The Wind

The Wind



Timothy Bird

January 2010



         Tick. Tick. Tick. The sound of the clock reverberated through the room, each movement of the second hand making the woman’s shoulders jerk slightly. She sat on the floor, back against the wall, arms cradling her head as if to form a cocoon to protect her from the outside world. Her breaths came in rapid, shallow gasps, somewhere between hyperventilation and hysterical sobbing.

    The wind gusted gently outside, rustling the leaves of the hundred year old maple trees surrounding the cottage. She cried out in terror; a frail sound born in the depths of despair and composed of misery and futility. Moaning, she tucked her head deeper into the cradle of her arms, her body shaking in silent convulsions. The wind whispered again, suggesting unspeakable actions, and the leaves murmured softly in agreement.

    “No!” she cried.

    The wind blew harder and the cottage creaked beneath its insistence. She fell onto her side, curled into a fetal position, crying aloud. She screamed in rage and horror, a forlorn and terrible sound. The wind came and went, whispering, insisting, rhythmic and forceful. Breath in, and the silence was deafening, the anticipation excruciating. Breath out, the windows rattled, the structure creaked, and the voices sighed relentlessly, intimately, as if sharing a special secret that only they could know.

    Ever so slowly, her sobbing ebbed and her eyes dried. She relaxed her arms and gazed blankly out at the room, listening stoically to the incessant voices. The clock continued ticking, the wind breathed its dark secrets, and the last remnants of her resistance washed away.

    Her gaze wandered slowly to her hands and she blinked in subdued surprise at the knife curled in her fist. She stared in fascination at the blood which coated the blade; her hands; her clothing. Raising a hand, she lost herself for a time in silent contemplation of the deep reddish hue. Eventually she broke her gaze from her hands, and her eyes followed the trail of blood that led across the sitting room and disappeared into the bedroom. The wind exhaled, the ancient maples murmured in agreement, and she moaned softly. The windows of the cottage rattled in insistence, and she sighed, slowly climbing to her feet. She shuffled ever so slowly, knife dangling from her crimson-stained hand. The blood smeared beneath her feet and the wind and trees softly mumbled their encouragement as she walked her final steps into the bedroom.

    She sat on the blood-soaked mattress, finding room beside the remains of her husband. Looking down at his face, frozen in a visage of pain and fear, she reached out and smoothed the hair from his forehead. The wind howled, shaking the little cottage with its intent. She nodded, sighed again, and with one deft movement of the blade, spilled her lifeblood and fell onto his body, embracing him in the throes of death.



word count: 480