Untitled as of yet Book

I am a beginner, so cut me some slack!!

Losing the child was the last straw; the proverbial “straw that broke the camel’s back.” Losing the baby is what finally pushed her over the edge, into complete oblivion, and oblivion is where she felt most content as of late. Finally, though, even oblivion lost its effectiveness for her. The anger, sadness and despair engulfed her, wrapping her in its almost welcoming lover’s embrace, dragging her under into its icy depths, until she finally stopped fighting to return to the surface.

She wondered silently, at least one hundred times a day, how her world could have come crashing down around her in such a brief period of time. She was a good Catholic girl, attending mass on Sundays, usually the owner of a clear conscience. She knew right from wrong, and each and every time she was faced with the choice between the two, she always chose good over bad, right over wrong; she felt as if she did not deserve the pain she was being forced to endure. Her priest explained to her that Christ had suffered, and because of her suffering she would find salvation. Although she knew the reverend attempted to comfort her with his biblical speech, all it actually achieved was increasing her anger and frustration. She was not Christ; she did not need to find salvation.

She walked into the bathroom, and then out again. She could not tolerate even a glimpse of that face peering at her from the mirror, accusingly aware of her innermost thoughts. Wandering into the kitchen, she reached for the recently used glass sitting in the sink, ice still remaining in the bottom. Opening the cabinet above the sink, she unsteadily grabbed the bottle of Vodka which usually resided downstairs, far away in the wet bar. She leaned back against the sink, shuddering as she gulped down another shot, or what she thought was a shot; she had stopped measuring days ago. Vodka, alcohol, liquid courage; name your poison, she needed all the courage she could get her wee hands on, even if it was instant courage in a bottle, just add ice.

Resigned, she decided music would be an appropriate, if not melancholy, touch to end her evening. She flipped through her collection, feeling the familiar lump once again jump into her throat. The Stones, The Beatles, Van Morrison, she thumbed through all of her husband’s favorite albums, caressing them almost lovingly. A stray tear fell unnoticed from her eye, disappearing into the seemingly endless stack of music. She felt overwhelming desire to lie on the couch and take a small nap. Yes, sleep would feel wonderful right now, and maybe when she awoke she would realize this was all a bad dream, a wicked nightmare. Normally when she slept her subconscious attempted to mentally drive away the Hell she endured during the day, lavishing her with delicious dreams of walking hand in hand with her husband, their baby in the stroller before them, her family a picture of domestic bliss. But, inevitably she woke from this dream state every morning only to find that David truly was dead, her unborn baby following him from her womb to wherever he now resided. Each morning was a smack in the face, a glaring reminder that she was now alone. Each morning her partially healing wound would be ripped apart, bleeding and weeping. Her mind, heart and soul had been stolen along with him, leaving her with an empty void that she felt would never be filled.


She gingerly slid out one of David’s most favorite albums, handling it with a reverence she felt whenever she touched an article of his that she had either overlooked when cleaning away the life he left behind, or that she deliberately secreted away. Now was the time, she had enough booze in her system that sheer adrenaline alone is what kept her from crashing facedown on the couch.

Making her way once again to the bathroom, she turned on the shower, extra hot. She was not exactly sure why she made this gesture, basically because this is how she remembers seeing in done in the movies, steam billowing out from behind the curtain. Quickly she understands why her subconscious desires the hot water, as the room begins to fill with steam she can not longer see her reflection in the mirror. She hangs her head and offers a silent prayer. If God has forced her to suffer without her desiring to do so, and if God is an all loving, forgiving God, He must realize that she can no longer continue to live her life with her heart breaking each and every day. The pain is so great that it has become a physical pain, manifesting itself in what she assumes to be symptoms of a faux heart attack almost on a daily basis. Nothing, her life has become nothing, a mental and emotional void. Most days she feels as if she is going insane. She finally gave up on explaining to people that David can not be dead because she still feels him here with her, all around. People just look as her like she is out of her mind, possibly so wrought with despair as to be out of her head with grief. She has heard this so often that she now believes herself to be crazy, and she damn it all, she can end it, and she will. She at least has the power to take her own life, praying to God that He allows her to meet with David on the other side.

By the time she finishes her silent prayer she has tears streaming down her face. After asking God for forgiveness for all of her sins, and asking him to nurture those she is to leave behind, she begs of him to please allow her to meet David in Heaven, even though she will be committing a mortal sin. She asks God to make an exception for her, to please let her become one with her soul mate. She cries not for herself, but for the baby and David. How she wishes… she shakes her head, dismissing her reverie. Wishing will not achieve anything, but the straight razor laying on the edge of the tub will be an effective tool to blissfully achieve it all. How she longs to be rid of the pain. She hangs her head over the sink, grasping the edges, her brain registering the cold of the porcelain through the warm humid steam of the room. Taking a deep breath, she holds out her left arm, wrist facing up, toward Heaven. She wipes her right hand on her nightgown to avoid slippery fingers, and after a quick exhale she slowly begins to slice, watching her flesh open beneath the razor, so easy, like slicing through butter. One ironic thought rushes through her head; it should be an easy job as through her pale Welsh skin her veins are as easy to read as the battered road map her and David faithfully used for all of their impromptu road trips. She trembles violently, her gusto waning slightly as the first pulse of hot red blood splatters into the sink, a glaring contrast to the crisp white porcelain. Although the room is too misty to see her reflection, she instinctively lifts her head to stop the blood from rushing to her head, not wanting to faint in the middle of the job. He eyes flash past the mirror and she freezes in utter disbelief; it is not her reflection that looks back at her, but instead one small word scrawled in the moist fog. “NO.” The word “no” stares her in the face, resounding louder than if it had been belted through the speakers of her stereo system, and her eyes roll back in her head as she collapses, landing in a heap on the bathroom floor in a dead faint with blood dripping from her wrist onto the immaculate white tile.