Black Paradise
This Is My Demise
The leaves of autumn crunched under my bare feet. A cooling breeze stung my rouge cheeks and caused my lavender, silk dress to flutter behind me. I carried a letter in my right hand and a shovel in my left.
18 years of pain and forgotten birthdays. 216 months of tears. 936 weeks of self-loathing. 6570 days of wondering why I can’t be normal.
The old black, Iron Gate posts towered against the violently pink setting sun. I shoved aside the unlocked chains and sauntered past the devilish gargoyles. Gray and marble gravestones protruded from the shadow infested ground. Several crows shrieked overhead and in the dying oak trees next to anonymous mausoleums.
Tiny black hairs framed my face and whipped my ears and neck. Tears clouded my vision and dragged my black eye make-up down my face. Father always said make-up made the society girls whores...
Fresh dirt lay scattered in front of a silver tomb stone directly in front of me. A chill slithered its way up my spine and a twinge of a familiar feeling swam in my stomach.
“John,” I murmured, “I miss you.” With my glove covered hands I parted two piles of dirt and read the engraved stone to myself.
“Born July 13th, 1849 to Donna and Andrew Siler. Died September 4th, 1878. Blessed father and husband.”
Husband...to a woman other than me. With hesitation, I set the letter down to my side and began to dig. Dirty flew past my face and coated my petticoats till I was practically wearing the earth.
Tears plopped into the now open grave and awakened the dead soil. The stained wood of a coffin shined in the fading sunshine as I slowly set the shovel down beside me and retrieved the letter. With a long breath, I plunged down below the surface and laid my hand atop the cold casket which contained my old love.
In a fit of rage, I pried my dirt matted gloves off and dug my fingernails into the bolted side of the coffin till the sound of splintering wood filled the thick air around me. Sweat poured from my brow and my clothes clung heavily to my skin.
Finally, the lid gave way and flung back against the grub infested earth. Dust flew around me and stung my eyes. The once dank air now reeked of death and decay, for the decomposed body of John lay before me. His once lustrous brown hair was now left in only tiny strands atop his half bone head. His blue union officers’ uniform torn to shreds by the sands of no less than a year. His face had been divided; half was merely bone and the other was pale skin tinted by death with a blue shade. His mouth lay aghast with an expression of why.
“Why am I dead?”
“Why are you here?”
“Why…why…why?”
Yet he still retained the charming qualities as he once had in life. Cautiously, I set the letter down in his boney hand and looked up at the sky. The moons half glow lit the trees from behind and the stars twinkled against the setting sun and dimming lights of the towns nearby.
I had no more of a life than a person who had died. I had no family, no morals, no love, and no intentions. I no longer have a reason to live. Suddenly, a star fell from the heavens and streaked across the sky, leaving a light blur across my vision.
“Maybe then, God, you do approve of these actions,” I whispered between tears. With a final sigh, I laid my torso against the decay and cold body of my love and cried; the lid of the casket and glimmer of the stars where the last things I remember before I entered my black paradise.
No more pain.
No more loneliness.
And so, this is my demise.
18 years of pain and forgotten birthdays. 216 months of tears. 936 weeks of self-loathing. 6570 days of wondering why I can’t be normal.
The old black, Iron Gate posts towered against the violently pink setting sun. I shoved aside the unlocked chains and sauntered past the devilish gargoyles. Gray and marble gravestones protruded from the shadow infested ground. Several crows shrieked overhead and in the dying oak trees next to anonymous mausoleums.
Tiny black hairs framed my face and whipped my ears and neck. Tears clouded my vision and dragged my black eye make-up down my face. Father always said make-up made the society girls whores...
Fresh dirt lay scattered in front of a silver tomb stone directly in front of me. A chill slithered its way up my spine and a twinge of a familiar feeling swam in my stomach.
“John,” I murmured, “I miss you.” With my glove covered hands I parted two piles of dirt and read the engraved stone to myself.
“Born July 13th, 1849 to Donna and Andrew Siler. Died September 4th, 1878. Blessed father and husband.”
Husband...to a woman other than me. With hesitation, I set the letter down to my side and began to dig. Dirty flew past my face and coated my petticoats till I was practically wearing the earth.
Tears plopped into the now open grave and awakened the dead soil. The stained wood of a coffin shined in the fading sunshine as I slowly set the shovel down beside me and retrieved the letter. With a long breath, I plunged down below the surface and laid my hand atop the cold casket which contained my old love.
In a fit of rage, I pried my dirt matted gloves off and dug my fingernails into the bolted side of the coffin till the sound of splintering wood filled the thick air around me. Sweat poured from my brow and my clothes clung heavily to my skin.
Finally, the lid gave way and flung back against the grub infested earth. Dust flew around me and stung my eyes. The once dank air now reeked of death and decay, for the decomposed body of John lay before me. His once lustrous brown hair was now left in only tiny strands atop his half bone head. His blue union officers’ uniform torn to shreds by the sands of no less than a year. His face had been divided; half was merely bone and the other was pale skin tinted by death with a blue shade. His mouth lay aghast with an expression of why.
“Why am I dead?”
“Why are you here?”
“Why…why…why?”
Yet he still retained the charming qualities as he once had in life. Cautiously, I set the letter down in his boney hand and looked up at the sky. The moons half glow lit the trees from behind and the stars twinkled against the setting sun and dimming lights of the towns nearby.
I had no more of a life than a person who had died. I had no family, no morals, no love, and no intentions. I no longer have a reason to live. Suddenly, a star fell from the heavens and streaked across the sky, leaving a light blur across my vision.
“Maybe then, God, you do approve of these actions,” I whispered between tears. With a final sigh, I laid my torso against the decay and cold body of my love and cried; the lid of the casket and glimmer of the stars where the last things I remember before I entered my black paradise.
No more pain.
No more loneliness.
And so, this is my demise.