Annuity

Jack lay there, staring up at the star strewn sky. The crisp air of winter's slow fading nipped at his exposed face. The rest of him, though warm in his sleeping bag, felt nothing but the chill of the cold lump of ice that was his heart.

He thought about the letter he had written. He tried to remember whether or not he had sent it, but at the moment his mind was a blank.

No. Not blank. But rather too filled with thoughts of Anne to function properly. He saw her face, her smile in his mind. Whispering to the clear, crystal sky he recited the letter and struggled to remember.

Dear Anne,

everyone tells me that time will heal all wounds. Well, I probably repeat this mantra more than anyone else simply because no one knows how I actually feel; I don't talk about it much with others. I'm hoping that it's true. With all of the time that we invested it will take awhile for me.

I've heard differing opinions on the subject. One friend says it will take 3 months for every year. Another says 6. Either way, I've got awhile to go. Maybe I'm more than half-way there, maybe not. Doesn't feel like it though. Feels like it was just yesterday.

There hasn't been a day that's gone by when I'm not thinking of you in some way. I want to look at your face, lose myself in your eyes. I want to touch your hands and hold them in mine. I want to wrap my arms around you and feel your warmth. Lay my head against your chest and hear your heart beating.

Like I used to.

But I realize that's just a fantasy and will never be. You left me and I can't get you back. You left. And I ran away.

My days are all the same. I shamble like the undead, going through the motions. Primitive instincts allow me to survive the day to day, to interact and get by. But instinct can only take you so far when you've lost the piece that completed you. And I feel like it's only a matter of time.

I'm not sure why I'm writing this. I know it will likely just go into my drawer with all of the other letters. Unsent. Unread. I don't know what the point is.

I know that you aren't coming back.

This happened to us because of me. I am carcinogenic. A poison. Cancer.

I don't seem to do any real good in this world. And with you gone, my inspiration gone, I'm beginning to wonder if I can.

We invested a lot of time and I'll gladly pay for it with my pain and hollowness. I wouldn't trade a second of the time I spent with you to make it go away. 

I loved you then, as I love you now. 

Jack wouldn't allow himself to cry. He didn't want to wake the others. Staring up at the countless stars, there was some comfort in the thought that maybe, just maybe, she was looking at the same sky.

And he lost himself in her eyes once again and imagined her next to him. It was a pleasant fiction to drift off to.

But it was only fiction.

Rock-a-bye (3MF "would-a-been" entry)

She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door. Standing, she took a few steps and with shaking fingers, she opened it and stepped through.

It was a bedroom. There was an old rocking chair next to a small table, and on the table a candle, which gave off the only light. There was also a book.

She approached, sat down in the chair and picked up the book. It was soft, bound in old leather. She opened the book and began to read.

I do not have much time.

At the age of 27 I was married to Jack Burke, and for a brief while, all I knew was joy. He was a handsome, good man. He loved me and took care of me the best he could. Together we traveled the world.

During one of our trips I became afflicted with a sickness that doctors could not cure. It was a sickness of mind and spirit.

I became prone to fits of rage and violence. While I could see and was aware of what was happening, I could not control myself. All Jack could do was try to keep me from hurting myself or others.

He did not wish to confine me to an asylum and would resort to tying me to an old rocking chair. I would scream and spit at him. My nails would tear into the wood as I shook and rocked violently.

The madness would pass and he would release me. We were a happy, loving couple once more. But the stress of this over time drove Jack to cope the only way he knew how - with alcohol.

Oh how it must have broken his heart to see me with the scars from the ropes on my arms!

One day, Jack was passed out on our sofa, an empty bottle next to his dangling hand. It was then that the madness took me, and while I could see what was happening, I could not stop myself. I could not stop what I did to him.

I pounced upon him, clawing at his face. He tried, weakly, but could not resist. Finally, screaming, I clutched his throat in my hands. Trickles of blood ran down his neck where my fingers dug in.

I watched at the blood vessels slowly burst and his eyes went from white, to red. He thrashed, then lay still.

When I regained control I was looking at his cold, blue face. His eyes stared at me accusingly.

In my horror, I picked up the empty bottle and smashed it. I took up the largest chunk of glass and sliced into my neck. There was no pain as the warm crimson flowed down my body, and slowly my vision faded.

I awoke on the floor of my room. The rocking chair, table and my journal were there and I knew I must confess.

I’m so sorry for telling you this, because you are me.

And now, a choice. You can sit here for eternity, remembering what you have done, seeing it play out in your mind. Or, you can walk out the door and for the briefest of moments, forget all of this.

But you will read the journal again, and you will remember. This is a penance, a purgatory. Perhaps someday the journal will go unread. Perhaps someday you will know peace.

Now choose.
She rocked in the chair, running her fingers over the grooves her fingers had made, and remembered everything.