Gone, you are, and gone, am I

My love,

 

Two years to the day. Two years I’ve spent living as half a person. Has it only been two years since I lost you? It feels like an eternity has passed since I last glimpsed the cascading black waterfall of your hair. Yet it also feels like no time has passed at all; your scent of fresh spring rain still lingers on the empty half of our king bed.

 

I’ve finished the book, I’m sure you’ll be glad to hear.The morning after that fateful incident, as I was re-assembling the manuscript’s paper skeleton, I thought we could both pick up the rudely shattered pieces of our lives too. Naive. Looks like we’re a story that will never see the words “and they loved happily ever after”. Seventy six times I’ve had the blood thrumming in my head, urging me to let my book- my craft, my other love- die. Seventy seven times, I heard and felt your lilting soprano smooth my crinkled brow: “You can do it, love. I believe in you”. It’s this phrase that adorns the second page of ‘A Clockwork Orange’, beneath the name of the only woman I’ll ever love.

 

I’m dead too, just like you. I died twice. First was when your snow white lids did not flutter open and stayed still, lashes casting long shadows across your cheekbones,even after I called your name and shook you gently. Your rosebud lips did not quiver even as my own lips and eyes trembled in dread. The second death was when I felt no cadence jumping up to meet my fingertips in the way the stray rabbits would reach up to nuzzle your hand. My own heart flat-lined, as if it desperately wanted to be in sync with yours. You just lay there in the swaying grass and pastel flowers, bundled in your favourite yellow and royal blue dress. Like you were merely sleeping and waiting for your prince to awaken you with a kiss of true love. The whole time, a bitter smell of almonds dancing around the vial cradled in your soft palm. That gleaming red vial: looking all innocuous when in fact, it hid a toxic secret. One you had been seduced by and partaken from.

 

You were strong for too long. I should have seen the signs. The dark moons hanging from your eyes. The way in which your bones dug into me when I held you in my arms. The long periods you spent, locked up in our room in silence. And the sharp screams that woke me up, followed by muted sobbing, that accompanied the nightmares. Nightmares that probably featured four masked fellows and an absolutely disgusting violation of the sacred physical ritual of man and woman. I was merely beaten; you were beaten and raped. While our bruises faded and bones healed and we stopped bleeding eventually, I know they took something from you that could never be replaced. And the loss of that something drove the love of my life to her death. You shared nothing about your experiences and feelings about that night, choosing instead to encase your heart in ice. That wasn’t a wise choice, my love. Ice cracks. And crack went your heart, two years ago.

 

In the note you left me, you wrote “I’m sorry for being weak”.  No, my dear. You were anything but weak. In fact, I am the weak one. What kind of man does nothing as he watches his lover being ravaged in front of his own eyes? You always called me your ‘knight in shining armour’. I’m sorry your knight could not dash to your rescue on his white stallion, with shining blade raised to defend his princess; he was too busy writhing in pain, swearing in English, Russian and fairytale tongues, and being subdued by mask-wearing ferals to come to your aid. That’s what hurts me the most: the fact that I could do nothing while you were being humiliated and abused. Forgive me, my love. You may also be interested to hear that The Divine Creator brought to our doorstep one of those four boys responsible for half our bed being cold at night. The initial shock of finding out his identity conjured an inferno of rage in me; I wanted to take our hunting knife and carve retribution on his body. But I didn’t. You wouldn’t have wanted me to do it. Christ tells me to forgive; that I cannot do. But I will not kill. He has already taken everything from us and I won’t let them take my humanity too. Besides, slaying the evil dragon won’t bring a dead princess back to life.

 

My wedding band gleams a cold silver as it stares questioningly back at me, wondering where his female counterpart is. He doesn’t know she’s sitting on your finger still, five feet below ground. These rings unite us- in death and in life. Do you remember the vows we recited excitedly to each other when we were sixteen? “And I will love you till death do us part”. Well, I still love you with all of my bleeding heart. Our story doesn’t end here, my dear. You will always be the only one, the only one I’ll ever love.

 

With all of me,

Your F. Alexander

~~~~

Based off ‘A Clockwork Orange’ by Anthony Burgess. Written from POV of F. Alexander after his wife kills herself after being raped by four delinquent teenagers.

Didn’t plan to publish bcos it’s as stink as my mood but I think I just need some real angsty stuff to just offload my feels atm. Can I just not go to school and sit and write corny and melodramatic crap to avoid thinking about real life?

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