***Disclaimer and Warning: The above picture is a piece of artwork entitled "Birthmachine" by HR Giger. I thought I should note that first. SECOND... this is an unusual piece of work for me. I wrote it for a picture prompt contest (and won first place actually...) but the picture had to be one of HR Giger's artwork. IF YOU DO NOT LIKE SAD/DEPRESSING/DARK PIECES OF LITERATURE, DO NOT READ THIS POST. Otherwise, enjoy a walk on the darker side of life.
Valentine's Day Gift
I couldn’t take it anymore. It had been four months now since the accident had happened. Jason had been on the job—just a normal day at work. Nobody had seen it coming when the crane malfunctioned and dropped the load of steel beams right on top of Jason’s head. Paramedics pronounced him dead at the scene. Everyone assumed he was dead before the ambulance even arrived as bloody beams were moved aside in an attempt to locate the man beneath the pile of metal.
And by the time I knew about any of this, all I could do was leave work and go to some stark, hollow building in some town and identify what was left of my husband’s torn and broken body.
Falling to my knees at the bathroom counter where I was standing, the weight of the memory of Jason’s death hung heavily over my shoulders, still four months later, pulling me closer to the floor. I leaned my forehead against the edge of the porcelain sink pedestal as if I could press the images out of my mind and make them stop. The smooth, cool surface mixed with the cold plane of my forehead as I stared blankly at the pedestal holding up the sink, noticing a slight drip forming around one of the pipes near the wall. ‘Jason could have fixed that. He was really handy around the house,’ I thought to myself, my eyes burning and heat flooding into my cheeks suddenly. “Dammit!” I screamed out loud. ‘When is it supposed to stop hurting?!?’ I thought to myself, fighting back the tears that were all too familiar to me these days.
I pulled myself heavily to my feet once more and hesitated for a minute before meeting my own gaze in the mirror. I never liked the person who looked back at me anymore. Jason’s wife used to be beautiful, but not now. This widow—I cringed at the word—this empty shell of a woman left over after his death was little more than a used up wraith of a wasteland now. My unkempt hair hung in my face unheeded and un-brushed. I couldn’t bear to cut my hair short though—even if it would be easier to take care of. Jason loved my long hair and he wouldn’t approve if I cut it now, even if he was gone forever.
With a quivering hand, I reached for the mirror and pulled open the latch. ‘How much my medicine cabinet has changed these last few months,’ I thought to myself. Instead of contraceptives I had anti-anxiety pills. Instead of massage oils I had pain killers. Rather than a steady supply of make-up I kept a constant supply of Ambien.
I reached for my Ambien bottle now. It was the middle of the day but I didn’t care. I didn’t have any intention of sleeping but if sleep came to me, it didn’t matter. ‘Who cares.’ I didn’t ask myself—more like stated. Nothing mattered anymore. Placing the pill on the tip of my tongue, I curled it back in my mouth and swallowed it like it was a jelly bean. I didn’t need a glass of water to take my pills anymore these days. I swallowed pills so often that going to the kitchen for a glass of water had become an inconvenience.
Noticing my hands were cold, I flipped on the hot water faucet and thrust my hands under the running water and let the fire turn the tingling in my numb hands to life. I wanted to feel SOMETHING. ANYTHING. I leaned my fore-arms against the edge of the cool sink edge and hung my head over, hands still in the hot, steaming water… just waiting. The tingling turned slowly into a gentle warm feeling trickling up my wrists and gradually I let my thoughts drift off to those cold winter nights when Jason and I would snuggle in bed with the heavy jean quilt tucked tightly around both of us. He would always say, “Hunny! Your feet are so warm!” But of course, my feet were ice-cold and I had only put my feet next to his to steal some of his warmth. He never once complained about my using him as my personal space heater. He would snuggle up against me all night long with his arms wrapped so tight around me and I never had to worry about staying warm on a cold frosty night. Now that was gone and I was reduced to using secondary heat. But it was never enough, and it never lasted for long. ‘It’s not even winter and I can’t get warm,’ I thought disgustedly.
Noticing the condensation build on the mirror in front of my face, I realized I couldn’t feel my hands anymore. Yanking my hands from the running water I switched off the faucet and dried my hands quickly, trying not to think about what I’d just been doing—scalding my hands. And for what? I just wanted to think about nothing. Was that really too much to ask?
I had too much time on my hands now. Maybe that was my problem. I had tried to work since the accident. I thought it would help me get over Jason’s death and move on with my life, better than just sitting around doing nothing.
Jason and I had been married for five years but we had no children in that time. We had been trying, but with no success until about three months before his accident. Then, two weeks after Jason’s death, the wrenching pain in my heart split in half, and that broken piece moved to a stabbing pain my abdomen and I realized that the precious life that Jason and I had so desperately fought to create was slipping away from me. I couldn’t have Jason with me and now I couldn’t even keep our child alive.
I didn’t have anything else to live for when I lost the one chance I had left of keeping a part of Jason with me in our child.
When the insurance man told me excitedly that I had been awarded over three million dollars for my husband’s death from the various life insurance policies and worker’s compensation claims, etcetera, the zeros on the page in front of me blurred into a bloody vision that just made me want to punch the insurance messenger in the nose and scream, “I just lost my husband and I will never get him back! How could you be so HAPPY about this?!?” At that point, I couldn’t focus on anything long enough at work to keep my eyes dry anymore. So I decided I’d better take an extended leave of absence and make some use out of the three million dollars.
“You are so weak,” I accused myself suddenly, my eyes whipping up from their fallen state at the bottom of the sink bowl. I glared into the mirror. The bloodshot eyes glared back at me, unwavering, and unwilling to give sway. “You take all these pills, you see a shrink, and still, you can’t get over this,” I pointed into the mirror at the culprit, my teeth clenched tightly together.
I couldn’t stand to look myself anymore. Not like that. Not with those accusing eyes. I turned and started to leave the bathroom. But as I neared the door, and without another moment’s warning, I let a scream rip through my teeth as I grabbed hold of the chair sitting there beneath the light switch and hurled it at the glass. Instantly rewarded with sparkling shards raining down over the pedestal sink and onto the tile floor, I let a few huffs of air course through me as I examined my handiwork. Chair fallen heedlessly to the floor, mirrored shards sprinkling the sink and surrounding tile, and one vanity mirror door hanging off its hinges, almost ready to fall to the floor itself. I turned around and left the room.
I moved down the hallway and I let the tears start to stream down my face. They weren’t tears for my broken mirror. Nor for the mess in the bathroom or my cold hands or the frightful ruckus I had just made. It wasn’t even for the startling scene I had just caused or the idea that Jason might have been looking down on me from whatever after-life he could have gone to and seen me at that very moment and witnessed my mental breakdown. I simply couldn’t take it anymore. “Jason, where are you when I need you?!?” I called aloud to the nothingness that filled my house now, left vacant for four months now. My soul wasn’t attached to my body anymore. It had left with Jason. I was just a hollow shell, walking from room to room in a pretense of life.
Absently flipping on the stereo in the front room, I turned up the volume so the sound would fill the house and drown out all other ambient noise. The silence was killing me, and I didn’t want to listen to it anymore so I let the radio tell me what to listen to as rock music filled the room and flooded down the hallway.
As I passed the empty bedroom on the main floor, I realized I hadn’t opened that door in quite some time. I pushed the door open and stepped inside, padding across the floor and sitting down in the huge leather arm chair in the corner—Jason’s hunting room. It was filled to the brim with his hunting trophies and his trinkets. The closet, hung slightly ajar, was stuffed with his hunting gear and camouflage clothing and other accessories. A large gun safe stood in the corner of the room. I strolled over to it and automatically dialed the preset numbers on the lock—they were permanently ingrained in my memory. As I swung the heavy door open, a whoosh of stale air hit my face and I saw the glint of hard steel deep in the dark recesses of the padded gun safe.
One by one, I withdrew the weapons, placing each one on the floor. As I handled each gun, I checked each chamber, checking to see if it was loaded. Cocking back the bolt-action on the .270 Ruger—there was no bullet. Pumping the 870 Express, I found no shells. The muzzle loader riffle was empty of course. Jason always took good care of his guns. I found the 7mm Savage still had mud splatters on it from Jason’s tramp through the woods on his last hunting trip. Checking to assure it was empty, I set it aside, promising myself I would clean that one before putting it away. Digging deeper into the gun-safe I pulled out the AR-15 and noticed a spot of rust forming on the barrel. ‘Must have gotten wet last time it was out and never got dry when Jason put it away,’ I thought to myself, methodically checking if it was loaded and setting it on the floor next to the 7mm for cleaning.
I noticed the song on the radio that was playing, words drifting into the room. “… I’d give it all away just to have somewhere to go to… give it all away… to have someone to come home to. This is my December…”
Letting the words fade out in my mind, I quickly grabbed the gun cleaning case from the back of the gun safe and busied myself with cleaning the guns—all of them. I didn’t care if they needed cleaning or not. They were getting a full-on cleaning and oiling. I couldn’t concentrate enough on my laborious task. The words on the radio had shocked me into life. They hit home—a little too close. A little too real.
For a while, I was consumed with the task at hand. Only when the metal brush grated against the skin of my finger and I saw the red blood flash across the steel surface of the .38 Special Revolver—only then did I notice that my hands were torn raw in several places from my extensive and careless gun-cleaning venture.
With shaking hands, I set down the pistol and wire brush and clasped my hands together one way, and then the other. I bit my lower lip and tried to concentrate on something—anything.
From the hallway: “… Here’s to the nights we felt alive. Here’s to the tears you knew you’d cry. Here’s to goodbye, tomorrow’s gonna come too soon…”
I bent over and thrust my fists into my eyes in frustration. Images I didn’t want to think about or feel were coming at me too fast, and I wasn’t ready for it. Tears escaped my carefully contained control, trickling down my cheeks. Jason was there in my mind, the last night we had together before his accident—the last time we’d slept together. The last time he’d held me in his arms. The last time he’d kissed me and said ‘I love you.’ The last time I kissed him and told him how I couldn’t ever live without him.
I should have learned my lesson. I should have been able to pull myself up off that floor and just turned off that damn radio. But I couldn’t find the strength to do it. I couldn’t turn off the noise making my mind understand the words all too clearly. “… Oh yeah, we meet again… it’s like we never left… time in between was just a dream… did we leave this place? This crazy fog surrounds me, you wrap your legs around me, all I can do to try and breathe… let me breathe…”
It was like the radio was playing a sound track of how I felt—how I wanted to feel with Jason all over again. Every song that played couldn’t explain more clearly how I felt at that very moment. I couldn’t escape it no matter how much I drowned myself in something as mundane and mindless as cleaning Jason’s guns—something that I had always enjoyed—even described as “relaxing” in my previous life. I couldn’t even numb myself with pills anymore.
I managed to pull myself upright on the floor again. ‘Go back to cleaning the guns.’ I ordered myself. As I continued my task, I listened to the songs as they continued to play, echoing down the hallway. “… I never thought I’d die alone. I laughed the loudest who’d have known. I traced the cord back to the wall, no wonder it was never plugged in at all. I took my time, I hurried up. The choice was mine, I didn’t think enough. I’m too depressed to go on. You’ll be sorry when I’m gone… I never thought I’d die alone. Another six months I’ll be unknown…”
As I picked up Jason’s .45mm Springfield XD pistol I realized I hadn’t checked that one for bullets yet. It had been on the top shelf of the gun safe to the side and I had pulled it out last in my haste as I had snatched the gun cleaning supplies out of the safe when “My December” had started playing on the radio. Releasing the clip, I realized it was fully loaded. Of course. This was Jason’s conceal-carry gun. He usually carried it on him and he always kept it loaded for safety and protection purposes. It had a full clip of hollow-point bullets in it, and one in the chamber.
Hollow-points. Good for one thing and one thing only—like miniature soldiers of death, they are made to kill—nothing else. I remembered giving Jason this gun for Valentine’s Day the year after we got married. He had always complained about his .9mm conceal-carry gun falling out of its holster and wanting a better gun, etc. etc. I bought him this gun and he had loved it. He bragged about me for months and all of his friends were jealous of me and all of his friends’ wives were mad at me for making them look bad for not buying their husbands such cool toys for Valentine’s Day. I laughed quietly to myself at the memory.
Just then, I realized the radio was playing another Linkin Park song. “… And the clouds above move closer, looking so dissatisfied. And the ground below grew colder as they put you down inside. But the heartless wind kept blowing, blowing… So now you’re gone, and I was wrong, I never knew what it was like, to be alone… on a Valentine’s Day…”
Holding Jason’s Valentine’s Day gun in my right hand, I thought, ‘How ironic.’ Gently fingering the trigger, squeezing the only safety mechanism at the back side of the grip with the palm of my hand, I pressed the end of the barrel to the side of my head and closed my eyes. ‘Jason, I’m so sorry, Sweetheart. I couldn’t do this without you anymore. Please forgive me.’
