The Conductor

I woke up to the sun shining in my eyes; there was a strong scent of alcohol in the air and a disgusting taste of bile in my mouth.

My face was resting against something hard – the wooden desk.
I’ve drunken myself to sleep again, trying to forget the memories that haunt me.

What a miserable way to live.

I slowly sat up, only to hunch over and rest my head in my hands.

It has been two years now. I should have moved on by now.

“But it was not their time…!”

Elizabeth was pregnant with our child for eight months – it couldn’t have been their time.

I tugged at my hair, the image of her bare corpse lying in our bed appearing inside of my head.

Blood.
So much blood.

“It wasn’t her time…”

I slowly stood up from the chair, making my way to the bathroom – brush my teeth and splash water onto my face.

I stare at the man before me in the mirror.

Tired eyes with dark circles under them.
A short, but scruffy beard that needs to be managed.

Short brown hair, a disheveled mess.
A tall, lanky figure – probably due to lack of proper consumption.

I walked back into the bedroom, undressing from yesterday’s outfit and dressing into a new one.
I made my way downstairs, taking out my toolbox from the drawer and laying out all of my supplies for the day.

Arms.
Legs.

Hands.
Feet.

Torso.
Neck.
Head.

“Connect with the screws…”

Nose.
Mouth.
Lips.
Eyes.

“Carve and paint…”

Hair.
Clothes.

“Sew, stitch, and glue…”

Strings.

“Another final product.”

And repeat.

What a miserable way to live.

| x | x | x |

I closed up shop and made my way upstairs, undoing my tie before I tossed it to the floor.
I unbuttoned the first three buttons of my shirt and sat down at my desk.

I reached for the flask, but stopped, remembering how it was empty from last night’s frantic consumption.

I would have to face my memories sober tonight.

“I’m not ready for that…not again…”

I decided to attempt occupying my mind by cleaning up the papers and books that were scattered on the floor.

It wasn’t enough.

Tears started mixing with the papers, washing away some words that were written in ink.

Wrists tied to the posts of the bed.

So much blood.
So much blood.

Pouring from her lips, her throat.

Soaking her entrails and our unborn child.

I collapsed to the floor, crumbling the last pieces of paper from the floor into my hands.
My body ached as I let out heart-wrenching sobs.

So painful.

So lonely.

I slowly brought myself to sit up, wiping the tears from my eyes – a saw a small book lying near me.
I reached for it and picked it up, dusting off the cover.

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley.

It must have been Elizabeth’s.

I opened it, scanning through the first couple of pages until I found myself reading past the letters and through the first couple of chapters.

By the time I reached the fourth chapter, sleep had overtaken me.