It Took the Death of Hope to Let You Go

In the reflection of the window glass pane her face seemed to morph; the rain belting down heavily against the small white wash house created the illusion of melting skin. Her cheek appeared to droop into her mouth; her lips turned down, running through and past her chin. Her icy eyes dare not blink, but pierce the glass instead, the line of sight burning into the empty street outside. For hours she would sit like that, wrapped in a thick white shrug – all she would register was her face melting and the lack of his presence in her sphere.

The children that ventured away from their video games and into the street knew her as the white witch, for her skin was as pale as snow and her hair riddled with tangles and knots. Sometimes their dares took them to her window, a tap of a stick on the glass or a pulled face in her direction. But she never noticed, never blinked, never moved. They did not register in her mind; she would have no care for them if they did. She only searched for him.

The whispers in the back of her frazzled mind told her he was never coming home. Over and over they would taunt. He doesn’t love you. He doesn’t want you. He doesn’t care. In time she came to accept them like a background buzz, believe them to the point that their taunts meant nothing, because to her they were already the truth.

Once every hour that she sat in that window, she would place her right hand on top of her left hand and let her fingers nimbly trace over the ring on her finger. One, two, he loves you. Then her hands would part and she would rewind into her frozen state.

At exactly one in the afternoon she would stand up, her body crying out from the sudden, unusual movement. Dragging her feet along the cool floorboards, she would walk into her room and stop by the end of the bed. Her arms would straighten by her side, her body would go ridged.

Then she would scream.

That, the children would say, was when she was killing her next victim, her next meal. The scream was blood curdling, full of pain, malice and deceit. Her body would remain straight and ridged as it roared out of her, but her head would be thrown back.

Thirty exact seconds and then it was over.

Her head would move back into position and her body would relax. As she would turn to go back to her window, one single tear would fall from her eye and drop to the floor. One tear, one scream.

At night when she found herself laying down to sleep, she was more lucid. Sometimes she could even bring herself to say her own name and recognise it. Out loud she would whisper:

Caroline

Caroline

Caroline

Corey

NO!

Her body would jolt; throw her from side to side.

NO!

She would curl up, grab her hair and pull. She would keep pulling until she forgot his name once more and all she was left with was the voices taunting. He doesn’t love you. He doesn’t care.

He doesn’t love me. He doesn’t care.

Some days she would look down at her hands and find them coated in red. She never knew how it got there or where it came from, but she just accepted its existence and life would go on. Life always went on. Day in day, day out her routine never changed. For all she knew, for all she recognised, there was no routine; this was just how existing was.

Out on the street some mothers stood watching their children play. Back and forth the children ran, chasing each other and squealing in delight. The mother’s enjoyed watching their children, but an ominous threat grew in the distance, just across the way.

She always just sits there.

I heard he cheated.

I heard she went mad.

Only after the accident.

They would gossip back and forth. They always ensured their children were in before dark, just in case there was more to that frozen woman that sat across the street, just in case she sat there watching their children in delight.

She never left her house though, hadn’t in years. Lost in muddled memories there were recollections of being told she needed sunlight, vitamin D. In there were memories of a lot of things she couldn’t actually recall. Tattered, flashing images of a man on his knee. Scattered, scarred feelings of waiting and loneliness.

Sometimes she would gasp; a blinding light would boom across her staring eyes. Her ear would twitch with the reminiscence of metal twisting and colliding. She never knew what it meant, never cared to think anymore. The shock would wear off and she would return to just sitting, unthinking.

Questions about life around her were never thought of or asked by her. She never wondered how the grass stayed cut, how the house was kept clean or how she ended up in bed at night. Life was just flashes of here and there.

Every day he wished that she would ask.

Putting her to bed was the hardest, sometimes she seemed on the verge of recognition. Then her eyes would glaze over and he would sigh, leave her to sleep to the tunes of black abyss. No one knew why she couldn’t connect with the world around her, remember what was happening or even recognise that it happened.

He blamed himself.

Every day he blamed himself.

She was once beautiful, more gorgeous than he could ever fathom. Coming home from tour was pure joy. Her smile use to light up the room, her very presence would draw everyone in.

He found life the harshest when she smashed mirrors, he knew she never knew what she did; he hated seeing her bleed for the sake of hated reflection. At one when she would scream, he would be prepared in his room and hold his hands to his ears. It tore him apart every single time.

He knew it was his fault.

He would always put a white throw around her, to make sure she was warm. Sometimes he made believe that everything was fine and sat next to her, just talking. It never lasted long though, the scene before him was too depressing. He knew she was sitting there waiting for him to come home, like some horrible time loop she was stuck waiting, lonely, believing he had abandoned her.

He had in a way.

Well, the alcohol had.

The night her sanity ceased to exist was the last time he had put liquor to his lips. Liquor had caused all of this. The bar, the beer, the girl he can’t remember.

Then she came home and saw everything.

He had shouted after her reversing car, but she’d ignored him. It still feels like scissors running up and down his spine when he thinks of it. His one wish in life was that that night never happened, or at the very least that she could remember him.

Hate was better than undying love.

If she hated him, at least it would only hurt him; at least she could still live her life. Existence was not living.

You’re doing the right thing.

They said when they turned up at his door. He didn’t think so, he was still unsure, but hope was gone now. Their white coats flapped behind them, a storm was brewing; a storm he felt was concocted from the events about to occur.

They took one of her arms each, pulling her to her feet. His insides lurched as he watched her still stare out the window; still not recognise what was happening.

When they pulled it was different.

Something seemed to click, perhaps a different touch; perhaps somewhere in there she knew this wasn’t normal, this was different to every day. They dragged her slowly to the door; her legs only ever supported her once a day at one.

As her feet clicked over the threshold she seemed to know. She screamed.

He’s coming back.

He’s coming back for me.

He loves me, he loves me.

Don’t take me from here he loves me.

She wept, he hadn’t seen her weep in years; but the tears cascaded down her cheeks. He collapsed on the porch and cried hopelessly.

They drove her away in an ambulance that day; the white witch of the street was gone. She never returned to that house or to him; and he never left it again.