep when he felt the stinging of his ankle, the corner of the bed frame combined with his clumsiness had drawn blood. He choose sleep over a bandage and soon found himself in unimaginable worlds.

     3:27 AM. A mere two hours later he awoke and again headed for the toilet. On his way back to his covers the trip caught him surprisingly off guard. It was different this time, the cold clammy fingers closed themselves about his festering ankle. The beast below had smelled blood and was ready to strike for the final time. It had waited long enough.      

Breath

     

Breath

     She held her breath and counted to ten. Nothing. Just the silence of the night. Occasionally a song or two would be sung by the crickets beside her windowsill. She used the steady ticking of the large grandfather clock to keep track of the time. Holding her breath in those ten second intervals, spending the moments in between trying to quietly refill her lungs with the air they so desperately begged for.

     One, two, three.

     She could feel the burning begin sooner each time. A deep fire rising deep within her chest.

     Four, five, six.

     The rest of the body joined the tortured lungs. The tingling toes refusing to move in the slightest. Her chest growing tighter still.

     Seven, eight, nine.

     The uncertainty began to cloud her mind. How much longer could she keep this up? The last time she dared peek it was a mere two forty five in the morning. The sun would not show itself for at least another four hours.

     Ten.

     The air wanted nothing more than to rush in and fill every crevice of her lungs; but she couldn't allow it. She suffered through the pain, taking small steady breaths trying, unsuccessfully, to breath without sound. She had noticed the other breathing occupying the room with her about an hour ago. Denial filled her mind. All doors, all windows, were, just as they always were, locked. She waited, listening. She had satisfied her mind when it happened, it was small, almost unnoticeable but it did happen; or at least her ears told her so. For a split second, perhaps less. The intruders breath fell out of sync with her own. Proof that she was, indeed, not alone.

     Then a more familiar safe sound caressed her ears. The distant church bells tolled thrice. Three a.m had arrived and she with it. How much longer must she wait for that burning ball to illuminate the sky, to deliver the sanity she now refused herself? Then suddenly the noise returned. A footstep? No, it mustn’t be. Then another, this time echoed by the walls surrounding her. Her certainty of the intruder was growing more palpable by the moment. One step, two step. Each fleeting second acting as a cruel torturing lifetime. She waited counting the steps. Three, four; then nothing followed.

     She strained her ears listening for the breathing. She held her breath once more. The reprieve the steps had given her lungs was much needed. She exhaled slowly and at that precise moment heard the distant sound of a human exhale not of her own. Another missed beat by the intruder. Her mind now persuaded beyond a doubt she began to draw up the necessary plans to save her life. So many options came to mind. Would she take the prowler by surprise? Just lie still enough until he was within grabbing range? Perhaps that would give her enough time to escape. Would she continue to lie there and praying for the sun to come? Her brain churned, and to her fear, she began counting the steps once more. Louder they grew, clanking heavier and heavier, and, as if on cue the nothingness returned.

     One last time she would inhale. This time she would hold the air within her lungs for as long as possible. If she were to make a move she needed proof beyond the certainty that she thought she possessed.

The inhale; the counting. One,two. No signs of anything, or anyone for that matter.

     Three, four.

     The burning within her lungs returned; faintly at best.

     Five, six.

     Her ears picked up yet another step. The silence she provided with her entrapped lungs helped her hone in their direction. They were coming from her left; of that she was now certain. The sound was slightly muffled providing further proof that he, she or it must be behind the dressing partition.

     Eight, nine, ten.

     She dare not make a sound, dare not allow her oxygen starved body to twitch in the slightest manor. She needed the element of surprise on her side. Just lie here, she told herself. He must think you asleep to approach so boldly. She shut her eyes tightly to sell the illusion. She now solely depended on her ears for her survival.

     Eleven, twelve.

     Her lungs begged for air but she could not allow herself to give in. She must remain absolutely silent, take in her surroundings without distractions if she wished to survive. The steps grew closer, her chest tighter.

     Thirteen.

     She found it almost humorous that in such an awful situation her mind still traveled to the thought of the unlucky nature of the number. Superstition, the most entertaining of the human weaknesses.

     Fourteen, fifteen.

     He, or she or it was close, almost touchable. She felt the breeze of the exhale flow over her. Again the nothingness consumed the room once more.

     Sixteen.

     The burning in the lungs, is this what hell feels like?

     Seventeen.

     The loss of feeling in a majority of her extremities.

     Eighteen.

     The loss of feeling slowly turning into persistent, stubborn itches and tingles.

     Nineteen.

     The last of her of her defenses, her hearing, was beginning to fade.

     Twenty.

     She could contain the poison in her lungs no more. One fast and low gasp for air and her eyes flew open. Panic. She had waited too long. Only a ghost of a blur awaited her. It was as if she were gazing at the world through an elongated tunnel. And there, at the end of the tunnel they appeared. A pair of dead pale eyes staring back at her. Her brain and lungs could bear no more of the stress. As the eyes at the end of the tunnel regressed her body began to convulse. Her brain had begged for oxygen like a candle slowly dying, but she had refused to listen.

     They found her the next day. The official cause of death was asphyxiation. Per law they eliminated any possibility of foul play. There were no forced locks, no windows left ajar, no signs of another being ever having been there. A natural death, in the most unnatural of ways. 

A Letter to My Love

A Letter to My Love

My Dearest Love,

     Do you remember the first time I told you that I love you? I do. We were not even a week into our relationship when the words tumbled from my mouth. They are still true, all of these years later. Every last one of them. We used to kid about walking into the sea together at the end of our time; a notion we picked up from my grandparents. It was never a joke for me. It still isn't. I waited all of these years for that moment.

     They say you died peacefully. They are fools. For I know it to be true that your being is still occupied by you; by your soul. I can see it in your eyes at night,big and blue. Although not as vibrant as they once were, they are still beautiful. I can't count the number of cards I have received since the townspeople heard the news. If only they knew. They send their condolences to us.

     I can still remember the day they took you away from me, said you were dead. I had kept you as best I could but the neighbor's noses eventually grew keen. They told me in most cases what I had done would be considered a crime but in my case it was different. They told me you were a victim only to time and that my actions, no matter how macabre, were understandable.

     They made me jump through the traditional hoops; wake, funeral etcetera. I waited for a few days after they placed you into the ground before I came back for you. Just enough time to allow the townspeople to visit and pay their respects, but not so much time as to allow the earth around you to compact. The rain helped me to clean you off as best I could before changing you into something more cheerful. I've always hated spending time apart from you,and this was no exception. I hope that you will forgive me for my poor timelines.

     But I have you back now, and the best part is I do not have to share you with anyone else anymore. No one is looking to bother you anymore. I made sure to tend to that hole in the ground as best I could. No naked eye could ever tell that a single blade of grass had been tampered with. I always have your best intentions in mind,dear.

     It seems as though time has gotten away from me this evening. I think I shall join you momentarily. I understand why you don't talk, or move for that matter, anymore. You have been through a lot this month. So please, for me, just relax until it is time for us to venture into the sea together at last.

     Goodnight love