Black and bleak was the world around him, the darkest hour as always just before dawn. He had tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes images from what had passed the previous evening closed in on him, and thus sleep had eluded him.
Not that he fared much better now with his eyes open, but at least then he were only subjected to the audio version, which was much easier to deal with, even if her voice gave rise to an indefinite number of nagging grinding thoughts and questions that he could neither will himself to let go of, nor figure out a reasonable answer to.
He lit a small candle on the bedstand, as if, in a small way, challenging the shadows of his mind as well as those occupying the factual world outside of his head, to disperse at this the faintest hint of light.
She had said that she loved him. Her tear stained face as she had spoken the words, the words that now tormented him, was so clear to him that it was impossible to push the image away, even now with his eyes open. He blamed the whiskey for that, but he had needed it to steady himself after her revelation, and in the long hours that had followed that event.
She had claimed to love him and confessed that she had done so for a long time without realising it. Was it true? Could he really believe this statement? And if so, the inevitable question presented itself, should he kick himself hard for not having dared declare himself earlier, when there would still have been some gain from it? When would have been the right time for such declaration?
He knew not what to believe, his heart was blackened by the scorching fires of loss and longing, to the extent that he couldn't see the world clearly. So truth be told, no matter if he believed her or not he couldn't do anything about it now. He was simply too tired and worn out by life.
Still a little voice in the very back of his mind kept nagging him.
He felt like a person being presented with temptation that he knows that he ought to resist, an angel at one ear telling him of the safe comfortable path, while the tempestuous daring devil whispers words of encouragement to proceed along the unknown path. Toward destruction? Toward salvation? Not that the choice to live with her or leave her could be compared with a dilemma of choosing between sin and salvation, at least not in the biblical sense. Or perhaps, if in the biblical sense – to leave her, would definitely not be the path of the angel. Turn the other cheek, as the saying goes remember?
Well never mind, he didn't set much store by being found righteous by biblical standards anyway, but even so the dilemma resonated deeply within him – and the insistent devil kept encouraging him to explore the what if.
What if she truly, finally had fallen in love with him and now loved him as much as she had just proclaimed with her heart wrenchingly sorrowful yet beautiful face wet from all the tears she had spilled and her striking green eyes so full of sincerity – was his love for her really so dead and gone, that he saw no possibility but to leave her? That he could claim himself utterly unmoved by her sorrow to such an extent that he could leave her to deal with it on her own?
In addition, he couldn't let go of that nagging question, when – at exactly which point in their life together – would an honest confession of love from his side have resulted in not a thwarting remark and cruel actions from her side, but in a response of love? At what time could he have put the brakes on their ride of misery and turned the cart down a sunnier path?
Damn her, damn her, damn her. As always. He didn't know why he even bothered to have yet another night's sleep disturbed by that vixen he had married.
His head was a mess.
Oh how calm and simple it would all be now, if she had just held on to her love for the honourable wool headed woodman for at least another day. He shuddered at the thought at how few the hours were between his easy escape and this his current position. Then he would have been out of harms way, he would have finally been free, free to seal of the corners of his heart where possibly the fragile remains of all his love for her lingered still.
Quite possibly he would also already be on his way across the ocean to a continent where she could not reach him – Europe.
Europe – he sighed, how he had dreamed of that place. A place where no one knew him, or more importantly didn't know his story. And so no one would shower him with either pity for his recent dear, dear loss, or cast him glances of distaste for past behaviour, or treat him with that all destroying carelessness that had been his wife's trademark.
It had seemed like such an obvious thing to go there, a place where very little if anything would remind him of her and what he had lost. A place where true beauty and gentility still reigned. He needed those things desperately, beauty with no strings attached. Europe had also been scarred by wars – but still the monarchies persisted, and peace and quiet could be found by those in need.
He sighed and drove his hands through his hair, letting them rest there for a moment, hoping that perhaps by doing so he could remove the memories of these past years, leaving him a clean slate to rewrite his story on.
He sighed again, remembering another night, albeit blurred, where he had thought of this action, though then it was directed at a different head on which his hands were clamped.
Not for the first time he wondered if he could ever truly revert to his old self? Or had too much happened, had he lived in the puddle of misery for too long to heal properly? He hoped not, this constant feeling of sorrow and loss were driving him insane. If indeed he had not already gone mad, he wasn't too sure.
When he looked in the mirror, the face that returned his gaze was something he could no longer recognise. He had secretly always been quite proud of his looks, he knew he had been handsome, but the facial features that had made him so had lost their edge, and his skin had lost its tanned glow. He had never felt old before, and now he felt the entire weight of the world on his shoulders, and in every line of his face. All the sorrow and hurt that was present in this world, hell in this town alone was enough to do the trick. So many unhappy souls living within the confines of the city limit. existing, breathing, exuding sadness that was now clinging to him, clogging him, like dust on a sweaty body. Its weigth sagged him down, crippled him, and suffocated him, and the will to live that had always made him bounce back whenever life had dealt him a blow. But after that terrible, terrible accident, something had changed and for the last many months every week that had passed had added a year to his age, and the result was that now he felt old – not old, as in old and wise – but old as decrepit, tired and bitter at the world.
The only time he could find some respite was when he had enjoyed a bottle or two of the finest whiskey that money could buy, and even that cure seemed to have lost some of it's sparkle. He had never before been drinking to drown out the world, as he now did – it would surely kill him to continue this way, the worried glances of the one person who he had always known to care, and her girls told him as much. She who was shunned by the world was, he sometimes felt, the only one who saw it clearly.
Not that he cared, he'd rather be dead than feeling like this, empty and bitter, with nothing to look forward to. Surely death could not be worse. At least then it would be over.
He slumped back into his seat.
His body ached not from exercise, but merely from existing, from the shere effort of being forced to go on living without any real hope of ever being better.
How could he have done this to himself, how could she have done this to him?
It felt easier to simply blame her, but this latest confession of hers had revealed to him that he was not without fault. A fact he had long forgotten, chosen to ignore or simply not cared to notice. She had after all been living in this hell as well, and even if she had not deteriorated as low as him, she had also suffered. He had to admit as much to himself. He hadn't exactly been trying to make life easy for her as of late. As of late meaning – argh – he didn't care to remember for how long this hostile war had been going on.
How blind they had both been. He reluctantly admitted to himself, that he also bore some of the blame.
The mere thought of what could have been, only made him feel more tired, though a faint echo of the joy he would once have felt still reverberated through his worn out body. How treacherous love could be, unwilling to die even when trampled thoroughly.
The question popped up again.
Was he doing the right thing by going away? Would running into hiding in Charleston really solve anything? Especially now that she had confessed her love? Had his heart really hardened so much that hearing the words he had wished for, for so long could not melt it? Had he really believed that himself, even as he had tried to convince her of that fact? Could he heal without her help?