Isolation

I see her in here, with me. My wife. Her neck sits at a slightly crooked angle, as if someone had snapped it bare handedly, but still, I see her in here, with me, alive and beautiful as ever.

She flips her hair back and whispers something into my ear. I feel her warm breath on my cheek. I smell her perfume, but it does not smell like lilac and vanilla the way I remember, it smells like blood. I shake my head and clear my thoughts, must be my imagination. I always did have a wild imagination. I became a writer because of it. Murder mysteries had always been my specialty. She always joked that it was fortunate for her that she was so plain, or else she would wind up murdered like one of the gorgeous woman that I liked to kill off in my novels. I always told her that she was the loveliest woman I had ever seen. Those woman had nothing on her.

She laughs at a joke I said. Her laugh, I have never in my life heard a sound as beautiful and as lilting as her laugh. There is nothing in this world that I can compare it too. My only joy, the only thing I need to survive, even more than food or oxygen, is to hear that sound. Every night, I lay awake and struggle to think of new things to do, so that I can hear her laugh again. I love every bit of it, from when it is loud and piercing, to when all she can manage are little gasps, as she struggles to breathe between her giggles.

I reach out to grab her hands. I long to look into her eyes. I do not touch anything. I do not see anything. She begins to scream. I remember that scream. "Please let go of me." I want her to stay with me. I want her to be quiet. I squeeze tighter. The screams quiet down. It all rushes back to me. When did it happen? It must have been years ago. My pale, bony hands turn red, but today it is not with her blood. Today, it is with mine. My breaths are gasping, they sound so much like her's did. I remember her at her very last moment, she lay in a puddle of her own blood, her cheekbones had been stained a cherubic shade of pink. She looked so elegant, as if she was simply a fictional beauty. Was this all a dream? My hair is wet. My hands are wet. My face is wet. Moments ago, I had been struggling to breath, but now I am breathing easily. She bends down over me and her blond hair falls over her face. She smells like lilac and honey. She kisses me. I see her in here, with me, dead and beautiful as ever.