Author's Note: Finally, the second part of the story! There will be three parts, and we all know how it will end. In this part, James decends into a slow depression and succumbs, yet again, to humanity...
From the Journal of James Sunderland, 18th August 1991
What have I done?
I woke up this morning with a burning sense of shame. At first I couldn't understand why. I lay there, head fuzzy with sleep, and tried to think back to the day before. For a while I was very confused. But then my treachery to Mary came flooding back and I groaned aloud. How could I have been so thoughtless? So stupid? I'd thrown away years of a wonderful marriage for the sake of mere sensuality. I love Mary more than anything else. She cared for me too, fiercely so.
I tried not to dwell the pleasure Genie had given me. It only created a larger sense of betrayal than before.
Guiltily, I checked myself over for remnants of the previous night. I found that my clothes (which I'd slept in) still smelled strongly of alcohol and perfume. I dragged a hand tiredly across my face. Something smeared onto my hand- shining scarlet lipstick. My heart plummeted. I went straight to the bathroom and filled the sink. With uncharacteristic violence I scrubbed myself until my skin was raw red.
Upon glancing in the mirror, I caught sight of bruising bites and scratches all over me. Genie had been a rough lover. She certainly knew how to leave her mark on a man.
I could hardly pretend she'd been a dream now.
Still, I cleaned myself up as best I could and put on fresh clothes. It was something of a relief to do so. It made me feel more real, more awake. Unfortunately, the gnawing guilt remained. I couldn't shrug it off no matter how hard I tried. Images of Genie danced inside my head. They filled my brain, tainting every thought with their perversion. I couldn't bear it. I rushed down to the kitchen and switched on the kettle, drowning out the memories with the familiar growl of boiling water. My headache slowly developed into a migraine. It was as if I was being punished for what I had done.
Moaning weakly, I laid my forehead against the cool marble of the kitchen sideboard. I was consumed with self-hatred. It hadn't been Genie's fault, not really. After all, she was only doing her job. In the end it all came down to me and my shallow needs.
A sudden voice jerked me from my misery.
"James?"
I leapt up with shock, knocking the kettle onto its side. By the time I realised that it was Mary it was far too late. She tottered into the kitchen like a human puppet, body limp and faltering. She looked terrible. Her face was drawn, corpse-like, and there was vomit all down her front. One slipper was hanging askew from her heel, causing her to trip and stumble every now and then. She looked pathetic, weak and sad. I rushed forward to help her, pushing my guilt firmly aside. For once Mary did not shy away. She clung to me, cold and clammy-fleshed. I tried not to mind. Mary was sobbing so wretchedly into my shoulder that her condition hardly mattered.
"Honey, what's wrong? What happened?" I asked, feeling genuinely worry well up inside me. I love her so much, I realised in surprise. How could I ever have treated her so badly? "Did you have a nightmare?"
At first Mary didn't answer. She simply shuddered glumly, filling my nostrils with the fug of stale urine. It hit me how much I'd been neglecting her lately. When she first became ill, I cleaned her up at least once an hour. Nowadays I did so roughly twice a week. What kind of husband was I to treat her this way? She was my wife, not some unwanted toy. But it seemed she'd become one, replaced by dreams and a seedy, back street whore.
"Oh, James," sobbed Mary. Her frail hands clutched at me feebly. "I've been so cruel. You didn't deserve those things I said to you last night. You're always so good to me. I couldn't expect more from you. Yet I tore you down and treated you like crap. I'm worthless. I know that now. You'd be better off if I was gone. I was right about that, at least. I'm doing nothing more than tying you down when you could be out having fun. I'm a nothing but a burden to you, aren't I?"
I felt my heart squeeze painfully. Swallowing my revulsion, I swept Mary up into my arms and carried her into the living room. I brushed a few porn magazines off the sofa before collapsing into it, Mary's weightless body in my lap. Her words had hit me like a physical blow. She really hadn't meant what she'd said, yet I'd taken her words literally. I'd found somebody else when she still wanted me.
Now she was crying over me and I wasn't worth even a single one of her bitter tears. Head hanging, I kissed her stale cheeks and whispered into her ear.
"I love you," I told her.
At least that was the truth. I could have slept with every woman in South Ashfield and still adored her. Mary was the only person who ever made me smile. I hated to see like this. It made me feel even worse than before.
"Oh, James, I love you too," she whispered, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. "I love you so much. I hate to make you unhappy. But I have some bad news."
"What is it, honey?"
"I think my illness is getting worse," she replied, and buried herself into my chest. I frowned. Mary was right. When I stopped to listen, I could hear her breathing rasp gutturally in her chest like a death rattle. I took her thin hands in mine, and felt that they were icy cold. Quickly, I touched the gentle dome of her forehead. Beads of cool sweat beaded her brow.
Her condition was plummeting.
Fear gripped my insides and refused to let go. I began to panic quietly. It seemed that my doubts about her lifespan may possibly be true.
I held Mary tight in my arms and rocked her like a child. I did so to comfort myself as much as her.
"Mary, I… I don't know what to say."
Her lifeless brown eyes blinked up at me, bland and empty of hope.
"Take me to hospital. Please. They can help me, give me medication. They can take care of me. You won't have to put up with me anymore. They can take me out of your hands."
"That's not what I want," I said fiercely. My eyes were prickling. I rubbed them impatiently with my knuckles; they came away wet. Tears. "You're my wife, for God's sake. I'm gonna make sure you're well if that's the last thing I do. I'll take you to hospital tomorrow- but only so that they can make you well. I can't lose you."
I was speaking the truth. The moment the threat of Mary's death cropped up, all my other concerns died away. Deep down, she meant everything. Why else would I marry her? Apart from the fact she is- was- so beautiful, she was sweet, gentle and kind. A woman in a million. How could I ever have forsaken her in the way I did?
I sat there with Mary for at least two hours, despite the fact I was running late for work, and talked with her. Eventually I had to call in and request the day off, and luckily the Boss understood. I think he heard the premature grief in my voice and pitied me. I should have been grateful, but I wasn't. I just felt hollow. Like something had taken away from me.
I still don't know what that is.
From the Journal of James Sunderland, 29th August 1991,
I took Mary to hospital today.
In a way I wish I hadn't. We could have pretended everything was going to be fine, that soon she'd be healthy again and that we could start a family. After all, I'd decided to postpone going to the hospital and take Mary for a vacation in Silent Hill. She'd enjoyed it. But her disease got steadily worse, and so this morning I did as Mary asked and drove her up to St Jerome's. It's a good hospital. We've been there several times before since it's close to my Dad's place. We like the staff, trust the drugs and generally find it quite an appealing place. And so neither of us was particularly nervous when we first went in. I'd expected the doctor to prescribe some new medication for Mary, something that worked. They'd done it plenty of times before.
However, it turned out I'd been far too optimistic. As soon as the doctor set eyes on Mary I could sense things weren't good. He shook his head and looked clinically apologetic. Then he ran a few tests on her. Mary fidgeted constantly, fussing at the collar of her starched shirt. She wasn't used to being out of her comfortable pyjamas. Ofcourse, we both knew she couldn't wear them in public, so she'd allowed me to dress her. Now, though, her anxiety was making her restless. I put my hand on her arm in an effort to calm her. To my surprise, she shrugged me off with a curt word. She had forgotten how readily she'd once clung to me.
Eventually the doctor looked up and began to give his diagnosis, sounding both regretful and business-like. Mary and I listened in shocked silence. I felt acutely nauseous. I hadn't really believed things had gotten this bad. I'd only suspected, and hoped I was wrong. Yet they had, and I hadn't even realised. I wondered despondently if her decline in health was my fault. Lately I'd been more interested in sex and drink than Mary's welfare. She had been rotting up in her room without company for weeks now. Maybe if I'd attended her more often she'd have lasted longer. I'll never know. Because as the doctor talked, it became clear to me that Mary was going to die. My body sagged in my seat. I felt oddly blank and lifeless, all traces of emotion gone. My voice was dull as I asked that terrible question.
"How long does she have?"
"Three years at most," the doctor replied. "Perhaps six months. It's impossible to say with certainty. But if she stays here, we can give her medication to ease the pain and keep her condition stable. Who knows? We may be able to prolong her life more than we expected."
He paused awkwardly.
"I apologise for bringing you both such terrible news. I'm afraid that there is very little we can do. Today's technology hasn't progressed enough to find a cure for this particular disease."
"I understand," I said bleakly. I tried to summon a smile for Mary's sake, or some warmth to my tone, but it all fell flat as crushed cardboard. I could see Mary beginning to disintegrate before my eyes. Her eyes, darkened with misery, were glittering with tears. "I guess I'll go home and get some clothes and stuff for her."
The doctor placed a hand on my shoulder, squeezing it in an attempt to console me.
"That would be a good idea, Mr. Sunderland. Meanwhile we'll get your wife settled in. I promise we'll try to make her as comfortable as we can."
"Thank you, doctor."
I went to Mary and attempted to put my arms around her. Somehow, I just couldn't do it. I ended up simply touching the skinny just of her spine and gazing at her, lost for words. I wanted to tell her I loved her, like I had when she'd first started to go downhill, but those three words jammed in my throat. I ended up apologising instead and leaving her alone. The last thing I saw was her grey, desolate face staring after me. Silent. Motionless. Empty.
When I finally arrived home, I was in pieces. I didn't know what do with myself. Without the constant presence of Mary upstairs the house felt somehow wrong. As if it was haunted. I couldn't sit down to anything, not even to eat. I had to abandon the pizza I'd ordered for myself after the first few bites. It was going cold anyway and besides, the mixture of bloody tomato and sickly yellow cheese turned my stomach. However, I still had a hollow feeling inside me I needed to fill. It didn't take long to realise what would do the job. Alcohol. I sat in the armchair with bottles lined up around me, slowly making my way through every drop of drink in the house. My head pounded as it so often did. But for once I welcomed the pain. It made me feel something, whereas before I had been numb and cold.
Some hours later the last bottle slipped through my fingers and smashed on the floor, spilling its contents onto the carpet. I didn't bother to retrieve it. I just sat there, staring across the room at the TV. There a steady buzz of static on screen, constant, ceaseless, crackling to fill the silence of the room. I could see my own face reflected in it. I looked tired and strained. My eyes were shadowed and blood shot. It was obvious that I needed sleep, but I couldn't. I was afraid of the dreams I might have if I did. Anyway, the emptiness inside me was still there.
I clambered abruptly to my feet, kicking the drained alcohol away from me. Swaying unsteadily, I crossed to the phonebook and flicked through the listings. My eye fell upon two words under the J section. Jasmine's Joint. The club I had visited two weeks ago. My lips tightened. My fingers bumped clumsily against the letters on the page, tracing them over and over. There were numbers there too. I could call them. It was late, yes, but by now the place would be in full swing. It would be easy to ask them to send someone round to my house. It would take mere minutes…
Mary, I thought miserably. I'd betrayed her once before. How could I do it again?
I thought back to out last trip to Silent Hill. We'd made love there- but I hadn't enjoyed it. With every thrust I could feel her bones jabbing against me, and I was afraid that if I pushed her too hard she'd break. She was too fragile for me. Afterwards, she'd curled up into a ball and sobbed muffled apologies repeatedly into the pillow. Then she'd coughed, coughed till blood flecked her lips…
The phone slammed against my ear.
I'm sorry Mary.
"Hi, my name is James Sunderland. I was wondering if you could send somebody to see me at my place. Yes, I understand. Ofcourse not. Alright."
I can't live without this.
"Well, there is one girl. I saw her last time. Her name was Genie."
Don't hate me.
"I'll be waiting."
Please…
Forgive me.
