had passed, she held my hand.
She made a conscious effort to trust me.
The nights were sometimes long and dreary. Nightmares
would haunt us both as she screamed herself awake, drenched in sweat and
splotched with tears. I’d hold onto her when the pain dug its nails deep into
her subconscious and awakened scarring memories.
Resisting the desire to send her to see a
therapist, I did what I thought best and gave her space when she wanted it and
held her tight when the monsters invaded her dreams.
The nightmares started to dwindle and fade.
They sparked up less frequently and with less intensity. A single touch led to
a hug and then a kiss and then much more. After a couple years I watched her
blossom into a rose, delicate and sweet. She bloomed, and one day she held me
in bed and whispered “thank you” in my ear, and I knew it was all worth it.
Her hot breath stirred a need in me that I
thought was dead. The following night she looked into my eyes and showed me the
hunger and love that I once believed I would never live to see. I let her take
control that night, afraid to startle her or bring back the fear. She seduced
me. It was awkward, careful, and slow, but it was wonderful. She finally was
able to completely trust me and let herself be loved.
I had unraveled every fragile layer and exposed
her large beating heart. We were in love. And we had a marriage that most
envied. It was simple. It was beautiful. It was ours. And now it was gone. A
memory. A distant dream.
Haggard from the overload of rushing memories,
I rub my throbbing temples and open a bleary eye. What purpose do I have to
live now? What joy will I get out of a life without Elizabeth?
Wearily I stand from my lonely chair—usually
our chairs touched when we ate our meals or drank our tea—and walk up the
lonely oak steps to the bedroom to finally sleep.
The queen sized bed, which seemed too big when
Elizabeth was alive, now seems like a fortress of solitude. We only used a
small fraction of the bed because I had grown accustomed to holding her tight
even when asleep (to help keep away the bad dreams that sometimes still haunted
Elizabeth when she was stressed). Now I hold onto her pillow, but it isn’t the
same. Nothing will ever be the same again.
There are days and nights she enters my dreams.
The good ones I cherish, the bad ones jerk me awake and send me toward the
tumbler of scotch I now keep by the bedside table. I purchased a bottle
immediately after her death and can’t seem to function without it. I have never
been a heavy drinker. It only takes one long burning sip to drown my sorrows
and sedate my aching heart.
I know I won’t be able to keep up the mourning
widower act for much longer. I will have to return to work, rebuild a new
routine without Elizabeth, clean my house, and take care of Mr. Dimples alone.
But not today.
Today I will continue to morn and self-loathe.
Today I will wallow in despair, pain, and regret.
Tomorrow is another day. Leave the work and
responsibility for tomorrow.
Chapter
Four:
Monday,
January 9, 2012
6:30 A.M.
Loral Holmes:
The shrill buzzing of the alarm clock isn’t
what stirs me from underneath the warm covers; what does is Tory and Bella,
taking turns annoying me awake.
“Loral, Loral, wake up. Wake up. WAKE UP. Are
you awake?”
Two pairs of anxious gray-blue eyes, crusty
from sleep, peer over the bed.
“Shit,” I grumble. “Why don’t you see what Tess
and Brett are up to?” What I want to say is go bug them and wake them up
instead .
“They’re sleeping.”
Great, so I’m denied my beauty rest because the
actual adults in this house can’t seem to act like it.
“Alright, go get dressed and then I’ll make
breakfast,” I say.
The girls release their grasp on the edge of
the bed and run for the closet. I try pulling the covers over my head to avoid
seeing the mess they are probably making in our room, but an image of the time
Bella
She made a conscious effort to trust me.
The nights were sometimes long and dreary. Nightmares
would haunt us both as she screamed herself awake, drenched in sweat and
splotched with tears. I’d hold onto her when the pain dug its nails deep into
her subconscious and awakened scarring memories.
Resisting the desire to send her to see a
therapist, I did what I thought best and gave her space when she wanted it and
held her tight when the monsters invaded her dreams.
The nightmares started to dwindle and fade.
They sparked up less frequently and with less intensity. A single touch led to
a hug and then a kiss and then much more. After a couple years I watched her
blossom into a rose, delicate and sweet. She bloomed, and one day she held me
in bed and whispered “thank you” in my ear, and I knew it was all worth it.
Her hot breath stirred a need in me that I
thought was dead. The following night she looked into my eyes and showed me the
hunger and love that I once believed I would never live to see. I let her take
control that night, afraid to startle her or bring back the fear. She seduced
me. It was awkward, careful, and slow, but it was wonderful. She finally was
able to completely trust me and let herself be loved.
I had unraveled every fragile layer and exposed
her large beating heart. We were in love. And we had a marriage that most
envied. It was simple. It was beautiful. It was ours. And now it was gone. A
memory. A distant dream.
Haggard from the overload of rushing memories,
I rub my throbbing temples and open a bleary eye. What purpose do I have to
live now? What joy will I get out of a life without Elizabeth?
Wearily I stand from my lonely chair—usually
our chairs touched when we ate our meals or drank our tea—and walk up the
lonely oak steps to the bedroom to finally sleep.
The queen sized bed, which seemed too big when
Elizabeth was alive, now seems like a fortress of solitude. We only used a
small fraction of the bed because I had grown accustomed to holding her tight
even when asleep (to help keep away the bad dreams that sometimes still haunted
Elizabeth when she was stressed). Now I hold onto her pillow, but it isn’t the
same. Nothing will ever be the same again.
There are days and nights she enters my dreams.
The good ones I cherish, the bad ones jerk me awake and send me toward the
tumbler of scotch I now keep by the bedside table. I purchased a bottle
immediately after her death and can’t seem to function without it. I have never
been a heavy drinker. It only takes one long burning sip to drown my sorrows
and sedate my aching heart.
I know I won’t be able to keep up the mourning
widower act for much longer. I will have to return to work, rebuild a new
routine without Elizabeth, clean my house, and take care of Mr. Dimples alone.
But not today.
Today I will continue to morn and self-loathe.
Today I will wallow in despair, pain, and regret.
Tomorrow is another day. Leave the work and
responsibility for tomorrow.
Chapter
Four:
Monday,
January 9, 2012
6:30 A.M.
Loral Holmes:
The shrill buzzing of the alarm clock isn’t
what stirs me from underneath the warm covers; what does is Tory and Bella,
taking turns annoying me awake.
“Loral, Loral, wake up. Wake up. WAKE UP. Are
you awake?”
Two pairs of anxious gray-blue eyes, crusty
from sleep, peer over the bed.
“Shit,” I grumble. “Why don’t you see what Tess
and Brett are up to?” What I want to say is go bug them and wake them up
instead .
“They’re sleeping.”
Great, so I’m denied my beauty rest because the
actual adults in this house can’t seem to act like it.
“Alright, go get dressed and then I’ll make
breakfast,” I say.
The girls release their grasp on the edge of
the bed and run for the closet. I try pulling the covers over my head to avoid
seeing the mess they are probably making in our room, but an image of the time
Bella
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