My Dear Melinda

"My Dear Melinda"

Oliver D. Anderson

Every stroke of the brush through her thin black hair tossed it aside, causing it flip up and fall back to her scalp like dozens of black snakes. Snakes hissing and menacing, ready to strike and send me away. I almost wished for it. I wished for them to take me away from this place. My young bride turned to me. Staring through eyes of such dark brown they looked black to all but the most observant of men. Black eyes piercing through the snakes that lay in wait, hung from her head. She opened her mouth to speak, but I could hear nothing. She could talk all day and never say a word. All I could hear was a drone of sound as if someone was sitting on the keys of an organ. Every second I despised her more, I hated her, I hated myself for marrying her, for letting myself be drawn in by those eyes, those mystifyingly beautiful eyes.

She was a child when I met her; young and carefree. She must have been ten years my minor, and too young to marry. Still I waited, and when it was acceptable I married her. I knew I had made a terrible decision; standing on the altar in front of friends and family. She read her own vows. Each word floated from her mouth, hung over the crowd, and made its way back to me; branding the meaningless, chauvinistic dribble on my brain.

She was still talking, not looking at me or even talking to me, as she must know I didn't listen to a word she said. I never would respond to her questions. I used to; "I don't know dear" but I had grown to say nothing in response to questions I could not answer anyway. She did not take the hint, however, either of ignorance or simple not caring, and she changed her speeches to avoid my input. Her voice fell into a rhythm that was almost soothing and I drifted off to sleep.

I was standing in my bedroom looking at the ceiling. There was something about the room that I could not identify. There was an atmosphere that seemed strangely foreign. Then I realized what it was: silence. But there was something else, I was no longer filled with the hate I had clung to for so long. Something else was in the pit of my stomach, twisting my innards around, and making me nauseous. I suddenly felt vomit gather in my throat and leaned over to let it out when I saw what I was standing over. Her white top was stained red with blood and a crimson trail ran to escape her body. I froze staring at her dark eyes. They stared back with all the life of their former selves. The black eyes staring through me and to some undetermined point in the sky. I could not avert my gaze. Those eyes seemed to stare up with relief.

I was awakened by sound of porcelain plates on the table. The announcement of dinner was made and I pulled my tired body out the sanctuary that was my chair. This is where I had made my home in recent times. Dinner was a stew made from leftover roast of the night before. I ate it quickly staring at the dark liquid before me. It was a good stew and I cleaned the bowl before my bride could sit down to feed herself. She looked up at me with those eyes. They drew me in and I found myself lost in them. It never seemed she was looking at me but always to a point on the wall behind me. It was infuriating. Those eyes of such depth and mystery would never really look at me. As I gazed mindlessly into her eyes I was reminded of my dream; her eyes looked with the same blank stare and mesmerizing spark. A spark. That is what had always drawn me to her eyes like nothing else. A spark I could not identify, not of life or death but of something greater, almost of pain.

I didn't sleep much that night. I lay awake thinking of her. She had something to hide. I knew it. That is why she could never look at me. That spark was saying, "I know something you don't". I thought of the dream. It had seemed so real. There was something about it that seemed almost irresistible, a feeling of ecstasy that I could not stop thinking of. As I lay next to her, hating every breath she took, I thought I could be going insane. I thought of living my dream.

I woke up alone Sunday morning. My wife had gone to church, an event I no longer attended. I had grown tired of the meaningless rituals and feigned attempts at salvation. It was also my only time alone all week. Today I spent most of this time catching up on sleep, not dragging myself out of bed until after ten. I stretched and opened the closet to dress myself. As I did I looked down to the wooden chest on the floor. A large padlock hung from the latch, keeping out all but my wife. It was her personal chest that I was never allowed to open. She told me it contained something dear to her she could never share with anyone. I accepted her word at the time, but now looked upon it with disdain. Whatever she was hiding, I was sure it was in that box.

She arrived home early, still dressed in her church clothes. She opened her mouth to speak and did not stop until there was food in it. She made two sandwiches for lunch and again stared through me as I stared back, lost in thought. I was still thinking of my dream. Over my near sleepless night I had grown used to the concept of fantasizing about my wife's demise, I had even embraced the idea. Now as I watched her eat I could think of nothing but those eyes, still looking through me, even as her body and mind die. After lunch I slipped a sheathed knife into my belt and covered it with my shirt.

That night, after my wife was asleep, I took the knife from hiding and held it in my hands. I ro-tated it in the moonlight, letting the reflection flash across my eyes. I ran my finger down the blade to feel how sharp it was. It cut my skin and a drop of blood rolled off my fingers, landed on the bedding, and absorbed into the white sheet; leaving behind a red stain that would never be removed. I turned the knife to my young bride; gently dancing it inches from her soft back.

The next morning, I woke up early to the sound of something moving around in the closet. I noticed my wife was gone and I knew she was in her chest. I slipped silently out of bed and walked as slowly as I could to the closet door. I still gripped the knife tightly in my fist. I placed my palm flat against the door and pushed it open. I heard a chest slam and my wife turned to face me. Her eyes glanced from mine, to the knife, and back to mine. For once she was at a loss of words. I stood there for a moment, lost, before taking a step towards her. She never struggled or tried to escape as the knife pierced through her abdomen. She stood there, still looking through my eyes, and let the knife slide out of her body. Blood fell from the wound just below her ribs and rolled down her body to the floor. She took a single step in my direction before collapsing face up on the floor. I looked straight ahead and then down to her body. Blood was running from her side and laying out a crimson trail to my feet. She was dead already, yet her eyes stared with no less intensity. That feeling of ecstasy I had imagined hit me. I closed my eyes and smiled. I hadn't truly smiled in years, but I did now.

As I was thinking of how to clean up the blood, I remembered the chest. The lock lay on the floor near the chest and I knelt down next to it. I lifted the lid off the chest and let it fall back. Leaning forward I anxiously reached into the chest and pulled out a stack of papers; documents. I shuffled through them and chose one at random. It was from a mental hospital. My name was on the top of it. I read on. "The subject displays severe schizophrenia and mania resulting in the physical and sexual abuse of his wife." Skimming the document I saw: "severe delusions", "threat to himself and others", "electroconvulsive therapy", "memory loss". I found more. Release forms signed by my wife, my dear wife. I stood up and looked down to her. Her eyes star-ing into mine, not through me, I choked on my own breath as my throat filled with vomit. I collapsed to the floor, releasing it. My stomach filled with something I cannot describe. It wrapped me up and threw me back to the wall. Out of breath, I sat up and dragged myself over the body of my wife to the old oak chest. I frantically rummaged through it, looking for something, anything. I pulled out an empty bottle of medication addressed to me.

My mind was racing but I couldn't think over the pain tangling up my stomach. I glanced down to the floor and met my wife's eyes, watching me. They followed me around the closet. I couldn't escape them. I let out a moan of fear and remorse. The eyes still would not leave. They stared into me, into my soul. I couldn't break the connection between them. I had to stop them. I had to leave. I reached for the bloody knife lying by me on the floor. I held it in front of my face and tried to calm myself. With shaky hands I took the knife to the head of my dead wife. Acting quickly I slid the knife under her eye to the back of her socket, where I pushed up on the knife, careful not to cut into her eye. It was released from the socket and lay on her cheek, blood ran down the side of her face. I cut the cord connecting the eye to her head. I did the same to the other and dropped the knife to the floor. I looked down to the eyeless face of my wife; her empty sockets pooled with blood. But the eyes still stared. As I held them in my hand they stared into my eyes with the same spark as ever. I collapsed in the corner with an eye in each hand, never breaking the contact between us. I didn't sleep that night. I stood looking at those eyes, those magnificent eyes and I didn't move. 

I don't sleep anymore. I spend my time lost in a world of brown so dark it would appear black to all but the most observant of men. I keep her eyes in a jar by my bed, where they can stare and I can stare back. I can stare at the eyes of my dear, perfect wife. Stare into the eyes of my dear Melinda.