Unspoken Words

I was working when the call came through–the defining call of what would become of my life. The last words I would ever hear her speak. The last time I would ever have a chance to talk with the woman I love with my entire being and soul. And I couldn’t answer.

She knew this, of course–that I can’t answer the phone at work when we’re on the job. It’s shit work, yes. But us working class folks don’t have the choice for much more. We were happy, though, my wife and I.

We didn’t have an extravagant lifestyle. But it was ours. Ours, together. And with her in my arms, I didn’t care about luxury or status. She was everything to me. And, though I always struggled to believe it, as she told it, sincerely, and truly: I was her whole world too.

Ever since the very moment we confessed our feelings to one another, I knew…I knew that this was real–that no one before could ever compare to how she made me feel. And I could see in her beautiful, big, blue eyes, she felt the same.

‘I thought that love would last forever…’

‘I was wrong…’

I smiled, of course–I always did, when I saw her name pop up on my screen. Just the nature of that magical feeling. Just the nature of how even her name could ignite the fire within. But I was elbow deep in industrial machinery at the time, only freeing up my left hand for long enough to see who inspired my pocket to vibrate.

I knew it would be her, of course–she always called me when she would get home from her job, just to check in, even when she knew I couldn’t answer. Had I noticed the time–a good twenty minutes prior to when she would normally call after the return commute, I might have been more alarmed.

As it was, we had been plugging away on that stubborn hunk of outdated junk for the past three hours at least. Time had become a blur at best. Yeah. It feels like an excuse to me too–something with which I would struggle a great deal over the coming months.

From that first handful of words when I played back the message she left, I felt every single muscle tense. But it wasn’t until I listened to its entirety that I allowed the phone to slip from my fingers, collapsing to my knees alongside the discarded device seconds later.

“Hey, love,” the message began, her voice strained and stuttered, “I’m…I’m gonna need you to be brave, okay? This…I think…I’m so sorry, baby…but I think, this is where I must leave you…”

I could hear the cracking in her voice, immediately inspiring my eyes to spill over. Within those few words, I knew what had happened, or had a reasonable idea, anyway. But my mind and heart struggled to hold it together.

“There…there’s been an…accident…I’m…hurt…It’s bad, love…I know it’s bad…Don’t know how much time I…it’s okay…it’s okay, sweetheart…”

But it wasn’t okay, not by any measure of the word. My guts cramped so hard, I felt them attempt to fold me in two. My tears spilled across my grease stained shirt, while the voices of my coworkers were little more than a muffled echo to my both focused and unfocused ears.

“I’m not…gonna make it home tonight…not tonight…not ever again…But it’s okay, it really is…”

I could hear her resolution–that she truly meant what she was saying. She had already accepted what was happening. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t!

“You loved me so much–so well…so wonderfully…I can do this…I can die happy and content. Life with you was everything I could have ever dreamt of…but everything ends, my love…everything…and that’s okay too. I need you to be brave. I need you to be strong! Please, baby–I know you…don’t do anything rash or stupid…”

Her words grew more strained, yet more confident as well. But my heart was fragmenting within my chest.

“You have so much life left to live…so much love left to give…don’t…please, sweetheart–don’t give up! Don’t let this break you. We will see each other again…but this isn’t your time…it’s mine….I…I love you, so very much. More than I can ever express. But you have to promise me that, no matter how much…”

The message, cut off. My phone dropped to the floor. My knees gave out. My racing heart shattered. I howled. I wailed. My world…ended that day. And would only crumble more as the days and nights turned to weeks, and the weeks turned to months.

The police called soon after, relaying the news that my wife had been killed in a collision. The driver who had failed to yield, careening into her passenger side door, causing her sedan to roll and flip down the steep embankment to her right–he had survived with barely a scratch. My Victoria, though–she hadn’t a chance of survival.

When I had to identify the body–during which time I could barely inspire my entire being to stop violently trembling, I swear I could feel the agony of every injury revealed, when the sheet was pulled from her peaceful, and still gorgeous face.

How she had been even capable of speaking into the mic, with that ragged split, angled from the nape of her neck, down through her collarbone, and ending at her chest, I can’t even imagine. How she didn’t wince or whine from where the glass had made mincemeat of the left side of her face, I can barely comprehend. And these were only the injuries I could see.

They didn’t want to tell me the rest–I could see that in the expression of the kind hearted, elderly coroner. But I insisted with more erratic passion than I could ever be proud of. The damage was…extensive, though. She must have been in so much pain…

Her left arm had been nearly severed at the elbow, likely from the jagged metal of the door, which tore through the side as the car buckled and rolled. Her midsection had been split open, right above where the seatbelt wrapped around her. Both of her knees were…shattered…ripped…shredded…

Gashes and cuts, both deep and shallow lined almost every inch of her poor, broken body. Everywhere across her, both front and back–everywhere, but her right arm. The arm she used to place that final call. Her closing thoughts. Her last thoughts…of me…

And I wasn’t even able to answer the call! To have the opportunity to hear her words breathing into my waiting ears, one last time…To say goodbye to her, as she bid her melancholy farewell to me. No. The last words she would ever speak were to a goddamn, robotic voice–a cold and heartless recording, rather than the warmth of the heart which would bleed for her every single day and night for the remainder of my days.

I couldn’t even give her that! And, for this, and so much more, I would grow to detest myself–to despise the fact that I had to live, while she was ripped from my arms. And yes, part of me was angry with her, for binding me to her last request–that I be brave, and not do anything rash.

I didn’t want to be brave! I didn’t want to live in a world from which she was absent! I didn’t want to face any tomorrow where I couldn’t hold her. But I had to. I had to respect her final wish. That didn’t mean I had to like it, of course.

I would stay true to what she asked of me, even during those nights in which I begged for the sweet release of death. This was something I would grow to reconsider, though, when the words she spoke during her final message…began to change.

It was subtle, at first–just a word or two, rearranged from what I recalled of the last many times I relistened through it. And I would revisit that voicemail at least once a night. Okay, a great many more times than that.

Within that first couple of days after she bid me her bitter farewell, I had memorized every single word. Every subtle nuance. And each time she stopped to take a shuddering breath. Every single syllable of her last words to me were etched across both my subconscious, and the forefront of my mind, before her coffin was even lowered into the earth. And each would haunt me more than the last.

I had stopped going to work–I didn’t even bother calling in. I barely ate, but I did drink more than enough. That was how my days and nights would play out. I’d keep my brain as intoxicated as I could throughout the day, relisten to her message during and between refilling my glass (when I was slightly motivated enough not to just drink straight from the bottle). And pass out with my phone still gripped in my hand.

Day in, day out. I didn’t care anymore. I respected her wish that I wouldn’t make an effort to join her. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t allow myself to just waste away. Nothing rash. Nope. Just a slow descent into my own mortality. She couldn’t take that from me.

When her message began to take on new attributes, I just chalked it up to the booze and my swimmy head. It was just a different turn of phrase, or a break she didn’t take. “I need you to be brave,” rather than ,”I’m gonna need you to be brave.”.

Instead of, “I’m not…gonna make it home tonight…not tonight…not ever again”, I now heard, “I won’t make it home tonight…Never again.” In place of “But that’s okay,” she now said, “And that’s alright.” Little things to which I could easily chalk up to my memory being a bit off, given the inebriation and grief.

When not only the phrasing began to shift, but the actual words and request she made altered, though, I couldn’t quite rationalize that. She no longer begged me not to be rash or stupid. No. She suggested the polar opposite.

As it had the last, what, hundred or three times I had listened through it, every word breathed from her dying lips as I remembered–no variance, no surprising shifts in her phrasing. Nothing, until it neared the end.

“And I need you to be brave. I need you to be strong! Please, baby–I know you…I know you can do this…you can come to where I am now. Come back to me, my love. Don’t spend your life alone…Come home…to me…”

Once more, I felt the phone slip from my trembling fingers. Once more I joined it on the floor as my knees betrayed me. And, once more, as it had every damn night since I lost her, the tears burst from my eyes as though a monsoon broke loose in the house I used to share with the woman I love, with my entire being.

Was she finally allowing me release? Permitting me to resign myself to what I had wished for since the moment I lost her? When I listened through the message again, and again, only to find the exact same words which left me splayed out on my whiskey stained rug, I just couldn’t deny it.

‘Has this been the message all along?’ I asked myself, as I gasped for oxygen. ‘Had my grief and pain been muting the reality of her final request?’ ‘If I do this, would I be able to go where she is now?’

Sure, I had never been much of a religious man. Vic was quite spiritual in life–something of which she had taught me a great deal. Much of it, I had begun to actually believe, simply because I trusted her opinion more than my own. But suicides don’t go to the happy places, right?

Of course, if she asked me for this–her final wish in life, could I ignore it? As it was, I had relentlessly thought about this very thing since I lost her–to leave this now empty life behind, and seek out wherever my beloved may be.

Honestly, the only reason I hadn’t taken that particular way out was because she asked me not to. But, was it my own selfish apprehensions, causing me to hear her words wrong? Was I so much of a coward that my mind rearranged her final thoughts in this world?

Was she really waiting for me? And, if I had blocked out the reality of what she asked, could I have possibly missed the chance to reunite with the only person I ever gave a damn about?

“What do I do?” I asked aloud, my voice still splintering from the unyielding tears.

The only answer I could locate to this question, of course, was resting on the floor beside my aching knees. Hesitantly reaching out for my discarded phone as I steadily raised back to my feet I absentmindedly repeated my daily, nightly…hourly tradition of relistening to the last words of my wife.

I barely even realized that I was strolling across the living room while my muscle memory took control of the task at hand. As I stood in the kitchen, one hand holding the speaker to my ear, and the other sliding the serrated steak knife from the rack, I allowed my lungs a deep inhale in an attempt to steady my pulse.

The message mimicked every single word I had committed to memory, as I raised the blade to my throat, gently pressing the edge against where I assumed my jugular to be located. I had already decided–when her soothing, yet melancholy voice would reach that closing request, that’s when I would make the cut.

Quick…

Easy…

Right on cue…

I knew that she wasn’t exactly in the room with me–not that I was aware of, anyway, understanding as little about that side of reality as most. But it just felt right to finish the job while her voice guided my actions.

But her request never came. Not this time. Not as it had, the last ten times I had listened back through it. No. This time, just as I heard her reaching the anticipated moment–just as I put a little extra pressure on the steel against my throat, her voice trailed into silence, and then static.

I didn’t recoil, nor did I pull the phone from my ear. I only listened, my pulse now quickening all the more. When one single word breached the silence and static, my grip on my weapon of choice faltered, my legs trembled, and my breath froze in my lungs.

“Don’t…”

That was it. One, solitary word, spoken with such passion that it almost inspired my racing heart to break through my sternum. With that single syllable, the static silenced. The recording ended. And yet again, as it had happened more times than I could count, over the prior months, I found myself on the floor, my flesh shivering and spasming.

I kicked the knife, practically launching it against the far wall. Barely able to control my trembling fingers, I wrestled to replay the message. When it once more reverted to exactly how I recall it, the night my heart fractured from the loss of my love, my mind could barely rationalize what was going on.

It was at this point when I should have talked to someone (okay, probably a lot sooner than this point), possibly a therapist, or anyone in a position to make sense of this madness. But I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I still wanted to die. I still wanted to get back to the only person who ever made a difference in my world.

As I once more listened to her making that request for me to not do anything rash, of course, I knew that this was truly what she wanted. It had to be my mind playing tricks, ultimately rearranging what I heard into what I wanted to hear. I knew that! But was it, really?

Again, the following hours bled into the following days. There was no guiding force in my life anymore, only the grief from which I couldn’t escape. Each minute was more predictable than the last, and I just didn’t care anymore.

Nothing mattered to me. Or so I thought, until I received an unexpected call, some four months after I lost my wife–two months since I lost my job. And only one month since the last friend I had finally gave up on me, just as I had.

The call came from an unknown number, the sudden ringing practically inspiring my bones to leap through my skin. For the most part, I had been ignoring every attempt that anyone made to reach out to me, swiping the deny icon the second my mind would register the call. But not this time.

Something within told me to answer this. And, when the information was relayed, I finally found something else worth living for–to witness the trial of the bastard who had ripped out my heart, and taken such a precious and sacred life.

Officer James Boyd–the arresting officer, and the first on the scene that night, had also been the one who gave me the news, back then. As we talked for a time, I could hear it in his voice, that he too wished to see this son of a bitch, buried beneath the prison, never to see the light of day again.

Or course, the prick was drunk, when his truck impacted the passenger side of Vic’s car. Okay, ‘had a few drinks’, Officer Boyd said…whatever. He was fucking drunk! Of course he didn’t receive any more than a couple of scratches, a dislocated shoulder and, I hoped, a life sentence or three for his crime.

Sure, as far as I was concerned, the punishment should fit the crime. Tear away one side of his face. Rip an arm from his torso. Damn near gut the fucker in two! Replicate every injury he caused my wife, and so much more. Don’t let him bleed out until he’s begging for death!

That’s what he deserves. But, for now at least, I would accept him being locked away, stripped of his freedom, and tormented by his fellow inmates for the rest of his goddamn life. Yeah. This was something to look forward to.

Once I see him get what’s coming to him, maybe then I can find some semblance of peace. Maybe then, I’ll gather enough guts to end my own miserable existence, even if it would betray that sacred request. But maybe that would allow me to see her again.

That was worth dying for–just to feel her with me, even if just for a moment before my soul was cast into the pit, if such a thing exists. She would be hurt that I went against her wishes. But that too would be a worthy price, just to hold her again. Just to see her. Just to feel alive, once more, even in death.

And this–watching her killer suffer. Watching him writhe and bargain, desperate to weasel his way out of everything he deserves…yeah…that was worth living for, even if just for a little longer. The trial was only two weeks out. I could hang on that long.

As it happens, of course, two weeks while drinking myself further into a wallowing hatred for what my life had become was not quite as easy going as I had attempted to convince myself. Naturally, I continued to whittle the hours away, replaying the message which only inspired my heart to sink further into despair. But I wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t.

Every now and then, I would still catch a word out of place, or a sentence phrased differently than I remembered. But, after another incessant replay, it would revert back to the original once more.

‘Just in my head…’ I would continue to convince myself each time, no longer attempting to analyze the closing words of the love of my life.

And I had no doubt that that’s exactly what was going on. I was broken. A shell of the man I once was, back when my life meant something. Now, I was only an aimless wanderer, set to close the book of my life, after witnessing my wife’s killer facing justice.

Yes, I had made that silent promise to the dying words of my wife, that I would not prematurely end my life. Every single time the thought crossed my mind, I swear, I could feel her in my head, begging me not to follow through with this. But I couldn’t…I couldn’t continue on without her. I didn’t want to.

Call me weak or pathetic–you wouldn’t be wrong to. I am, and I was. I wouldn’t argue that point for a second. But I didn’t care. I still don’t, even to this day. My lust for life died with the woman I still love with every ounce of my heart and soul. And my life will never again feel like it belongs to me.

My heart was hers–is hers. It remains with her. Always. The very second I gave it to her, I knew that it was never mine to begin with. It had always belonged to her. Since the day I was brought into this world, it was restless, in search of the one who would inspire it to beat. And, in death, it will always be where she is. Where I have yet to travel.

I had never experienced much luck in relationships. Nice guy syndrome, you know? Best of intentions, and all. The more I gave in a relationship, the more they took. The more I trusted, the more they betrayed that trust. Always games and tests, to prove that I was worthy of their love. But never any effort on their part, to show that they deserved mine.

For a long time, I just believed that this was the way things worked–that each relationship would have one giver and one taker. That I just wasn’t enough for anyone, forcing them to always find another, whether we were still together or not.

Oftentimes, I assumed that I was put on this earth to help women find their true love. A few months with me, and they would find someone truly special, kicking me to the curb in the process. My work was done. They found love, and I found new reasons to doubt myself. Just the nature of the beast.

When Victoria came into my life, though, I could feel it right away. This was different. She was different.

It was just a happenstance situation, reaching for the same box of donuts in the supermarket. Fingers drifted against one another before our eyes even met. But that spark was immediate. With awkward giggles from both of us, I turned to face her, that chuckle catching in my throat the second I met her gaze.

It moved quickly from there, after some fairly uncomfortable back and forth, bantering over who should claim that last box of goodies. Ultimately, we chose to split them, exchanging phone numbers while the deli attendant fetched a second box for us.

I know, fucking adorable, right? But it was exactly that. I couldn’t even hope to wipe the smile from my face after walking her to her car, watching her hesitantly drive from the bustling parking lot. As soon as I got home, I sent her a text, fully aware that this was likely showing too much eagerness.

There were no games, no waiting on a reply for hours, and no beating around the bush. She was as excited to hear from me, as I was to be reaching out. There were never any games between us. Open communication across the board, even when we had our little spats or disagreements. But everything was on the table.

She too had grown tired of what dating had become. All of the ridiculous rules upon which to abide, or refusal to show genuine interest, lest that sour the appetite of the object of admiration. Nope. From our first date, later that night, the day we met, everything was open between us.

It was…beautiful…

Even with the scars across my self esteem and inner worth, left in the wake of so many disappointments and betrayals, I never questioned how she felt for me. She never gave me reason to. When I was with Vic, I felt like the luckiest son of a bitch to ever walk the earth.

Even now–even while I still ache to hold her again, I still feel that way. I had the opportunity to love her, and to be loved by her. Few will ever feel such a spark, their entire lives–such a powerful and magical connection. But I did. Even if that flame was to be extinguished prematurely.

For that one, brief and glorious moment in time, I felt more bliss than I could have ever imagined. Far more joy than I had a right to. I was lucky for that. But nothing or nobody shall ever take her place in my heart–that heart which still lays alongside her, waiting for me to rejoin them both.

I’m…sorry. Got on a bit of a tangent there. It’s still hard, of course. Always will be, I expect. But that’s not what this is about. You can read the tale of a broken heart anywhere–there are plenty of them. No, this is about when the messages grew even darker. The day of the ridiculously short trial of one Roger Allen Duncan–the man who ripped my Victoria from my arms.

The prosecuting attorney met me just outside the courthouse that morning. I made sure to arrive early–it’s not like I had to wake up at a premature hour, having barely slept since I lost my wife. Since this bastard had taken her from me…

Even as the lawyer, Regina Walters, spoke about what to expect from the trial, my mind was unable to focus on her words, being fully consumed by controlling the combination of rage and sorrow. My eyes could clearly see the melancholy look in the kind eyes of the older, dark haired woman. But her words were little more than muffled background noise.

Perhaps, had I paid more attention, or been able to snap my mind into reconnecting with the real world for more than seconds at a time, I would have been ready for what was to come. But, as my gaze met the welling eyes, deep-set in the guilt ridden face of my wife’s killer, I only felt that anger blossoming all the more.

What right did he have to wear such pain in his expression? He had ripped my world apart–stripped my life of the only one who had ever given it meaning. And he had the nerve to appear haunted!? Yes, he should feel shame! He should feel guilt! But that’s not what I wanted to see in those glassy eyes.

I wanted to see fear…

I wanted him to be so terrified of what was about to become of his life, that he would be quaking through his skin. I wanted his bones to fracture from the sheer volume of his violently trembling terror. But no. There was no fear in his eyes. If anything, he appeared like he wanted to be punished.

Though I had been instructed to leave my phone in the car, or have it confiscated prior to entering the courtroom, I could swear I felt it vibrating in my pocket as the opening statements began.

The defense lawyer, a slender man, wearing a somewhat wrinkled, gray suit, with thinning, brown hair, and a gaunt face, did not speak much about the crime itself, at first. No. He spoke of the nature of the man, who still looked as though his eyes may unleash a river across the room any second.

He spoke of a family man, father of three girls, ranging from the ages of three years old, to ten, and husband to his high school sweetheart. A marriage lasting a little over a decade and a half. I felt my teeth practically crack against one another as he talked about the veritable saint, who volunteered at homeless shelters on the weekends, and had cared for his cancer-ridden father, these past eleven months.

But when he finally did reach the nature of why he was facing the judge and jury that day, I could barely even hope to control the blood rushing to the surface of my skin. Yes, it is tragic that his father had lost the fight earlier that very day–even my compassion wasn’t too far gone to appreciate that.

That; however, does not excuse getting behind the wheel, after knocking back a few beers at a nearby bar that night. And it sure as shit does not, in any way, excuse tearing the love of my life from this world! No. As I felt my back, left molar chip from the intensity of my jaw grinding, just glaring at the fucking sympathy on the face of several jurors, I couldn’t give a damn what that son of a bitch had gone through that day.

He killed my wife! What does it matter how rough his damn day was!? Burn the bastard at the goddamn stake! Rip his fucking heart out, just as he had torn mine from my chest! I would be damned if he was about to get away with this!

But that’s exactly what happened. Or close enough, as far as I was concerned.

Guilty of second degree, involuntary manslaughter. Second degree!? He killed her! But no…’Pillar of the community’, they called him. ‘First time offender’, which is apparently not a big deal, even in cold blooded murder!

One hundred hours of community service. One year, probation. His drivers license, suspended for six months. Mandatory DUI classes. That’s it! No jail time. None! Not one fucking day!

Yeah, he burst into tears when the sentence was read, as did I, for a very different reason. Sure, I overheard him attempting to convince his lawyer that he deserved worse. But I knew it was nothing more than a performance.

Before the prosecutor could say a word to me, her face lined with as much guilt as the teary eyed prick had, I just got up, practically sprinting from the room. My knees shuddered as I burst through the door to the outside world, doing everything I could to control my desperation to scream out against the injustice of it all.

When I finally reached my car, gasping for breath as my lungs begged for some semblance of release, I couldn’t hold it back any longer. I howled at the top of my lungs, barely noticing the elderly couple who glared in from some yards beyond my vehicle.

I beat my fist against the dashboard and windshield, instantly spiderwebbing the glass and splitting the plastic. But that wasn’t enough. I did not let up my assault on the interior of my car until the door panels crunched, the driver’s side window cracked, and the overhead light snuffed out completely.

The only thing keeping me going, these past few weeks, was awaiting the punishment of the one who destroyed my life. And now I lost that too. The combination of rage and heartache threatened to split my soul in two. But I knew that I couldn’t linger there any longer.

I had to be gone by the time that smug son of a bitch strolled from the courthouse, likely letting go of his performance, laughing about what a joke the American justice system was. And I could not predict what my grief and pain may be capable of inspiring within me, were I to witness such a sight.

As I cranked my car, shifted into reverse, and prepared to distance myself from this wretched place, two things happened within moments.

The first was the vibration of the phone I had yet to retrieve from my center console, its shuddering beckoning to me, even over the rumbling of my engine.

The second, while I shifted back into park, slipping my device from its encasement, and hesitantly averting my gaze to the door of the courthouse, was the appearance of Roger Allen Duncan. He was still teary eyed, lighting a cigarette, and in the arms of the blonde, whom I presumed to be his wife.

Once more, my entire body trembled violently, while my fingers attempted to unlock the phone I had yet to even glance upon. All my tunnel vision could see at the time was that arrogant bastard, seemingly maintaining his performance, still attempting to convey this semblance of remorse to his significant other.

Momentarily distracted by another vibration of the device I held, my eyes blinked from their object of rage and hatred, to the vision of the voicemail notification at the head of my screen. Immediately, my mind flashed back to the last voicemail to which I had listened, which had effectively dropped me to my knees. But I knew that this could hold no grimmer news than that one.

Tapping on the icon to playback the message, my eyes drifted back to the man who continued to hang his head in mimicked shame, only inspiring my face to flush even brighter than it had thus far. When that hauntingly familiar message–that final farewell of the woman I still love, began to echo into my waiting ears again, I almost let the phone slip from my still trembling fingers.

“Hey, love,” the message began, as always, her voice strained and stuttered, “I’m…I’m gonna need you to be brave, okay? This…I think…I’m so sorry, baby…but I think, this is where I must leave you…”

That was the beginning–the words I had committed to memory over God knows how many replays. What came next; however, was far removed from even any of the discrepancies I had witnessed throughout these past months.

“There…there’s been an…accident…I’m…hurt…It’s bad, baby…I know it’s bad…Don’t know how much time I…it’s okay…it’s okay, sweetheart…No…no, it’s not okay!”

Once more, the tremors coursing across my gooseflesh may have launched my device from my hand, had the newly developed contractions not tightened my grip to the point of my knuckles whitening.

“He did this to me…to us…And he’s getting away with it! He’s just going to walk away, like nothing ever happened! You can’t allow this! You can’t just let him off with nothing more than a fucking slap on the wrist!”

This wasn’t my wife! She didn’t talk like that–never hateful. Sure, she swore, probably as much as I do. But so rarely in anger, and never in bitterness or wrath. I knew that! I knew that she would never wish harm on anyone!

But, if this was what I had begun to believe–not the Victoria I knew and loved, but what remained of her spirit, now hell-bent on revenge for what was taken from her, and from us! Could I really turn my back on what I had a feeling she was about to suggest?

Yes, my amazing wife had possibly the purest and most loving soul I had ever encountered. She made me a better man, just from knowing her, let alone having the opportunity to love her. But being murdered by some drunk asshole has to take a toll on even the most peaceful of hearts.

“Please, baby! I need you to do this for me–for us! He ripped us apart, tore the future from us both! He deserves to suffer!”

‘He does…’ I whispered aloud, replying to a voice which could no longer acknowledge me.

“Do to him, what he did to me…Every cut…every break…every scratch and tear! Rip his world into pieces, just like he did to us! Do that for me, sweetheart…Do it for us…Do this for me, so that I can finally rest…”

I only nodded, my eyes still fixated on the one whose shaky legs were currently guiding him into the passenger seat of the fancy SUV.

“When you’re done–when it’s finished…come back to me, my love…Come home! You don’t belong in this world anymore, not without me. Come home, my darling. Make this right. I love you, baby. Now, and forever…Come home…”

‘I…I love you too…’ I whispered again, tears streaming down my face, while I absentmindedly shifted back into reverse.

As the dark blue SUV drifted across the parking lot, aiming for the nearest exit, I followed suit. I’ve watched enough movies and shows to have at least a vague understanding of how to do this–keep enough distance so as to not be noticed. Keep a close eye on the object of my pursuit, but do not allow them to take note of my presence on the same road.

‘Even if they do notice me,’ I thought, grinding my teeth as my face burned, ‘they don’t know where I live! Who’s to say I’m not just going home too! Hell, they don’t know me…’

Down one road and up the next, I would not allow the heavy SUV to escape my line of sight. I allowed the occasional merging vehicle to come between us, just to ensure that there was no need for suspicion. But I would not let them get away. I wouldn’t let him get away–not with what he did to my wife. Not with what he did to me!

Though it had felt considerably longer (given the racing of my pulse, grinding teeth, and cursing under my breath, within the space of maybe fifteen minutes), I watched the SUV pulling into the driveway of the large, luxurious house. Casually passing by, keeping one eye on the road, and the other on those disembarking the vehicle, I continued driving down the street.

I knew where he lived now. That’s all I needed at that moment. What comes next, well there were preparations to make. I could still feel the wrath coursing through every single vein, as I merged back onto the highway–I could still hear the pleas of my wife, begging for her murder to be avenged, echoing throughout my subconscious. But all would be set right soon.

The next few hours, after returning to my home, were spent pacing back and forth attempting to conjure a plan, knocking back one drink after the next. My body trembled more violently the more the imagery of my wife’s request bounced around behind my eyes. But I would not back down from this.

After some time spent just wandering through my house, strolling around the neighborhood, and wracking my brain over how to accomplish this task, I finally gave in to my tiring body. Slumping onto my couch, my bones still twitching and shaking beneath the flesh and muscle tissue, I only released a heavy, shuddering exhale.

“How?” I mumbled aloud, suddenly understanding what little knowledge I possessed about abduction, torture, and murder.

No…not murder. Vengeance. Retribution. Justice! He took my wife from me! He ripped my world into pieces! He deserved this. And once the job was done–once the world was set right, or as right as it could be without my beloved, I would join him in whatever lies beyond this existence. Even if this would damn my soul to the pits of Hell.

As I sat there dwelling on the weight of what must be done, my fingers slipped my phone from my pocket–the muscle memory of my daily, hourly ritual taking over for my absent mind. Again, not unlike every single time I allowed my ears to embrace the final words of my dearest love, I felt that sensation of the fabric of my heart being torn apart, when her melancholy voice whispered directly into my mind and thoughts.

Once more, though, the message did not follow the original course I had witnessed countless times before. The majority of it proceeded as always, down to each crack, and every wince from the pain of her numerous injuries. This time, it wasn’t until further in, when things began to shift.

“You loved me so much–so well…so wonderfully…I can do this…I can die happy and content. So can you, once this is done…Life with you was everything I could have ever dreamt of…but everything ends, baby…everything…It ends for you, as it ended for me. And it must end for him too…”

“But…how?” I asked the recording, my mind unable to accept the fact that she could not reply.

But she did…

“Rope. Rope to bind him. Watch him squirm…hear him screwn…A knife–something sharp. Cut him, like he cut me!”

Again, my body began to tremble more erratically than before. I knew this wasn’t her! I knew that she would never ask me for something like this. But she was asking, somehow, from beyond the grave. I imagine a brutal, agonizing death can change even the purest of hearts into something darker.

I couldn’t deny that the actions of this bastard had altered my own heart and soul–that I wanted his blood just as much as my wife did. That alone was enough for me to convince myself that it was indeed my Victoria who was communicating with me. That we both wanted the same thing.

“But…how? How do I do this!? How do I even get to him!?”

“I need you to be brave. I need you to be strong! He’s a smoker, right? Just wait…wait for him. Classy house. Classy car. No way he smokes inside…Please, baby–I know you…I know you don’t want to do anything rash or stupid…But you have to…”

I only nodded, not that a recorded message could exactly witness this. But she was right. I knew she was. If she was able to reach me through words spoken in the final moments of her life, her restless spirit altering them from the beyond, I could accomplish this much.

“Where?” was the last question I asked, though the message was reaching its closing moments.

“The cottage–the cozy cottage…”

The cozy cottage…yeah. Our first getaway together. It wasn’t far from here, all things considered. Just an hour at most. But that would be perfect. And quite fitting for the closing act of my own life.

We had only been talking for a month, maybe two, at that point. Though we had met at a local grocery store, we both lived in different states at the time. She was in town for a wedding, of all things, having swung by the shop to pick up some things to take back to her hotel room.

Our first actual date took place that same night, of course. And we saw each other as much as we could, before she headed back to her home. But, after a far more emotional goodbye than I suspect either of us expected, we spoke on video chat every single day, and each night, as time and work allowed.

A couple of months before I relocated to her stomping ground, I flew out to see her. We arranged a stay at a pleasant bed and breakfast, only a ways from where she lived at the time–a quaint little cabin dubbed, ‘The Cozy Cottage’.

It was over the course of that week in each other’s arms when we knew…when we knew that this was real. And we would revisit that amazing, little cabin every year, on our anniversary–every year until the owners let it go, allowing it to fall into ruin.

It was honestly heartbreaking to see such a temple to our love falling into disrepair and abandonment. But we would still drive out that way from time to time, even if just to share a kiss, and dance beneath the stars together, just beyond its steadily crumbling walls.

Yeah, we talked about attempting to buy it on occasion, sprucing it up, and making it our own official getaway spot. But, as I mentioned before, ours wasn’t an extravagant life of means and wealth. The love we shared, though…no price could ever be assigned to that, nor could anything compare.

“You don’t have much life left to live,” the message continued, reaching its closing paragraph, my eyes welling up as they did every time it reached this point, even if this replay was significantly different than I remembered, “but you still have so much love left to give…Don’t…please, sweetheart–don’t give up! You can do this! We will see each other again…it’s almost time…I love you, so very much. More than I can ever express. But you have to promise me that, no matter how much…”

As always, the haunting click of the timer running out cut her words short. And, even when the message did not repeat the same way, I lost it when her voice cracked for the last time. Once more, I found myself on the floor of the home I used to share with the love of my life. And, once more, I could barely hope to catch my breath as the sobs let loose.

But I had a mission now–one last goal to complete before I may be permitted to fall into her loving gaze again. I would not let her down, not on this. Not on us. I had to do this, to earn my ability to rejoin her, wherever she may now be. And I would.

Another few days would pass by while I gathered both supplies, and the will to follow through with what Vic insisted had to be done. Yes, I lost the nerve each of the numerous times I had glared upon the bag load of rope and tools, almost making it out of my driveway a time or two before the trembling got the better of me.

With each time I returned to my couch, I would torment my mind and emotions by listening to the voice of my beloved, scorning me for chickening out. There was an inner battle waging within me between the desire to both allow my wife to rest in peace, earning the right to join her in death. And saving myself from obliterating what little humanity I had left.

On the fifth night since Vic showed me the way, though, I could not drag my heels anymore. Between her insistence, persistence, mocking, and disappointment, I knew that I couldn’t put this off any longer. Roger Allen Duncan had to pay for what he did–what he took from my wife and I. And it had to be by my hands.

My mind was barely with me as I guided my car across the familiar, and less familiar roads. There were a few wrong turns along the way, of course–I had only visited his house the one time. But, when I finally located the home to which I had followed the son of a bitch, my heart was racing so much, I just knew it would burst through my chest any minute.

I sat in place, parked directly across the street from where the luxurious SUV stood in the same spot it had stopped before. I continued to just stare at the front door for maybe an hour or three, before it crept open. I watched on as the flickering flame of the lighter illuminated the face I had viewed in so many nightmares, as the tip of his cigarette ignited, while the spike drove itself deeper into my chest.

He took a seat on his front porch, just glaring out into the night. Seemingly studying the sky and stars, the melancholy lining his worn expression, he appeared completely detached from the world around him.

As I held my phone’s speaker to my ear, the encouraging words of my wife urging me to stay this course–to avenge her death with as much brutality as her life had ended. I felt every drop of blood in my face sinking to my gut, as the eyes of my victim met mine.

When his somber expression met the wrath lining every contour of my face, I could tell that he knew–that he knew who I was, and why I had come. I felt like I was on auto pilot as I opened my door, lifting myself from my car, while he got to his feet. There was no hesitation in his steps as he paced toward me, while I closed the gap as well.

He didn’t speak a word, only gave me a subtle nod, dropping his cigarette to the concrete, smearing it with his shoe. Even as he casually strolled to my passenger side door, tilting his head as he attempted to enter, only to find it locked, there was no reluctance in his actions.

My hands were trembling so badly, it took a few tries to convince my thumb to tap the button on the key fob, allowing him access to the seat awaiting its temporary occupant. But when he was able to climb in, again, every movement felt purposeful and confident.

We still did not speak at all over the drive to the dilapidated, old cabin. Yes, the tension and discomfort was thick enough to be sliced by any of the several bladed weapons I had stashed in the trunk. But, while my extremities shivered and quaked, his remained still and peaceful.

He strode ahead of me, inadvertently leading me to the spot in which he would die, bloody. Still showing no reluctance, he only glanced back at me upon reaching the door, the sorrow in his gaze almost enough to rival my own.

I hadn’t made any preparations here–no plastic lining the floor, or an ominous chair set up in the center of the room. No. I couldn’t bear to look upon this place, the memories still careening into my mind as though they were fired from a cannon, as I passed across the threshold.

Though the place had been mostly cleaned out, cobwebs and years of dust were gathered across the floor, shelves, and countertops. There were still a few remaining furnishings. The old couch, which Vic and I had ‘christened’ on the third night of our first trip out here–it still sat in the same spot, right up against the rear wall of the small living room.

The sight of it almost dropped me to my already weakened knees. The weight of what I must do, and the imagery of my love laying across the old sofa breaking my will and spirit more and more. But I could not allow these visions to distract me–this had to be done. This had to happen. I couldn’t let her down again…

The solemn man only stood in place, his eyes neither focusing on me, nor his surroundings, while I quickly located a discarded chair in what was once a pleasant dining nook. He still didn’t put up any sort of fight as I sat the chair down, tilting my head for him to take his place upon it.

He still didn’t speak, not until I slipped the rope from my bag, my eyes refusing to glance into his.

“You won’t need that,” he said, his gaze fixated on the floor before him, “I won’t try to stop you.”

Of course, I didn’t listen. I couldn’t know if he was secretly planning some sort of rebellion. Even if not, once this began, he may be more inclined to attempt to put an end to his pain. I couldn’t risk anything interrupting this, not after having come this far.

Once more, he returned to silence as I bound his wrists and ankles. He didn’t wince or bargain while I wrapped the final rope around his torso, restricting his upper arms in the process. While he was a stoic statue, I continued to battle against my near spasming extremities as I clumsily tied each knot. But, when I stepped back to my bag of tools, his hollow, empty eyes finally met my own.

“Make it hurt!” he said, his words passing through gritted teeth.

I was almost stunned as I stared back at him, my jaw slipping loose as my welling eyes met the stern conviction in his.

“You…you t-took everything from…from me,” I said, my stuttering words barely breaking a whisper.

“I…I know,” he said, his voice now cracking, tears beginning to trickle down his face, “I deserve this…please…just don’t hold back. Make me feel everything…Make me feel everything…she felt…”

I could barely believe what I was hearing. Was this a trick? He couldn’t actually want this…could he?

“I…can’t…live with myself,” he said, his eyes now unleashing a veritable flood of tears, “Every…single…night…I wish it had been…me! That I had died that night…and she had lived….Just…just end it! Please!”

Was this making things easier, or far more difficult? I wondered as I pulled the machete from my bag. This had to be done–I knew that…right? I had to do this, so that Victoria could be at peace–so that she could rest, and I could finally join her.

With her words still echoing in my ear, muting the pleas of my victim as he still begged for death, I walked toward the sobbing man, reaching my blade high, readying to strike down upon him.

‘The arm first,’ I thought, my erratic thoughts battling to maintain focus, ‘each wound that she had…that’s the way she wants it…Can’t start with the terminal cut…gotta take it…slow…’

As my throat began to shudder, preparing to launch a wail containing every aspect of each haunted night I had spent aching for my lost love, my thoughts and focus were interrupted by a vibration in my pocket.

My mouth still hanging open, ready to echo its agonized shriek of rage and bitterness into the night, my mind was suddenly caught between the persistent device and my conviction to end this.

“DO IT!!!” my captive shrieked out, as my weapon fell to my hip, my other hand pulling the phone from my pocket.

His pleas and begs fell to a muffled and muted blur when my eyes met Victoria’s icon on my screen, the incoming call still not having been diverted to voicemail. My mind felt completely disconnected from reality as my finger swiped across the screen, raising the receiver to my ear.

“Baby…don’t…”

I could barely make her out above the static. But it was enough. Enough of her to reach me still.

“Vic?” my voice squeaked, my mind still trying to wrap around everything.

“Don’t…do this…”

As her voice became clearer, the static still present, but fading more, I could hear such a distinct difference from the version of my wife I had heard over the prior months. Maybe it was my despair combined with my desperation to actually be able to hear her again that distracted me from the variances.

As I listened to her tender, loving voice now, though, there was no denying it. My memory of her previous words over many weeks cleared, I could now hear it all. How much deeper and darker her tone had grown with each time her message altered.

These most recent changes had reflected a far more menacing side than anything of which my beloved had been capable of in life. While her sweet, gentle voice whispered into my mind, my machete slipping from my trembling fingers, I knew that she was right.

I couldn’t do this.

“This isn’t you, baby. This isn’t us…” she continued, my heart shattering more with each word.

“I…I miss you…so…so goddamn much,” I croaked, having once more dropped to my knees.

“I miss you too, sweetheart. And we will be together again….but not now. Not yet…”

“I…don’t know how to live…without you…”

My tears spilled to the floor, the stabbing sensation in my chest both crippling, and strangely caressed by more warmth than I could even remember anymore.

“You’ll figure it out…I promise. But you have to live! You have to keep going…”

“I don’t want to…”

Now more than ever, I wanted nothing more than to be in her arms again. For her to be in mine. But, once again, I found my heart imprisoned by her request–to continue on, with or without her.

“It’s okay to hurt…it’s okay to grieve. But you have to let go…Let go of the hate. Let go of the anger!”

“He…he took you away from me! He has to…”

“It was an accident, baby. That’s all. Look at him,” she said, my watering eyes reluctantly granting her wish.

Somewhere beyond my ability to make out, I knew that he was still pleading for release. I could see it in his pain stricken face. His expression matched that which I had felt lining my own face each time I would cry myself to sleep. If anything, perhaps simply the effect of seeing it from the outside, he may have felt the desire to end his misery more than I did.

“He pays any price he owes every second of the day,” my sweet Victoria said, her voice cracking as mine did, “but you can help him…”

“Why!?” I belted, suddenly feeling almost offended by her words.

“Because it’s right…for both of you…You…you have to forgive him…”

“I can’t! I can’t, baby! Not for this!”

I felt my face burning from the implication. Forgive him!? The bastard who ripped my life into pieces!?

“Yes, sweetheart…you can. I have. And you can too. Let go, baby…”

The static began to grow louder again, inspiring my heart to race all the more. She was slipping away from me…again!

“Vic! Baby! Don’t…don’t go!”

“It’s okay, my love…I’m still here…I’m still with you…always…”

“Please…stay!” I begged, but I knew it was of no use.

“I will see you again, my sweet…”

“I…I love you…I love you so, so much…don’t…please don’t…”

“I love you…my amazing you…Goodbye, my love…for now…”

“Vic! Don’t…” I cried out as the static muted any other words she may have been capable of offering.

Seconds later, the line went dead. My heart, once more, shattered. My tears unleashed.

I don’t know how long I knelt on that same spot, spilling an ocean across the very cabin in which I had professed my love to the woman I would marry. The only one who ever erupted the very fabric of my heart and ignited the fire in my soul. But after a time, long after the room had fallen otherwise silent, my tears ran dry.

As I hesitantly glanced up to meet the eyes of my captive, his gaze reflecting such pain and guilt, I knew that something had changed. I didn’t speak as I lifted myself, and my machete from the dust covered floor. He didn’t say a word as I cut the ropes holding him in place, only looked back at me with an expression of confusion and sorrow.

“I…I forgive…you,” I said, the words straining my raw throat, slightly perplexing my own senses.

Reaching out to help him from his seat, he only glared back at me, his eyes once more spilling across his shirt. It took a moment for him to accept my sincerity, taking my hand in his. But when he finally got to his legs, stabilizing himself for a moment before letting my fingers slip from his. He still just gazed back at me.

Again, without speaking, we loaded back into my car, sharing the silence as we made our way back to his home. Every now and then, I would still catch him wearing that confused expression as he glanced over at me. But, even if I had begun to let go of my hatred for the man, I wasn’t exactly interested in knowing him.

As we pulled up to that same spot I had vacated some hours before, our eyes met one last time before he departed my car.

“I can never…I’m so…” he stuttered, looking from me to the fingers fidgeting upon his lap.

“Just go,” I said, attempting to sound sincere.

“But…I just…”

“We’re good. Nothing more to be said.”

He glanced my way again, pushing open the door to his right. As he lifted himself from the seat, he leaned down to face me again.

“I truly am…I’m so sorry for…for what I did…for what I took from you…”

Though every muscle in my body tensed, I kept my expression somber, resisting my eyes attempting to burn from holding the tears at bay.

“I know…and thank you…Thank you for understanding…this…”

He chuckled a bit–an obviously pained and strained laugh, but a laugh nonetheless.

“I would’ve done the same…worse, if the situation was reversed.”

I just gave him a slight smile and an acknowledging nod, before he closed the door behind him. As he began to pace back to his house, slipping his cigarettes from his pocket, lighting one up, he only glanced back at me one last time.

Exchanging a final nod, I shifted back into drive to make my way back to my home. There would be more tears shed when I reached my couch. Even more as I lay upon my lonesome bed. They would persist for weeks to come, and months beyond that. But, over time, they would lessen. Lessen, but never leave me completely.

It’s been two years now, since I lost the love of my life. I still ache for her every day and each night. I still miss her–I suspect that I always will. But I have found peace, even if I still burn to join her, whenever she may be now.

There is a certain serenity in knowing that she is still out there…somewhere. Whether it was my grief and despair manifesting her phantom voice, twisting and perverting her words into something darker, I can’t say. I have entertained the notion that it was something else entirely–perhaps some sort of dark entity, feeding on my pain.

I suppose that I may never know. But, I do believe that it really was my Victoria who contacted me that night. She, who saved me from both taking a life, and sacrificing my own. She, who found a way to reach me across the planes and realities.

And if she can bend such rules to reach me, against all odds and reason. Then the least I can do is to honor her actual, final request.

I will live on, as you wish, my beloved. And I will see you again, someday. Until then, sleep sweet, sweetheart. I love you…

Credit: William Rayne

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