Moving On
It was interesting to watch him. The way he sat in the darkness of the lonely, cold house that was once our home. The way he picked up pictures and held them to his heart, trying to work up tears; but we both knew it wasn’t love he felt…it was guilt. Guilt for the way he treated me, the way he hurt me countless times throughout our marriage. The physical abuse was one thing, but the mental abuse was enough to push a woman over the edge.
If only he could see me, see that I am happy now; that we were poisonous together. Maybe if he could just see that, we could both move on. Sometimes I try to make sounds, or chant, or do something to get his attention but nothing ever works. Now it was just the two of us occupying the same space, unable to communicate. I’m not sure which seems more impossible, that I can see him or that he can’t see me. It’s comical really if you think about it. We always both secretly wished the other would go away so we wouldn’t have to deal with the burden of divorce. But this scenario was almost too much to bear.
Something inside of me felt the need to help him move on. Even though he was a lying, cheating, physically and mentally abusive turd, I felt bad for him. Perhaps that was the victim in me. You spend enough time with someone and you start to believe the things they say. You start to buy into the idea that maybe you are nothing and so you embody that idea until you’re desperate and thankful for the few crumbs of happiness your master gives you on one of their good days. He was so powerful before with his wild temper, his rules and his iron fists. But now, he was pitiful to watch. He seemed so lost and broken. It made me sad even after everything he’d done.
This morning he got all dressed up and I thought that perhaps today was the day that he would visit the cemetery. If he did, I knew that hopefully he would finally find some peace. Luckily, it was in walking distance, since he couldn’t drive.
Approaching the cemetery, my stomach turned inside out. Even now, even after everything he had done to me, I wasn’t sure if I could allow him peace. If I could face the truth, if I could witness him face it. But, I had to be there; I had no choice. Somehow, we were still bound to each other and would be forever unless I was able to help us rid ourselves of the skeletons of the past.
As we got closer to the gravesite, the memories came flooding back to me about that fateful night; the screams that rang out through the streets, his fist pounding on the back of my skull, over and over again. The blood spilling out of my mouth and nose, my face pressed against the floor, as I recall the gun that I hid beneath the bed. He grabbed at my ankles in an effort to pull me out as I squirmed underneath for safety, almost avoiding the kick to my spine from Harold as I fumble to un-tape the 38 special from the bed frame.
The two of us struggling for control of the gun, shots being fired followed by the smell of powdery smoke filling the air. Then more blood filled the room as it fell silent. Time stopped as instinct set in. What had we done? Shrieks of horror precede madness. Then there was the clean up, the burning of the evidence, the dumping of the body in the lake nearby. The classic trash bag wrapped body with a cinderblock tied to the ankles, sinking to the bottom.
Looking down at the gravestone, tears filled my eyes as I read the etching.
Harold Waters 1968-2012, survived by his loving wife Linda. His face turned pale, his eyes filled with horror as he fell to his knees at the realization that he was in fact, the one that had died. They never found his body and perhaps my punishment for committing such a horrendous crime was to be haunted by him for the past year. Tears filled his eyes now and for the first time, they seemed genuine.
“I deserved it. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me Linda,” he whispered.
“I forgive you,” I whispered back.
That was the last I ever saw of Harold.
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This short story is an entry into the October Skeletons contest for the Fiction Writers Guild on LinkedIn. The guidelines were 750 words that had to do with Skeletons, a tombstone and something impossible versus something possible. I hope you enjoyed it. You can read more short stories like this through our collection of works on Amazon under “Giant Tales Beyond The Mystic Doors” and “Giant Tales From The Misty Swamp”. Our writers group is called writers 750 and the book is under the pen name of Professor Limn. There are between 15-20 authors with over 60 short stories per book. For more information, click on the short stories tab on this blog.
Giant Tales, Book I
Giant Tales, Book II
