Status: In progress.
The World's Name
Chapter Three
I stayed quiet for a long time, about a lot of things. I never told anyone about the phone calls we used to get a two in the morning. The ones that she thought I didn’t know about. The phone calls that scared her; after she got one she would sit in the ratty armchair in the corner of our bedroom until morning and just watch the window. She would look terrified, as though someone was going to snatch her where she sat. They questioned me for a long time. There are still people here that think I tossed her over the guardrail. They asked me if I knew why she would want to kill herself, if she had gotten herself into something and she couldn’t see a way out, if she seemed distant, depressed, suicidal. I told them I had no idea why she jumped. I knew it had something to do with those damn phone calls though.
I never told anyone when I left.
I woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. I had seen her. Rose. Mangled, screaming out for help, writhing in pain. She was standing against cold steel; I felt the shivers as they trickled up and down her spine. Restrains dampened with her blood as they tore into her wrists. Her hair was matted with dirt and blood, leaves clung to the knots. Her head was hanging down and the only things that told me she was alive were her sharp breaths through gritted teeth and the hurried rise and fall of her chest. She looked broken. Her left shin was askew from the rest of her leg, as if someone had stomped on it and then twisted the heel of their boot to rip the bone apart. She dragged her head up; her lip was split, crusted in blood. A dark figured converged on her. I never realized how much a person can bleed with out dying until I saw her then.
I had had dreams of her before, but none like this one. In the others she was smiling, happy. Sometimes she was nine months pregnant with the child I had always dreamed of having with her, sometimes she was sitting in her chair reading a book aloud about fairytale creatures and adventures, sometimes she was just walking down the street not acknowledging me, not even knowing I existed, but she was alive and that’s all that mattered. In the others, she was safe, protected and glowing. In this one she was none of those things. She was dark, clouded and murky. In this one she was real.
I didn’t wait until morning to leave. I just packed a backpack and left. There wasn’t much to leave behind; the only thing that was left that mattered was her armchair. She loved that thing. It looked as if it had once been a grand chair that belonged in only in the finest of libraries, but over the years it had deteriorated. It was her most prized possession, she never said that out loud, but I could tell. When she would get home after work she would greet the chair as if it was an old friend. Her fingers would drift across the musty green fabric as if she had been far away from home for a long time and had only just returned.
I angled myself away from the chair, leaving it behind felt like a betrayal, it felt like losing her all over again. I packed in silence the chair glaring holes in my back, screaming at me to stay or to bring it along.
“You know I can’t.” I whispered angrily to the chair. To the darkness. To my own self doubt.
“Can’t what?” A deep voice questioned from behind me. I whipped around as the voice slid into the chair. “You can’t what?” It asked again. I was completely frozen. Just moments ago I was a man of action, a man ready to do anything to save her. Now that I was actually confronted with someone or something I couldn’t get myself to do anything. A lot of people called me a coward after she died. They told me I should have done something, I should have saved her. I always took comfort in the fact that I knew I couldn’t have actually done anything; that Rose was stubborn enough that if she had wanted to die, she would have, whether or not I said or did anything. In this moment I knew they were all right, I was a coward and I couldn’t do anything.
“…I can’t do anything…” I whispered mostly to myself but also to the man seated comfortably in Rose’s chair. The man stiffened for a moment and then relaxed again and let out a short burst of laughter.
“I’m not so sure that’s true.”
I never told anyone when I left.
I woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. I had seen her. Rose. Mangled, screaming out for help, writhing in pain. She was standing against cold steel; I felt the shivers as they trickled up and down her spine. Restrains dampened with her blood as they tore into her wrists. Her hair was matted with dirt and blood, leaves clung to the knots. Her head was hanging down and the only things that told me she was alive were her sharp breaths through gritted teeth and the hurried rise and fall of her chest. She looked broken. Her left shin was askew from the rest of her leg, as if someone had stomped on it and then twisted the heel of their boot to rip the bone apart. She dragged her head up; her lip was split, crusted in blood. A dark figured converged on her. I never realized how much a person can bleed with out dying until I saw her then.
I had had dreams of her before, but none like this one. In the others she was smiling, happy. Sometimes she was nine months pregnant with the child I had always dreamed of having with her, sometimes she was sitting in her chair reading a book aloud about fairytale creatures and adventures, sometimes she was just walking down the street not acknowledging me, not even knowing I existed, but she was alive and that’s all that mattered. In the others, she was safe, protected and glowing. In this one she was none of those things. She was dark, clouded and murky. In this one she was real.
I didn’t wait until morning to leave. I just packed a backpack and left. There wasn’t much to leave behind; the only thing that was left that mattered was her armchair. She loved that thing. It looked as if it had once been a grand chair that belonged in only in the finest of libraries, but over the years it had deteriorated. It was her most prized possession, she never said that out loud, but I could tell. When she would get home after work she would greet the chair as if it was an old friend. Her fingers would drift across the musty green fabric as if she had been far away from home for a long time and had only just returned.
I angled myself away from the chair, leaving it behind felt like a betrayal, it felt like losing her all over again. I packed in silence the chair glaring holes in my back, screaming at me to stay or to bring it along.
“You know I can’t.” I whispered angrily to the chair. To the darkness. To my own self doubt.
“Can’t what?” A deep voice questioned from behind me. I whipped around as the voice slid into the chair. “You can’t what?” It asked again. I was completely frozen. Just moments ago I was a man of action, a man ready to do anything to save her. Now that I was actually confronted with someone or something I couldn’t get myself to do anything. A lot of people called me a coward after she died. They told me I should have done something, I should have saved her. I always took comfort in the fact that I knew I couldn’t have actually done anything; that Rose was stubborn enough that if she had wanted to die, she would have, whether or not I said or did anything. In this moment I knew they were all right, I was a coward and I couldn’t do anything.
“…I can’t do anything…” I whispered mostly to myself but also to the man seated comfortably in Rose’s chair. The man stiffened for a moment and then relaxed again and let out a short burst of laughter.
“I’m not so sure that’s true.”