since Nov. 26, 2004.The night was oppressive. Rain fell in rapid torrents outside my window as I awoke from a light nap. The moon, blanketed by the dark clouds, shone only a flicker of light upon the shadows of my living room. From my perch on the couch, I could see only the glass table beside me, still fronted by the bottle of liquor I’d tried to ignore. It stood there boldly, beckoning my fragile resistance with its promise of doomed darkness. I groaned and closed my eyes, not wanting to be bothered with the agonies of my heavy heart.
A loud knock at the door frightened me out of my reverie; I gasped, knowing full well who it could be. After pulling my tired self off the couch, I tiptoed to the door and unlatched it. I turned away, not wanting to cry at the sight of him. He entered slowly, shutting the door behind him. He stood there quietly, waiting for me to turn around.
"I’m sorry," he whispered, "I’m so sorry for everything." I turned my head sharply, glaring angrily at him. But I wasn’t angry at him, and he knew it; I was angry and afraid, not of him, but of myself. “Don’t look as though you’re angry. Please don’t be upset,” he pleaded. My face fell and I began to cry. I went to him, leaning my head against his chest, and sobbed unmercifully. He sighed and held me securely, providing the comfort we both needed but couldn’t put into words.
Alas, he let me go and turned to leave. He didn’t want to go, yet he knew he couldn’t stay. I clutched his hand tightly in mine; he smiled suddenly and gave my hand a squeeze. But he soon returned to his somber self and left me to return to my mine. It was then I realized that dealing with death didn’t get any easier with age, experience, freedom, or a college degree.
In my solitude I found myself unable to shed any more tears for the one we’d lost. I needed an escape, I wanted an escape; however, I knew any temporary escape I could come up with would only be in vain. Hoping to calm my shattered emotions, I turned on the radio and a familiar song reverberated into my ears--"The Man Who Sold the World." I tried to remember why it was familiar, why it was significant, and why it felt so much like a part of my soul. Then suddenly, it came to me like a bolt of lightning; it was playing the moment he’d died. Everything came back in a wave: We’d had the stereo on, the windows open, the volume blasting--listening to Nirvana, his favorite. He knew he was past curfew, but he only stayed and stayed. Practically pushing him out the door, I made him leave. He smiled and whispered goodbye; and then he turned away, not seeing the car coming down the street as he crossed it. A loud thud, screeching tires, screaming brakes, a speeding car. Someone let out a shrill scream. Was it me? Pain and anguish enveloped me as the vision faded and I returned to my solitary state, in which I would forever be in pain and left to heal on my own. But healing won’t be easy, I thought, reaching for the liquor bottle. Nothing can be easy in a life without the love I had lost and would never forget.
Copyright © 1998, Talia M. Wilson
published in Beyond Parallax, 2000
since Nov. 26, 2004.