Regrets

    If I had the chance to do it all over again, would I have made the same decisions?  Those almost non-related choices that eventually led to my supposed breakdown, like the outer strands of a spider web that spiral to the center, following all the others to the same ending.  Even if I did have some way of calling for a redo, would I be able to recall those bad decisions, making sure not to repeat them, or would the slate truly be wiped clean?
    I recall my father telling me when I was much younger, that ‘you shouldn’t regret any choice you make, always look forward.’  Was that his cryptic way of telling me he had regrets, like everyone else, but there was no sense in reveling in them?  Damned decoder ring.  Flush those regrets as quickly as you would your morning shit and keep your eyes looking toward the next movement. 
    I was raised with Christianity beaten upon my brow.  One of the welts I received informed me regret was mixed together with a shameful feeling, following the committal of a sinful act.  But, what if the act I performed was not a sin, should I still be weighed down with a sense of guilt which usually precedes regret? 
    The one phrase in the Bible that opened my eyes to some of these questions was “man was created in Gods image.”  So, with that said, did God have his own regrets?  Did he regret sending Satan down to Earth, a powerful demon who would eventually lead his creations astray? 
      But how could He regret anything?  We are told of Gods plan for everyone and everything.  There is no running from Gods will, or the path your feet are bound to follow.  His will be done.  If this has all been planned out, how could any one of us feel regret for anything we’ve done, even the sinful acts that ultimately damn us to a Lake of Fire?
      Maybe we were created (or more specifically, Adam and Eve) in Gods image, but something was revoked when we were kicked out of the Garden.  Was it a sense of direction that was taken back?  Were the lights that guided our way down Gods pre-chosen path snuffed out upon our exit?  Our compass; free will.
      Maybe we became something completely different when we left.  Some distortion of His image like the reflection from a funhouse mirror.  If that was the case, then it was all pre-ordained by God.  Adam and Eve were supposed to eat the apple which led to their exile from Eden. 
      If God had planned for this to happen, why would he have started us out in the Garden in the first place?  What was the point?  Was it for His entertainment, akin to a director watching his finished product for the first time on the silver screen?  Like a scientist in the final stages of a grand experiment, watching as the expected result played itself out?
      But if everything is laid out as some master plan of the Big Guy, why did he give us free will?  Was being bequeathed the power of will really just a ruse of sorts?  A small distraction from the big picture.  Bright, shiny keys dangled before the eyes of a child.  Look, it’s a deer!
      It may have been like a simple lever of sorts, a small gear, turning another within the implanted machine that we refer to as guilt.  Guilt does seem to be a keystone to all organized religion.  Without it, you’d have no reason to ask for forgiveness.  And without your ticket of forgiveness, there’s no way in Hell you’re getting into that members only club. 
      It’s hard for me to believe that some infallible God, who has mapped out everything, would have overlooked a loophole like that in his grand scheme, allowing a death bed repenter the same glories in Heaven as a preacher who has devoted his life to the letter of Gods laws. 
      I believe that regret, coupled together with a few other mental traits, makes up the man made tool of guilt.  But if that were a true statement, what of shame?  Where does shame fit into that equation?
      Shame is the alarm clock, waking the hibernating butterflies in my stomach when I have done something I know I shouldn’t have.  It is the pump that sends pints of hot blood rushing to my cheeks when I realize my embarrassment in the face of the sinful act.  Shame must be another cog, possibly the one working hand-in-hand with free will to produce the guilt weighing us down.  Regret merely rides the coattails of guilt all the way to our deathbeds.
      With all of the thinking I have done on this subject in the last few hours, I can’t help but be led back to the same question; Am I really to be held accountable for the acts that I have perpetrated or am I merely following the path that the Good Lord has put me on?  I didn’t choose to end her life.  In no uncertain terms, God told me to do it.  That statement my friend will earn me a padded room and a daily enema of shock treatment. 
      If I am to be sentenced to the electric chair and sent to a premature death, will God allow me entry for following his will, or will he boot me out to Hell for breaking one of his commandments?  I’m afraid that if there is a God, his answer will be, “Well….I gave you free will didn’t I?”  Free will, guilt, regrets; it sure seems to me that I got the convenient shaft. 
      To any good argument, there are two sides, so briefly I’ll stroll down atheistic avenue, into the realm of man alone.  Let’s take the scientific approach and say there is no God.  There was a Big Bang one day, and through a few eons of evolution, poof, here we are.  As ridiculous as the idea sounds for me, it still falls into the same category of fictitious theories, right along with the Good Book.
      In this case, man alone is responsible for his own acts, not some imaginary friend like God or The Devil.  Where does regret fit into this equation?  Does the felonious offender feel regret only when caught and convicted for the act?  To answer this as factually as possible, we have to step out of the religious monkey suit most of us have been forced to wear since we were children. 
      Man only has his laws and courts to fear as there is no higher power to reign down punishment.  Free will is still a major portion of our psyche, but you no longer have a being to answer to upon death.  There is no fear of hell or envy to enter Heaven.  When you die, the lights are turned off and you cease to exist as anything more than worm fodder.
      At this point, we have to rely on our moralistic upbringing in order for our acts to echo with a tinge of guilt or regret.  But, if there are no morals or ethics instilled into the child during growth, whose fault is that?  Should the parents be held responsible for the child’s misdeeds?  Should my parents be sitting in the cold, steel chair that I was currently warming?

                      ---------------------------------------------

    These arguments have swirled around in my head since my arrest.  Wild thoughts that I have desperately tried to reign into a stable of sense.  Just one definitive answer would surely point me in the right direction.  From that one answer, I’m sure the others will fall into place.
      I was handed this notepad and pen and asked by the Sergeant to write down my confession.  I can tell by the watchful eyes of the officer leaning against the closed door to this room that I have little time left.  He stares at me with hateful eyes, allowing them to express his need to skip the judge and jury, so he can dole out my execution with his bare hands. 
      I will say this; she had to die.  She had to die and I was more than willing to accommodate.  The crime these bastards want to charge me with is her death, but her body as they know of it was dying before I buried the knife into her stomach.  She wanted the cold blade and as heartless as it sounds, I believe I was quite happy to oblige.
      Yesterday came to an end like the previous nights had.  Kelly and I eating our dinner in different rooms of the house.  I couldn’t keep my appetite primed as I stared at the empty 3rd chair between us at the dining room table, so I shrank away to the couch.  I wore my grief proudly; a merit badge that took me months to earn.  But I had to eat.
      Clawing deep into herself with those French manicured nails for a dark crevice, Kelly buried her grief.  The death mask she wore shadowed the tears welling in her eyes.  She was a stone.
      I was told by my friends and family that I shouldn’t push the matter with her. Let her deal with her grief in her own way and she would eventually come around. 
      I, on the other hand, was depressed beyond anything I had ever experienced and I couldn’t even fathom how she felt.  She was the one that discovered our son, floating face down in the pool.  I was at work that day, like I was on every other. 
      If only I had cut back on work, took a day off from time to time and spent some of it at home.  But no.  Like the rest of society, I worshipped the little green man and there was no altar at home for me to pray to the great Ben Franklin. 
      Maybe she felt the same way but out of spite for me, being away from the home that day, she chose to keep it to herself.  Only she knew the thoughts fluttering around in her head.  That was so for at least the next 15 minutes.
      I finished my bland dinner of microwave turkey medallions and watery mashed potatoes in my normal speed, which was quite faster than anyone else.  But since I inhaled my meal on the couch, there was no need for me to remain seated, like I normally had to, waiting for everyone else to finish. 
      I found myself going over a mental checklist of Jason’s favorite stories on my way back to kitchen.  It had been a habit for the past few years; story time for my big guy after dinner.  I chose the Three Little Pigs, as I slid the plastic tray back into the box it came in, sealing it with a tear.  I was surprised because I wasn’t crying.  No sobbing or uncontrollable twitch of the bottom lip.  Just a single tear that felt the need to escape.  I expected more from myself though.  Something more along the lines of “I’ll huff and I’ll puff, then I’ll cry my eyes out.”
      I kept the idea of my sons’ favorite story rolling around in my head as I sauntered to the bathroom for my evening drop off.  Suddenly, the small room echoed with the sound of something large attempting to beat down one of the doors, maybe the front one.  A shattering sound turned my head, leading me back to the living room. 
      As I whirled through the house, I called out to Kelly, receiving no response.  The front door was closed, so I suspected it may have come from the back door and made my way into the dining room.  That’s when I found my wife, lying on her back, flailing about on the floor as her face turned a light shade of red.  Her pecked at dinner was sprawled across the table.  I intended to kneel down next to her, but my knees buckled at the last moment, sending me crashing down.
      Her wild eyes met mine immediately as she scratched at her throat.  Her mouth was opening and closing, like a fish out of water, unable to breathe in that alien environment.  Death was already on my mind and the thought of losing her as well made me feel faint.  I couldn’t handle the thought of burying her next to my 8 year old son who we put to rest only a few days ago.  I didn’t know what to do or how to help her.  Those yes of her told me they didn’t know either.
    She grabbed my hand with such strength, that it shook me from my grieving stupor.  I blinked twice and realized what was wrong.  She was choking on something, probably a piece of whatever she was eating.  Her eyes lost focus and began rolling around aimlessly in her head.  I was losing her and quick.
    My hands moved to her thorax on their own, taking over for my indecision, one on top of the other.  I used all my weight to quickly push her chest down, attempting to dislodge whatever it was obstructing her airway.  The reaction I got wasn’t even close to what I expected.
      Her eyes found mine once again as she sat up and grabbed my shoulders with both hands.  Those hazel eyes of hers looked so wild, pupils dilating to the point that the color vanished, leaving gaping holes to her mind.  There was a small twinkle, floating in those holes that I could not look away from.  She didn’t make a sound as the glimmer became a bright light that flashed, flooding everything around me in a blind brilliance that only the sun could have matched.  For a moment, I thought I had fainted over her dying body, the white flash vanished as quickly as it arrived, leaving me in a dream like state of darkness; floating smoke in its inky depths. 
      My alarm clock came blaring through, a juggernaut of a train that stopped for nothing, barreling its way through my subconscious.  I awoke in my bed, feeling refreshed and rested.  It felt like my first night of complete sleep since my boy died.  I threw the covers from my legs and everything went black again, this time only for a split second. 
      The world returned, leaving me standing behind Kelly in the bathroom.  The confusion of how I got there kept me rooted to the spot, as I watched her long, brown curls shake back and forth.  Her right elbow quickly jutted back and forth;  she was brushing her teeth.  I wanted to say high, but something nagged at the notion, telling me to watch.
      It was so odd that I couldn’t recall the short jaunt between rooms.  The harder I pressed my mind to remember, the deeper my concentration sank into the murky depths of that lucid dream.  My inner gears were dragging along through a large bucket of molasses that someone had drained into my ear.  I couldn’t think straight, but I could watch her.  The hypnotic dancing of her chestnut hair soothed me and drew me in. 
      Kelly reached forward, turned the cold water on with her free hand and doubled over to empty her mouth in the sink.  That’s when the most peculiar thing occurred.  The mirror standing above the sink before her, refused to grant me my reflection.  My eyes widened as I waved my arms over my head like a stranded man beckoning for help from the airplane flying overhead.  No matter how many times I flapped my arms, Mr. Magoo the mirror was blind to me. 
      Hey you blind son of a bitch, I’m over here.
      I’d have to wait for the next stray fly-over for a rescue.
      My right hand extended forward, intending to grab her shoulder, to get her attention.  I’ve never felt more like a useless fly on the wall, spying on her as if I should have a good reason. 
      Am I a ghost?
    My fingers were inches from her bare shoulder when the sound of her voice stopped me short.
    “I don’t care what you do to me Father, I can’t do this anymore.  This will be the last time, and then I’m coming home for good,” She said, staring at herself in the mirror. 
    I asked her who she was talking to, but she didn’t hear me.  Maybe I really was a ghost.  Then the darkness came clutching for me again, a fly on a hook swallowed by a great, black, monstrous whale.
      I was an astronaut, floating free amongst the dark matter of outer space.  No stars or planets to guide me.
      Am I dead?
      The curtains of darkness were raised once again, as I looked onto the second act.  I stood in the doorway to my late sons room, watching Kelly from behind as she talked to someone who wasn‘t there.  I felt so much sorrow well up at that moment for her, sitting on his bed, conversing with the past. 
      I would have consoled her, but really, what could I do?  I was dead, a spirit apparently trapped to his wife.  I knew she was talking, although I didn’t really hear anything at all.  Just the feeling that she was speaking.  A narrator on my back, whispering something was amiss.  I moved a bit closer to make some of it out.
      Up until that point, I hadn’t been able to enter my boys’ room since he drowned.  I just couldn’t find the strength to gaze upon the past.  It appeared Kelly was a stronger person than I because there she sat, on his bed.  Or maybe, she was there because she couldn’t let go.
      I looked around the room and my eyes immediately fell on his old dresser, the one he and I repainted a few months ago.  He was so proud that I trusted him to paint one whole side, all by himself, he grinned a jack-o-lanterns pride the entire time. 
      For the first time in the last few days, I felt a ray of happiness shine down upon my face.  Somewhere beyond the popcorn ceiling.  The sorrow scampered away as if I had never given it a secure home.  My grief was lifted momentarily as pictures of my son, painted wildly with a vigorous grin, flittered behind my eyes. 
      Was that all it took?  The summoning of a memory to sweep the sadness away?  A small part of me was elated, while the rest held on to the grave.  To the feeling of that dreaded handful of moist dirt I tossed onto his lowering casket.  I wouldn’t let it go, even if I wanted to. 
    I could have stood there, leeching memories from the inanimate objects in his room, all day if it wasn’t for Kelly’s voice.  I had almost forgotten her as well until she began speaking.
    I walked up slowly behind her, trying to hide the sound of my feet with a hunched back and a mouth full of air, but there was no noise to be made.  I was dead.
    The small lump on the bed beside her, the one I mistook for a pillow, moved suddenly.  There was someone lying in my sons’ bed, and that someone wasn’t Goldilocks. 
      “Jason,” I yelled, taking four long strides to the bed, watching my sons face rise, like the coming sun at dawn, over her left shoulder.  It was my boy, healthy as he ever was.  He wasn’t purple and bloated like that fateful day. 
      “Jason, it’s daddy,” I yelled again, but Kelly kept on talking.  They couldn’t hear me because I was dead.
      “You know I love you big guy, right?” Kelly asked him, smiling into his sleepy eyes. 
      “Of course mama, I love you too,” Jason replied, leaning forward for a hug.
      “I love you too buddy,” I said, hoping my boy would hear me, but they were both unaware of my presence. 
      “Today is that special day that I told you about, remember?” She asked him.
      “Yeah, I remember, because that’s the one secret you told me never to tell Daddy,” he answered with a smile, knowing he answered her correctly.
      “Yeah, that’s the one,” she replied, running her fingers through his hair.
      “Is Grandpa coming over or are we going to see him?” Jason asked curiously, an adorable furrow nesting his brows. 
      “A bit of both baby,” she answered with a smile.
      Why was she talking about Grandpa?  She knew that my father had been dead for well over 12 years.  Left her when she was two on her mothers doorstep.  I buried my father 5 years ago, so she couldn’t have been talking about him.  Her and I both attended his funeral.
      Her father on the other hand, was someone I had never met.  Matter of fact, I don’t recall seeing any pictures of him at all.  I always assumed they had carved the man out of their lives, like a cancerous cell left behind after chemo.  Out of sight, out of mind.  But who else could she be referring to?
    Didn’t she say something about her father in the bathroom a moment ago?  I didn’t think I heard her correctly, but I was wrong. 
    She didn’t sound as though she was referring to a dead man.  She was talking about a man that existed in her life that she had kept secret from me.  Why?  Why keep any of it a secret?  The biggest question decided to take a backseat to the notion that there was a Grandpa alive and kicking.  If I was dead, how was I looking upon my son as if he were alive?
      “I’m going to make us some pancakes,” she said, “Come on down for breakfast after you put your bathing suit on.”
      “But I have school today,” Jason said with a surprised look, caught off guard by the fact that she would forget that.
      “Today is a special day big boy,” she replied with a wink of her eye as she rose from the bed, “Today, we’re skipping school!”
      Jason’s broad grin faltered for a moment as he asked, “Do I have to keep that secret from Daddy too?”
      “No,” she answered sternly, “As a matter of fact, there are no more secrets from Daddy.  From here on in.  Deal?”
      “You promise?” he asked, letting that familiar smile free once more.
      “Promise,” she replied as she leaned over and kissed his forehead.  “Now get that bathing suit on. We have some pancakes to whip up.”
      “Yes Mommy,” he stated with enthusiasm, saluting her as he jumped from the bed as if he were a paratrooper in her secret militia. 
      Kelly turned to the door, her smile melting away to a grimace of pain instantly.  My world melted away with her smile, just as her eyes met mine.  I would swear she saw me standing there, looked me right in the eyes.  She saw me, I know it.
      Jason’s room disappeared, leaving me amongst a black void, alone with my chaotic thoughts.  They stayed, circling my head, dancing the cha-cha with those questions for which I had no answer. 
      The only thing I could make sense of was that being dead didn’t make sense.  I can’t say that I know from experience.  It just didn’t feel as though I were dead.  Not that I would know what that felt like anyway.  It was as though I were dreaming.  Scenes of the past, embellished and fuzzy, working their way across my mind in clips and phrases. 
      As I questioned my strange existence, the darkness fled as pure, unfiltered light blazed across my eyes.  I found myself standing on the back porch, a few feet from our kidney shaped pool.  The pool that decided to take my son from me.  I hadn’t so much as stepped into the backyard since that day.  I was staring into the deep end, throwing my hatred for its water through my very eyes.  Visual fireballs, boiling away every last drop of its wet, murderous touch. 
      “When is Grandpa coming over?” Jason asked his Mom, standing there in his oversized bathing suit.
      “We’re going to use a little magic to see Grandpa,” she replied, holding his hand as they descended the steps into the shallow end of the pool. 
        There he was again, smiling into the bright sky above.  This was most certainly a dream, but I still felt some sort of responsibility for him.  Some sense of defense for my boy who was walking in the ravenous pool that would eventually swallow him.  I took a step forward and called out to him, but they were oblivious to my presence. 
        I knew he was safe in the pool with his Mother.  He was a strong swimmer and he did have his Mother there to protect him, so I watched.  I watched as the two of them splashed around in the 3 foot deep water. 
      Looking over my shoulder twice, I almost expected some strange man to appear from the backdoor calling himself Grandpa. 
      “Now we’re going to have to go to the deep end for this to work,” Kelly said, sending another splash of water at Jason’s smiling face.
      “Race ya there,” he called out as he dug into the water, propelling himself quickly past her.
      He’s a good swimmer.
      No matter how many times I past those words across my mind, I could not remain calm.  “Kelly, please,” I called out, kneeling at the lip of the pool. “Please get him out of the pool.”  My voice may as well have been the very air itself; unseen, unheard, but there none the less. 
      “I won, I won,” Jason yelled, treading the water with ease.
      “You won fair and square,” Kelly replied with a smile as she made her way after him.  Jason smacked a handful of water from the top at her and she answered the assault in kind.
      I couldn’t help it.  The thought was there gnawing at the joy of me seeing my son again.  Was the secret that Jason kept from me the existence of Kelly’s father?  If it was, why’d he keep it from me?  I could care less if the man was alive or not.  The only feelings I harbored towards this man were the ones Kelly shared with me.  He left her and her mother when she was two.  She didn’t know the man nor did she ever express any desire to reach out to him even if he were alive.  Nothing more.  So why the secrecy?  Why the uncontrollable urge to blemish the scene of my happy boy with unanswerable questions?
      “O.k. One last game,” Kelly said, “First one up gets to do the dishes.”  She inhaled a lungful of air, closed her eyes, and disappeared under the water.  Jason quickly followed, using his arms to push himself to the bottom even faster. 
      As their images shuttered and faded below the water, I heard a ringing, resonating in my ears.  Was it an internal alarm of some kind? 
      I stepped forward and watched them grab the bottom of the ladder.  I had played the same game with him a few times.  He could hold his breath for just about a minute and a half.  He settled into his usual spot of stillness and waited his mother out.
      The ringing continued a third time before I turned to the open back door.  It was the phone I was hearing, doing its dance before delivering some caller into message limbo.  The machine picked up, introduced itself and beeped.  My eyes went back to the pool as a voice came through the machine, sending crushed ice through my veins.
      “Hey sweetie.  Sorry, but I’m not going to make it for lunch.  Some important clients came into town and we’re having meetings all day.  Se ya guys later.  Love ya.” 
      What little understanding I grasped from this whole strange scenario melted away in an instance.  A stick of butter beneath a blow torch.  The confusion that formally took the leading role stepped aside for its usual stage partner; fear.  Exit, stage left. 
        The voice coming through was my own, but it wasn’t the reason I shook where I stood.  I left that message within minutes of my sons’ death.  Minutes before that murderous water invaded his lungs and took him from me forever.  The pool I stood before.  Frozen there, back to him at that very moment, as he held what could possibly be his last breath. 
        I spun around with dizzying speed as their bodies continued to waiver in the belly of the blue beast.  Dropping to my knees at the waters edge, I watched with keen eyes, the two of them holding the ladders last rung.  Neither moved as they floated at the bottom.  My feet twitched as the impulse to save my son charged forward, but the rational reasoning of the situation rooted them to concrete. 
        I wasn’t dead, nor was I dreaming.  Somehow, someway, I was witnessing that fateful day.  How?  I don’t know.  I don’t think I’ll ever know for sure.  But as I knelt there, pondering the whys, my son remained a voluntary prisoner at the bottom of the pool.  I couldn’t ignore the instinct any longer.
      Stepping back, I took a deep breath and jumped as far as I could across the face of the pool towards the ladder.  It was as though the water wasn’t even there as I free fell to the bottom.  I landed a few feet shy of the ladder in what appeared to be an empty pool, with my wife and son floating in the air, continuing to hold the ladder.  Their cheeks puffed out with one last mouthful of air, to be swallowed at the very last moment. 
      I walked slowly towards my son, reaching out to touch this abstract scene, half expecting it all to explode like a delicate soap bubble. 
      Suddenly, Jason’s eyes shot open.  My eyes widened with his, hoping that he could see me as well.  His freckled cheeks deflated as he swallowed his last breath, blinking his eyes.  He looked to his mother and frowned as he threw in the flag and let the ladder go. His small hands dug into the invisible water, slowly pushing him to the top. 
        I smiled, knowing that I was wrong.  This was not his death.  My boy was on his way to the top.  What an absurd notion to think I was actually witnessing his death. 
      I began to drift back into the though that this was, by far, the strangest dream I had ever had when I looked back at Kelly.  She was still at the bottom of the ladder, looking up at Jason as he rose through the invisible depths.  A look of sadness washed over her face, paling the image of the woman I had fallen in love with so many years ago.
        I looked back up to Jason just as a hand reached up and snatched his foot.  He looked down at her with such an innocent smile, thinking she was playing another game.  The smile faded quickly as she dragged him back down to the bottom.  His pouting mouth opened in an unheard scream. 
        The idea of ones instincts kicking in and taking control over some ones actions was something I had never experienced, up until a moment before.  I always thought it was some humble way for a hero to explain away his deeds. 
        My left hand shot from my side, reaching out for her arm before I even realized what I was doing.  It sort of made me feel shameful in a way.  I really hadn’t made an attempt to save my child consciously.  I looked on in awe as my limbs carried on where I apparently could not.  By the time I turned my head, I was just in time to see my heroic hand pass right through her arm as if I were the water she was swimming in.  I clutched at her again, this time of my own accord, with again, nothing for my fingers to purchase but air. 
      Jason began to jerk about in a last ditch effort to free himself. 
      I reached out to Kelly, screaming at the top of my lungs for her to let him go.  She heard nothing.  I clawed and punched, but it was of no use.  The whole time, she stared up at him, unflinching.
      Her frown remained as she let the ladder go, placing her newly freed hand on Jason’s chest.  With the touch of her hand came a wave of solace throughout his body.  The fear on his face shrank away as a soft red glow oozed from her splayed fingers.  They were both at peace as the light surrounded them, hugging their bodies like the hot summer air.
      Their eyes met and they smiled.  With his last burst of energy, Jason opened his arms and hugged his mother.  He couldn’t have had a larger smile on his face as the water surrounding him finally breached the gates and flooded his lungs.  As his eyes closed, the soft red glow became more radiant, pulsing one last time brightly like a dying star, and vanished abruptly. 
        I looked on in awe as Kelly held onto our boy.  The anger that began to boil over me was welcomed with open arms.  I could not understand exactly what it was I had just witnessed, but I knew for sure that the woman I chose to marry killed my only child.  There she floated, clutching his limp body.
        “Get away from him,” I cried out, “You fucking bitch!”
        She slowly unlocked her embrace, letting him float before her, and kissed his cheek.  Kelly pulled herself to the surface, showing no rush for fresh air.  Almost mocking the lifeless stare on Jason’s face.  She pulled herself out and collapsed to the ground sobbing.  Her legs dangled over the edge as she wept. 
        I stared at my boys’ floating body, wishing I could touch him one last time.  Leave him with something more than the false love of his mother.  Real love.  Warmth.  But my fingers glided through him as they did her. 
        “That is all Father,” she said, from up above.  “There will be no more.”
        I looked up to find her legs no longer there.
        “I loved him more than I love myself,” She said, appearing over the ledge near the ladder.  Kelly knelt down and pulled Jason from the water, ever so carefully as if he were still alive and fragile as an old man.  Cradling him in her arms, she buried her face into his hair and wept. 
        Nestled together with the confusing questions swirling in my head was a hatred I had never felt.  She was touching my son in way only a loved one should.  How could she have any feelings for him after taking his life in such a way?  How dare her.  If there was only some way I could reach out and strangle her, I would have.  I was helpless to stew in my anger. 
        She looked back down into the pool, her tears getting lost in the water dripping from her hair and looked at me.  I looked back at her, not sure if she was really looking at me instead of through me. 
        “I loved him more than anything else,” she sobbed. 
        Was she talking to me?  Her eyes were on mine.
        “You have no idea what love is you crazy bitch,” I said, knowing she wouldn’t hear me.
        She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath.  “You loved him as well.”  When her eyes opened, they were trained on me once again.  “Show him how much, one last time.”
        She was talking to me.  Looking right at me and talking to me. 
“Why did you take our boy?” I yelled, hoping she could hear me as well. 
        “I delivered the Devils’ due, but no longer.  If you truly loved our boy, destroy my grieving heart and send me home,” she said, clutching Jason’s body, refusing to let it down. 
      The image of the two of them began to quiver at the edges, fading in and out.  I recognized the coming of the darkness as my head swam.  It pushed the light away with an unforgiving hand.  “You killed my son!” I yelled as the void welcomed me back for a very brief stay.
        I opened my eyes and found myself back in the dining room, straddling my wife who was turning blue beneath my fingers death grip on her throat.  She stared at me as I held on tightly, trying to figure out what had just happened.  My mind raced as my hands confidently continued to squeeze, somehow knowing their job and performing it no matter my confusion.
        It didn’t appear as if she were struggling any longer, if she every was to begin with.  Her hands slowly rose from her sides, making their way to my face. 
        “You killed him,” I said beneath my breath, gritting my teeth.
        Her hands reached out for my face and I leaned into her throat with my weight, crushed her beneath me.  But her hands continued towards me.  I jolted quickly when her fingers caressed my cheeks as a tear slipped its way down her face. 
        “My heart,” she said, her voice a raspy bubble popping between her lips.  I must have dislodged that piece of dinner that was caught in her throat, if ever there was one stuck down there anyhow.
          As I stared into her eyes, the whirlwind in my head stopped and my questions were answered.  What I saw was not a dream or a vision of some kind.  I watched that moment of her life as it flashed before her eyes.  She knew her life was at an end and chose to share those flashes of her existence that flicker in her mind with me.  She was somehow able to show me what she had done through those wicked eyes.  To show me what needed to be done.
          I reached up to the table with my right hand, allowing her lungs to pull in some air, that she didn’t appear to need.  She just lied there. 
        My hand found a knife as I said, “I fucking hate you!“  Gripping the blades handle and holding it high above my head, I took one last look at the creature I had married.  She smiled at me as brought the knife down quickly into the left side of her chest.  Her hands continued to lightly caress my face as I jerked the knife back and forth, opening her up without obstruction.
          “You fucking bitch,” I spat, plunging my hand into the crooked hole.  Her heart was easy to find, as it was the only moving thing in.  A rueful murderer in the dark crying out for justice to put an end to it all.  I grabbed it in my fist, leaned back and jerked my wrist, once to the left, once to the right. 
          “Father, I am coming home,” she screamed as I pulled her throbbing heart from her chest.  She shook around beneath me for a moment as her heart continued to beat in my hand.  I picked up the bloody knife and cut the heart in half, sloughing the left side down to her smiling chest.  She stopped shaking.  I threw the other half to the floor in disgust. 
          Questions.  Oh the questions returned in droves.  What had I just done?  I had killed my wife out of revenge for the death of my son.  I would fry for this, for sure.  But, what was I supposed to do?  She had to die for what she did.
          As I stared at her face wondering, I noticed a small glow coming from her eyes.  The glow.  I had forgotten all about the eerie glow I had seen in the pool.  I looked closer to find that it appeared to be little flecks of fire, burning their way through her eyes, like some kind of flaming worm, eating away at those last moments etched into those glossy windows.  A moment later, there was nothing but smoldering ash, buried in her empty sockets. 
          It took me a while to notify the police.  I mainly just stared at her body for the remainder of the day, pondering this and wondering that.  I was in a daze, coming to grip with what she really was and what she had actually done.  I recall coming around later that evening in my sons’ bed, squeezing his pillow to my face.  I walked into the hall with tearful eyes and called 911. 
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          Now, I sit here, writing this confession, knowing that everything I have said will damn me in the eyes of the law.  You ask me if I am truly aware of what I did and I say yes.  Yes, I knew exactly what I was doing when I killed that demon bitch and given the chance, I’d do it again.  I would rip her heart out from here until eternity. 
        Then you ask if I have any shame.  I feel ashamed for not being there when my son needed me the most.  He might still be here.
        Do I have any regrets?  I regret not being a better father.