Cask of Amontillado-revisited

It has been a good many years since I have spoken of Fortunato, though the memory of the night we last met clings to the hollows of my imagination, as if it were conjured by his spirit to torment me. For years, I feared his return. Many times, I would awaken in the night, his resonant voice echoing in my mind. It was not without apprehension that I left the vaults that chilly night. Though he had wronged me so repeatedly, I felt almost remorseful as I left him there, helpless and alone. Almost. I shred any pang of guilt I felt as I reminded myself of my purpose. That poor fool Fortunato, had he no sense? Nemo me impune lacessit. I even spoke the words, that very night, to his face. Even still, the self righteous imbecile continued to flaunt his disrespect toward me. I am a man of my word, he should have known his trespasses would be avenged.
Our friendship was perhaps ill fated from the beginning. Fortunato was a selfish, boastful man, for which I have very little patience. I was cordial and warm to him in the beginning, we would speak of wine, art, and other worldly passions, as many men do. Pretentious as he was, I never scorned his name. He, however, was not so kind. I dismissed it as hearsay when fellow gentlemen told me the things he would say in my absence, and I acted not hatefully toward him when he would boast in public, cursing my dignity time and time again with public humiliation. I did not accuse him when an entire purse of coins belonging to me went missing, and he was the most obvious suspect. I was a simple, humble man. Until he tread too far. He was not satisfied with the decay of my pride and patience, so he went after my heart. And that she was. My heart, my very being . . . Isabella. Graceful and kind, she was the sort of woman that would make a man’s breath catch in his chest when she would merely enter the room. I knew her love was a coveted possession by many, but never did I expect such utter betrayal from so close a companion.
I heard of my lover’s infidelities through a trusted friend. She had been harboring a secret love affair with Fortunato throughout the entire duration of our courtship. Oh, and what a fool was I, for it was no secret to anyone but me. I had been made a mockery of once again, and this time, the fangs of Fortunato’s treachery cut me too deeply to ignore.
Eager as I was to lash out in anger, I knew it would not satisfy my purpose. As they say, revenge is a dish best served cold, so I maintained my composure and let the two carry on the charade, neither of them the wiser to my plans. The night of Fortunato’s demise marked a turning point in my life, one might say. I haven’t been the same since. A man should stand by his credo, and up until then, I never had. I became easily angered, but would simmer in my contempt, never retaliating. I was a bottle, like the wine, aging over the years, growing riper with resentment. Fortunato got his taste of my cup.
I found it amusing and excruciating all at once to watch Isabella’s demeanor in the weeks that followed Fortunato’s disappearance. She would cry at night, as she thought I slept. I cannot describe to you the pain that I felt. I had not wanted to harm my sweet flower. She was too precious. But night after night, her tears fell for my enemy. Months, years even passed and still she would not engage in amorous behavior with me, nor would she acknowledge me as lovers should, but grew colder and more distant each day. Pain does something to a person’s mind. It festers as it is left unattended, and grows more and more threatening. My heart was a putrid, shriveled thing in the depth of my chest, so heavy with emotion. It is a natural tendency to stamp out what ails you. And so began the next chapter in my revenge.
My mistress herself had a taste for wine, much like Fortunato, and rarely turned down an opportunity to accompany me on an outing in which the delectable beverage would be consumed. This made my task fairly simple. I did not intend the same fate for my lady as I had imposed upon Fortunato, however. She would not suffer, and in turn, when it was done, neither would I. I had acquired a concoction from my friend Rodrigo, an apothecary, skilled in his craft. The vial of odorless liquid would go unnoticed blended with a glass of my very own Amontillado, appropriately. The poison was said to have an immediate effect, taking its victims gracefully. I asked Isabella to come on a walk down to my vaults and have a taste of a fine wine I had been saving for a special occasion. She was eager to taste the wine, and took the bait without any resistance. She followed behind me closely down into the murky hallways of the cavern, gripping my arm tightly, a gesture that almost rendered my sympathy. The dampness of the air chilled her, she claimed, and she pressed in close to me to stay warm. Shaking off my sentiment with extreme difficulty, I continued on.
“The wine will warm you, my love,” I whispered to her, smiling.
“Let us not stay here too long. I’m not in a fit temper for romance.” Her words cut me, and indignant, I hastened my stride.
We reached the end of the long narrow hallway, and there before me was the tomb I had built for Fortunato some years before. The wall I had laid was sealed tight, the bones scattered about just as I had left them. I reached for the Amontillado, which I had left in the same spot as before, tipping the vile of poison into its mouth in the dark, concealing my hands in the shadows as not to reveal my intent.
“Taste of this, my love.” I extended the wine to Isabella, and watched as she greedily drank to her death. Within seconds of swallowing, her eyes, before, vibrant and large, glazed over as the lids became heavy, transforming her countenance into one of a person asleep. She tried to reach for me, stumbling, and collapsed onto the heap of bones at my feet. She lay there for several minutes, still, as I stared into the darkness, letting the reality of my crime sink in. The cool damp air of the cavern chilled me to my bones, and I shivered, a hint of regret creeping over me. I looked around in the darkness, searching for I know not what, and a mad panic spread into my thoughts. I felt weighed down, as if the ghost of Fortunato was beckoning me, seeking me out to repay me for my actions. Desperate with fear, I hurriedly made a tomb for Isabella, just like the one that had imprisoned Fortunato. My hands were clammy and my brow was adorned with nervous beads of sweat as I worked in the darkness. As I knelt on the floor laying the mortar, I could hear the scattered bones snapping against my weight, making me cringe in disgust. I wondered to myself what had become of Fortunato and if he was anything other than a heap of bones himself. A wave of intense emotion washed over me as I laid the final brick, my hand trembling. Panic stricken, I fled the vault, gasping for air as I emerged into the cold night air. I returned to my home, days later, much to the surprise of my house attendants, who had thought me dead. I had slept in a field for three days, dreading my capture. When I returned home, finally, I spoke not of Isabella, and no one had the courage to ask anything of me. The mystery of her disappearance was not a lengthy one, most people assumed she had fled off somewhere, heartbroken and scorned. She had a reputation that did not speak well of her in the village, she was not immune to scandalous slander, and I was not opposed to spreading it to keep the rumors from finding the terrifying truth that even I could not bring myself to believe. I kept mostly to myself in the years following, and went about my life as I had before. I never took another lover, and never another true friend. Betrayal was a crime too wretched to go unpunished, and bitter, I trusted no one. I have led a lonely, discontented life, and now in my old age, I still cannot escape the horrifying dreams replaying the gruesome deeds I’ve done, and here I am still, years later, dreading my enemy’s return.
Perhaps in the end, I have lost, for my own vengeance has taken everything I held dear and locked it away in the dark and cold . . . and I have built my very own stone wall.