Till Death Do Us Part
Till Death do us Part
I can’t believe what I am about to do. Turning the knife over in my hands, the cool steel making me shudder in repulsion, I picture the horrific crime I am about to commit. The wedding cake sits three tiers tall, causing my heart to thump in panic. The knife in my hand was designated for cutting its moist spongy form but now I am going to use it for something else. The delicate, hand carved figures are sinking into the soft surface of the cake, the male faster than the female. My own feet feel oddly heavy as though coated in the thick sickening icing like those of the groom figure. This, combined with the constant pressure against my skull makes me feel strangely disorientated.
We have an entire service to struggle through before I do the unthinkable. Its ritual I have to endure, another hour of my life gone when it is ticking away already. Its not that I don’t love you, but I don’t need a piece of paper, a white dress and an enormous cake to do what I have been building the courage to do for weeks. You know already that I would do anything for you, even though what I am going to do, the terrible act I am going to engage in, will break my heart.
I am going to kill you...
Tearing at my tux, the jacket which has been pressed and re pressed continually in the last few weeks, I check the marks I have drawn on my pale skin.
The guests, our families, will tell me how smart I look, yet none of them know what is hidden beneath the crisp fabric. I’ve taken a felt pen, several months of intensive research boiling down to the black lines drawn shakily onto my chest. I’ve worked out how I am going to kill myself as slowly as possible. I know I deserve to feel pain, to suffer before I die because of what I plan to do to you. The marks are there to guide me, ensure that I won’t awake in a hospital somewhere without you.
I can hear the church filling with people, their murmurings distinctly upbeat as they find their seats. And then the door to the side room I have been hiding away in is thrown open and my mum is by my side.
“What are you doing?” she asks me, “Have you taken your medication?”
Feeling for the vile pills, I feel a small smile creep to my lips. I am filled with a powerful wave of relief that I will never again have to gulp them down, eyes watering as the sour sensation hits the back of my throat. I haven’t taken them today, and I’ll never have to again.
“She loves you” mum is saying, “You know that’s why she’s doing this, right? As far as she’s concerned...nothing else matters”
I’m nodding, realising that for once in her life she is right. You hugged me hard last night, telling me that you couldn’t wait for our wedding and our new life to begin. That it didn’t matter if that life existed for only the six months I’d been given, so long as we spent it together. Only no one, especially you, knows that it is going to end sooner than we all imagined. Mum has my arm suddenly, and is hoisting me to my feet. I can feel the cake knife I have hidden in an inside pocket thud against me. It’s unnaturally heavy, a weight dragging down that jacket I have draped around my frail body again. I’m making my into the church, my head pounding the way it has done since our lives began to fall apart. I can see you now, smiling as I make my way shakily towards you, a shock of white in the dimness of the room. People in the first row reach forward to pat my arm, murmuring messages of support and telling me how smart I look in a suit they picked out. My mind is wandering now, and I’m thinking of a day I lay in a hospital bed too weak to move and various chemicals being pumped into my veins in an attempt to keep me alive for today. You never left my side, your hand clasped tightly around mine, stroking my hair and telling me that everything was going to be okay. Mum arrived with the suit later that evening, choking back tears and begging me to hold on long enough to wear it for out wedding. But her laying down the immaculately pressed affair is distorted, the picture hazy and the memory fading. It’s you, holding my hand and reassuring me that stays imprinted within me. I am going to do the same for you.
I stumble, my legs buckling suddenly beneath me. Uncle Frankie grabs me from his place in the front row, his palms warm and sweaty against me. I’m wondering now, how this blood connection has affected me. He is my mother’s brother, a short, balding man who smokes constantly and drinks heavily. His wife has dressed him for today, dowsed him in aftershave to mask offensive odours. I’m feeling his hand on my arm, looking into his watery grey, defeated eyes and feeling no connection at all. The only person in the room who I feel connected to in any way is you. Uncle Frankie steadies me and I continue to walk towards me. You’ve got a strange pursed smile on your face, grimacing as I heave myself across the church. I know you can’t stand it, seeing me struggle to shuffle towards you, face plastered with sweat and deathly pale from pain. Suddenly you are beside me, hurtling down the steps before the alter and ignoring you family’s instructions on how to behave in the church. You’re gripping my hand, half dragging me up the stairs behind you as our families watch in uneasy silence.
I’m gasping for breath as we survey each other, your eyes filled with a heavy silence equal to the knife in my pocket. Yet you are smiling at me, our hands still clasped in this strange bewildering stance. My mind id not on the ceremony as the priest begins to mumble his prepared, over-rehearsed speeches. I’m thinking back to an occasion two years ago, when I received a phone-call at my desk in the office. I recall rising from my desk in a panic when they told me you’d had an accident and to come to the hospital as soon as possible. Tearing through traffic in the car, I was overcome with an immense wave of fear at what my life would be like without you. And then I was lead through an endless burrow of corridors, my fists clenched even though I had been reassured that you were alive. I told them I had to see you, and I was escorted to a ward bustling with people pushing drips and handing out newspapers. When I finally found you, you had a strange strap holding your arm against your chest. Your face was chalk white, and you whimpered as I held you close and fervently wished I could take the pain away. I’m staring into your eyes now as we are about to recite the vows and recalling that feeling of terror at seeing you hurt. I don’t know how I am going to do it, I know that watching you suffer will hurt me more than any results drawn from the marks under my shirt.
We’re getting to the part we’ve both dreaded for different reasons. You’re choking the words “till death do us part”, gulping back tears of anguish at how relevant they are to us. I know you are picturing an end a few months away in a hospital someplace with my family around us and you holding me as I drift into nothingness. I desperately want you to understand that when I carry out the unthinkable, it is because I cannot bear the idea of dying that way. I don’t want my mother, drunken Uncle Frankie or anyone else to cry over me. I just want it to be us, alone and in control. The thought of closing my eyes, feeling my hear stop and stepping into the black world that is death without you fills me with dread. You are crying now, biting down hard on your lip to prevent any noise from escaping. I have to say the words too, thought they hold an entirely different meaning to me.
Till Death Do Us Part
The priest probably considers himself peaceful. He has no idea that in marrying us, in the words he is asking us to recite, he is drawing us ever closer to the unthinkable.
And then I am instructed to kiss you and a tiny part of me is laughing. I am going to be known as a madman. The old school bullies, my teachers, people from the office which employed me until I could no longer drag myself to work; they’ll see my picture, hear my name and say something like “it’s always the quiet ones”
You are now my wife and about to become my victim.
“Come with me for a minute” I whisper in your ear as we are showered in confetti. The tiny pieces flutter over us as I lead you into one of the back rooms. It’s chilly, the window ajar and scattered with hymn books and spare candles. I’m looking at you, your expression confused and face still stained with tears as I slide the bolt on the door into place. We are trapped, prisoners in this strange small room.
“I love you” I blurt out
My entire body is shuddering, a sickly, stirring feeling in the pit of my stomach as I look at you. The dress you’re wearing was also chosen by my mum, since you refused to leave my side as I endured countless painful treatments. It flows around you, every beautiful detail magnifying the horror of what I plan to do. My hand is resting on the imprint of the knife through my tux as I silently beg you to forgive me. And suddenly I cannot take it any more. The constant pulsing pressure in my head, it’s mounting to an explosion which is going to end everything. I’m reaching into the pocket now, and sliding my hand over the metallic surface of my weapon. You’ve turned to look out the dust coated window, and I retrieve the knife. My palms are sticky so that it slides, my heart thudding furiously. And then in one swift movement I have committed the atrocity and plunged the knife into your stomach.
There is a small gasp as it pierces your skin, then a moment of silence as we observe each other. Your eyes meet mine, clouded with shock and disbelief at this act of betrayal. Then a terrible, low groan of intense pain escapes your lips as you sink to the ground slowly. Lowering myself to the floor beside you, I wrench the knife from your gut, producing a whimper as blood begins to pour from the wound. The redness soaks through your wedding dress, spreading outward as it exits your body. Breathing heavily, I tear my suit off to reveal the marks I made in advance. I feel my skin split, then a warm oozing as I pierce myself with the knife. Strangely, no pain follows. I focus on you, lifting you gently into my arms as life begins to exit our bodies.
Suddenly, your face is softening and I know you understand. I feel nothing from my injuries, but the guilt at watching you clutch the wound desperately, beads of sweat forming on your forehead, is overpowering. I let out a wail of distress, overcome by the sight of you lying there, helpless.
“I’m so sorry” I whisper, stroking your beautiful dark hair.
You are whining now, writhing against the burning sensation spreading across your stomach. Tears are sliding down your cheeks, yet you are burrowing into me for comfort.
“I know” you manage to grunt
Slowly the colour drains from your face as the blood leaves you body. I place a hand over my own wound and find it coated in the same red liquid. My breathing is growing ragged, my heart rate beginning to slow down. Your shuddering breaths fill my ears as I close my eyes.
“Goodnight” I whisper
We have an entire service to struggle through before I do the unthinkable. Its ritual I have to endure, another hour of my life gone when it is ticking away already. Its not that I don’t love you, but I don’t need a piece of paper, a white dress and an enormous cake to do what I have been building the courage to do for weeks. You know already that I would do anything for you, even though what I am going to do, the terrible act I am going to engage in, will break my heart.
I am going to kill you...
Tearing at my tux, the jacket which has been pressed and re pressed continually in the last few weeks, I check the marks I have drawn on my pale skin.
The guests, our families, will tell me how smart I look, yet none of them know what is hidden beneath the crisp fabric. I’ve taken a felt pen, several months of intensive research boiling down to the black lines drawn shakily onto my chest. I’ve worked out how I am going to kill myself as slowly as possible. I know I deserve to feel pain, to suffer before I die because of what I plan to do to you. The marks are there to guide me, ensure that I won’t awake in a hospital somewhere without you.
I can hear the church filling with people, their murmurings distinctly upbeat as they find their seats. And then the door to the side room I have been hiding away in is thrown open and my mum is by my side.
“What are you doing?” she asks me, “Have you taken your medication?”
Feeling for the vile pills, I feel a small smile creep to my lips. I am filled with a powerful wave of relief that I will never again have to gulp them down, eyes watering as the sour sensation hits the back of my throat. I haven’t taken them today, and I’ll never have to again.
“She loves you” mum is saying, “You know that’s why she’s doing this, right? As far as she’s concerned...nothing else matters”
I’m nodding, realising that for once in her life she is right. You hugged me hard last night, telling me that you couldn’t wait for our wedding and our new life to begin. That it didn’t matter if that life existed for only the six months I’d been given, so long as we spent it together. Only no one, especially you, knows that it is going to end sooner than we all imagined. Mum has my arm suddenly, and is hoisting me to my feet. I can feel the cake knife I have hidden in an inside pocket thud against me. It’s unnaturally heavy, a weight dragging down that jacket I have draped around my frail body again. I’m making my into the church, my head pounding the way it has done since our lives began to fall apart. I can see you now, smiling as I make my way shakily towards you, a shock of white in the dimness of the room. People in the first row reach forward to pat my arm, murmuring messages of support and telling me how smart I look in a suit they picked out. My mind is wandering now, and I’m thinking of a day I lay in a hospital bed too weak to move and various chemicals being pumped into my veins in an attempt to keep me alive for today. You never left my side, your hand clasped tightly around mine, stroking my hair and telling me that everything was going to be okay. Mum arrived with the suit later that evening, choking back tears and begging me to hold on long enough to wear it for out wedding. But her laying down the immaculately pressed affair is distorted, the picture hazy and the memory fading. It’s you, holding my hand and reassuring me that stays imprinted within me. I am going to do the same for you.
I stumble, my legs buckling suddenly beneath me. Uncle Frankie grabs me from his place in the front row, his palms warm and sweaty against me. I’m wondering now, how this blood connection has affected me. He is my mother’s brother, a short, balding man who smokes constantly and drinks heavily. His wife has dressed him for today, dowsed him in aftershave to mask offensive odours. I’m feeling his hand on my arm, looking into his watery grey, defeated eyes and feeling no connection at all. The only person in the room who I feel connected to in any way is you. Uncle Frankie steadies me and I continue to walk towards me. You’ve got a strange pursed smile on your face, grimacing as I heave myself across the church. I know you can’t stand it, seeing me struggle to shuffle towards you, face plastered with sweat and deathly pale from pain. Suddenly you are beside me, hurtling down the steps before the alter and ignoring you family’s instructions on how to behave in the church. You’re gripping my hand, half dragging me up the stairs behind you as our families watch in uneasy silence.
I’m gasping for breath as we survey each other, your eyes filled with a heavy silence equal to the knife in my pocket. Yet you are smiling at me, our hands still clasped in this strange bewildering stance. My mind id not on the ceremony as the priest begins to mumble his prepared, over-rehearsed speeches. I’m thinking back to an occasion two years ago, when I received a phone-call at my desk in the office. I recall rising from my desk in a panic when they told me you’d had an accident and to come to the hospital as soon as possible. Tearing through traffic in the car, I was overcome with an immense wave of fear at what my life would be like without you. And then I was lead through an endless burrow of corridors, my fists clenched even though I had been reassured that you were alive. I told them I had to see you, and I was escorted to a ward bustling with people pushing drips and handing out newspapers. When I finally found you, you had a strange strap holding your arm against your chest. Your face was chalk white, and you whimpered as I held you close and fervently wished I could take the pain away. I’m staring into your eyes now as we are about to recite the vows and recalling that feeling of terror at seeing you hurt. I don’t know how I am going to do it, I know that watching you suffer will hurt me more than any results drawn from the marks under my shirt.
We’re getting to the part we’ve both dreaded for different reasons. You’re choking the words “till death do us part”, gulping back tears of anguish at how relevant they are to us. I know you are picturing an end a few months away in a hospital someplace with my family around us and you holding me as I drift into nothingness. I desperately want you to understand that when I carry out the unthinkable, it is because I cannot bear the idea of dying that way. I don’t want my mother, drunken Uncle Frankie or anyone else to cry over me. I just want it to be us, alone and in control. The thought of closing my eyes, feeling my hear stop and stepping into the black world that is death without you fills me with dread. You are crying now, biting down hard on your lip to prevent any noise from escaping. I have to say the words too, thought they hold an entirely different meaning to me.
Till Death Do Us Part
The priest probably considers himself peaceful. He has no idea that in marrying us, in the words he is asking us to recite, he is drawing us ever closer to the unthinkable.
And then I am instructed to kiss you and a tiny part of me is laughing. I am going to be known as a madman. The old school bullies, my teachers, people from the office which employed me until I could no longer drag myself to work; they’ll see my picture, hear my name and say something like “it’s always the quiet ones”
You are now my wife and about to become my victim.
“Come with me for a minute” I whisper in your ear as we are showered in confetti. The tiny pieces flutter over us as I lead you into one of the back rooms. It’s chilly, the window ajar and scattered with hymn books and spare candles. I’m looking at you, your expression confused and face still stained with tears as I slide the bolt on the door into place. We are trapped, prisoners in this strange small room.
“I love you” I blurt out
My entire body is shuddering, a sickly, stirring feeling in the pit of my stomach as I look at you. The dress you’re wearing was also chosen by my mum, since you refused to leave my side as I endured countless painful treatments. It flows around you, every beautiful detail magnifying the horror of what I plan to do. My hand is resting on the imprint of the knife through my tux as I silently beg you to forgive me. And suddenly I cannot take it any more. The constant pulsing pressure in my head, it’s mounting to an explosion which is going to end everything. I’m reaching into the pocket now, and sliding my hand over the metallic surface of my weapon. You’ve turned to look out the dust coated window, and I retrieve the knife. My palms are sticky so that it slides, my heart thudding furiously. And then in one swift movement I have committed the atrocity and plunged the knife into your stomach.
There is a small gasp as it pierces your skin, then a moment of silence as we observe each other. Your eyes meet mine, clouded with shock and disbelief at this act of betrayal. Then a terrible, low groan of intense pain escapes your lips as you sink to the ground slowly. Lowering myself to the floor beside you, I wrench the knife from your gut, producing a whimper as blood begins to pour from the wound. The redness soaks through your wedding dress, spreading outward as it exits your body. Breathing heavily, I tear my suit off to reveal the marks I made in advance. I feel my skin split, then a warm oozing as I pierce myself with the knife. Strangely, no pain follows. I focus on you, lifting you gently into my arms as life begins to exit our bodies.
Suddenly, your face is softening and I know you understand. I feel nothing from my injuries, but the guilt at watching you clutch the wound desperately, beads of sweat forming on your forehead, is overpowering. I let out a wail of distress, overcome by the sight of you lying there, helpless.
“I’m so sorry” I whisper, stroking your beautiful dark hair.
You are whining now, writhing against the burning sensation spreading across your stomach. Tears are sliding down your cheeks, yet you are burrowing into me for comfort.
“I know” you manage to grunt
Slowly the colour drains from your face as the blood leaves you body. I place a hand over my own wound and find it coated in the same red liquid. My breathing is growing ragged, my heart rate beginning to slow down. Your shuddering breaths fill my ears as I close my eyes.
“Goodnight” I whisper