The Ghost of You
One.
One.
More tragic than Shakespeare’s nib. After her body became poisoned and frail with cancer, she lost her life; and consequently I lost the greatest thing in mine. It advanced rapidly from the depths of her stomach, and within weeks she was terminal. The wedding present from hell, her diagnosis was delivered in the honeymoon period. Congratulations. My elegant beauty found in the disease, a formidable opponent, their aggressive battle stripping her piece by piece of everything that I had cherished in her. Her ivory, porcelain skin faded to an anaemic yellow. The lustier of her ebony waves was lost to limp, languid locks. Her cushioned, crimson lips became chapped and faded- a shadow of their former selves. Day by day, I watched the love of my life deteriorate into a pathetic imitation of her former self. Yet, foolishly I never gave up hope. Acceptance was bitter, unachievable reluctance; denial was sweet, effortless bliss. Although anticipated by everyone, her death culminated in a tidal wave of shock and agony. Notorious for her kind, gentle demeanour, she was adored by many. The day she gave up her fight, we lost our one angel on earth.
Before she died, she willed me to remain strong. She told me to look back on her not with a tear in my eye, but with warmth in my heart. She wanted me to move on, fall in love again, marry again, and conceive the children we were robbed of so cruelly. The only lie I ever gave my young bride was the promise that I would do all these things; inside I found the mere idea of it disgusting. In my eyes, she would never be replaced. Her funeral was a congregation of black shrouded mourners, sobbing over the girl whose time came too soon. The service itself was celebratory yet distinctly sombre, as I said goodbye to the very reason for my existence. When distant relatives and acquaintances offered me their condolences, I could barely meet their gaze. After filling up on the complimentary wake buffet, they could go back to their happy homes, remove their funeral attire and curl up to sleep with the ones they love. The only thing that I went home to was a house full of her belongings and a fatal case of melancholia.
Encapsulated in my own bubble of sorrow and self-pity, I spent the weeks following her tragic send off alone, locked away in the home we briefly shared together. When the tears dried up, they paved the way for unhealthy rage. Smashing glass and china to a chorus of my pained screams- the soundtrack to my misery- I piece by piece demolished the material things I had left of her. Each evening I found myself at the bottom of another liquor bottle, drinking myself into an ignorant stupor. Occasionally, a concerned neighbour or friend or family member would visit- their concern over my welfare obvious on their distressed countenance. To me, the outside world had lost its appeal, its intrigue. My employers at the local newspaper called to tell me I no longer had a job- their understanding could only stretch so far. I no longer had an appetite, and the occasional sleep I achieved was always restless and frequently disturbed. To say I was living would be an overstatement, I was existing- but in my own personal hell. I could never have imagined being in a poorer state, until an official bombshell dared to appear in my letterbox.
I ventured from the pits of my depression that morning to clear away the numerous piles of dated newspapers that had been left to build up on my doorstep. The reason for doing this being that I did not want an overdramatic neighbour to conclude that I had died in my home- provoking an onslaught of police and ambulances and gathering onlookers. Almost blinded by my first experience of daylight in weeks, I happened to notice my mailbox was now no longer able to close due to the excess of unread mail that had been stuffed in. Flicking through bills, and junk mail and ’with deepest sympathy’ cards, I came across a letter that stood out from the rest. Marked harshly with ‘URGENT’ my heart sank when I saw the second stamp on the envelope, as clear as the pain in my heart. Right now, a young male receiving a letter from the United States Army meant just one thing. Pointlessly I opened up the envelope to retrieve the news it contained, I already knew the outcome. I had been drafted to fight overseas in the war.
More tragic than Shakespeare’s nib. After her body became poisoned and frail with cancer, she lost her life; and consequently I lost the greatest thing in mine. It advanced rapidly from the depths of her stomach, and within weeks she was terminal. The wedding present from hell, her diagnosis was delivered in the honeymoon period. Congratulations. My elegant beauty found in the disease, a formidable opponent, their aggressive battle stripping her piece by piece of everything that I had cherished in her. Her ivory, porcelain skin faded to an anaemic yellow. The lustier of her ebony waves was lost to limp, languid locks. Her cushioned, crimson lips became chapped and faded- a shadow of their former selves. Day by day, I watched the love of my life deteriorate into a pathetic imitation of her former self. Yet, foolishly I never gave up hope. Acceptance was bitter, unachievable reluctance; denial was sweet, effortless bliss. Although anticipated by everyone, her death culminated in a tidal wave of shock and agony. Notorious for her kind, gentle demeanour, she was adored by many. The day she gave up her fight, we lost our one angel on earth.
Before she died, she willed me to remain strong. She told me to look back on her not with a tear in my eye, but with warmth in my heart. She wanted me to move on, fall in love again, marry again, and conceive the children we were robbed of so cruelly. The only lie I ever gave my young bride was the promise that I would do all these things; inside I found the mere idea of it disgusting. In my eyes, she would never be replaced. Her funeral was a congregation of black shrouded mourners, sobbing over the girl whose time came too soon. The service itself was celebratory yet distinctly sombre, as I said goodbye to the very reason for my existence. When distant relatives and acquaintances offered me their condolences, I could barely meet their gaze. After filling up on the complimentary wake buffet, they could go back to their happy homes, remove their funeral attire and curl up to sleep with the ones they love. The only thing that I went home to was a house full of her belongings and a fatal case of melancholia.
Encapsulated in my own bubble of sorrow and self-pity, I spent the weeks following her tragic send off alone, locked away in the home we briefly shared together. When the tears dried up, they paved the way for unhealthy rage. Smashing glass and china to a chorus of my pained screams- the soundtrack to my misery- I piece by piece demolished the material things I had left of her. Each evening I found myself at the bottom of another liquor bottle, drinking myself into an ignorant stupor. Occasionally, a concerned neighbour or friend or family member would visit- their concern over my welfare obvious on their distressed countenance. To me, the outside world had lost its appeal, its intrigue. My employers at the local newspaper called to tell me I no longer had a job- their understanding could only stretch so far. I no longer had an appetite, and the occasional sleep I achieved was always restless and frequently disturbed. To say I was living would be an overstatement, I was existing- but in my own personal hell. I could never have imagined being in a poorer state, until an official bombshell dared to appear in my letterbox.
I ventured from the pits of my depression that morning to clear away the numerous piles of dated newspapers that had been left to build up on my doorstep. The reason for doing this being that I did not want an overdramatic neighbour to conclude that I had died in my home- provoking an onslaught of police and ambulances and gathering onlookers. Almost blinded by my first experience of daylight in weeks, I happened to notice my mailbox was now no longer able to close due to the excess of unread mail that had been stuffed in. Flicking through bills, and junk mail and ’with deepest sympathy’ cards, I came across a letter that stood out from the rest. Marked harshly with ‘URGENT’ my heart sank when I saw the second stamp on the envelope, as clear as the pain in my heart. Right now, a young male receiving a letter from the United States Army meant just one thing. Pointlessly I opened up the envelope to retrieve the news it contained, I already knew the outcome. I had been drafted to fight overseas in the war.
♠ ♠ ♠
Here we go...Feedback= beautiful.
xo.