He sat on the chair knowing that it was his, but feeling as if it belonged to another man. He felt uncomfortable – the creases left here were much too small, much too deep and much too happy. The pictures around him wore a thin layer of dust. He no longer cleaned the house in fear of losing its odor. Once he read that the sense of smell was closely tied in with memory. That passage stuck to him, it stuck to him like his daily rituals after the incident.
Every day he would sit on that chair for hours, leaving a crease, knowing too well that tomorrow he wouldn’t recognize the man that sat there now. He would stare at the television screen, absent of images, for hours, thinking, analyzing and reliving the incident. Every four days he would smoke. He didn’t enjoy smoking – it didn’t calm him, instead it was his way of loving the worst of her. During those hours of thought, the only time he would stare away from the screen was to see a puff of smoke. He’d see shapes and images, much like one would with clouds.
It was during the mid-puffs that he would feel the most vulnerable. He opened his mouth slightly, yearning to offer comfort and the occasional warning to the girl in the smoke. No words were ever spoken, instead he only felt dryness. He felt as if someone was sanding his throat to smooth out his words, his emotions. That person was never satisfied with his work for he continued to sand.
He’d think about that as he walked upstairs to his empty bedroom. There were pictures on the stairs each bearing a happy couple, each mocking him as he made his ascent. He would absentmindedly rub his thumb on her face, cleaning all the dust. His face would remain untouched: he had never met Happiness. That was not him, for he only knew Despair.
Once in his bed, he would lay perfectly still, never disturbing her side of the bed. He would look at his ceiling wishing that exhaustion will guide him through the river Styx, past Cerberus and into Hades’ lair. He’d wish for Persephone’s story to be about her. Occasionally, he would slide to the edge of her side and smell. That would always ease his troubles.
When he finally slept he would always be woken by her screams. Her face of anguish haunted him. His shirt would always be soaking wet with what he hoped was sweat. Exhaustion made him get some rest, but he would never forget what he’d done. When morning would come: he’d go to work looking no more miserable than his co-workers, he’d read the paper, and he’d smile at strangers. He was a different man than yesterday. When he arrived home the ritual would begin once more.
This when on and on for years until one day: He was walking up the stairs, smudging her face with his thumb, as usual, when something caught his eye. He could’ve sworn the image moved. It had not. His finger had gone too far, it had smudged the man’s face. He was smiling, like her. There was a sudden dryness in his chest much like the one he felt in his throat when he smoked three days ago. He ran upstairs full of anger. He began to throw clothing all around the room, looking for an escape.
Once he found it, he made a leap into bed. He threw himself into her side, crying and screaming. He smelled her, licked her pillow and wrapped himself around her sheet. He wanted to take her all in. His last breath would be hers. As he exhaled, he brought the gun to his mouth and pulled the trigger.
His last thought of was of her the night he murdered her; Happiness at last.
.JPG)
