DOWN HERE: By William Hill
Friday, December 31st, 2010For three days, I’ve reaped from the matter of her soul. Piece by piece, I will save her from her tears, and her pain.
I will save her from my absence.
She wept for a day upon my return. Not once could she feel my cold arms, hanging heavily upon her shoulders. She weeps for me. Even in death, I can’t bear that weight.
Having no desire to cause her further pain, I waited for her to fall asleep, and sat beside her for a moment before I started. Her hair lay lifelessly upon her pillow, now oily black streaks across the tan fabric. I haven’t even seen her eyes since I returned; a pain of my own I’d alleviate soon enough.
Once I gathered my nerve, I took the first swipe, pulling my hand back with the ephemeral mass pulsing between my fingers.
I took it to the river. I took it to my body, where I knew it would be safe.
I flew back to the house in the morning, only to see her sitting before her morning coffee, served in her dark blue mug with the cracked paint. She ran her finger along the cracks, shaking.
Through the day, she would drift from place to place, restlessly examining old photographs, transfixed on her own happy eyes staring back at her.
The wait felt so long. I could see her pain growing as she faltered under mourning woes.
I took another piece that night, larger than the first, colder. Again, I took it away, to the river, as it leaked in my hands. Time dwindled.
Now, I sit beside her, gazing into eyes that don’t see their watcher. She rubs the paint cracks raw on the empty mug, revealing the grey clay beneath. I would have filled the cup if at all possible, but I’m not certain she would have indulged.
She’s paled further and further, and while I wish she’d do something to regain her composure, it would delay that which I desire.
She will be happy when I am done. She can stay with me, beneath the surface, beyond the flames of Hell and unwashed by the grace of Christ; an eternity in frostbitten solitude with her lover.
I follow her into her room one last time. I don’t wait for her to fall asleep this time. I watch as her face freezes into lifelessness, and gracefully grasp the remains, now sinuous and loose, dripping onto the floor, the grass, and making ripples in the river. I take it below, and hold her soul together, and wait for her to meet me beneath the freezing surface; down below, in the space between boulders of granite that hold my mortal shell.
And I will wait for an eternity, alone.
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©2010 William Hill
