"Forgiveness" by Andy Holberry

Forgiveness

by Andy Holberry

The water, warm but not hot (I never liked it scalding), lapped at my lower body with every movement. This has been the… what? Tenth or eleventh attempt?

I hope this one takes.

The razor glints in the light cast from the overhead bulb. No shade, just a bare 60 watt glass dome. I've always wondered why people choose to die this way. Maybe it's poetic to some, or maybe it's just quick. Less messy than a gun, more sure than a hangman's noose.

Gently, I roll the pad of my thumb down the edge of the steel, marveling as it slices effortlessly through the tight skin, drawing a thin line of crimson. There is no pain, just a light sting.

I've had worse visits to the doctor. But, of course, the real test will be slicing through flesh…dragging down, opening a vein.

I remember the last try. Threw myself down the stairs, didn't I? Thought that would end this curse that I have hanging over me. 

Who would have thought a house, this house that I used to share with my family, wouldn't want me to leave. I woke up at the bottom of the wooden flight, my neck twisted at an obscene angle.

I knew it was bad when I saw my spine under my chin.

That wasn't right.

The long bone in my leg poked out, splintered and broken, through a rent in my thigh. Then it began. The bone retreated back into my body, the flesh knitting together. My head, broken and  split, twisted back to true on a snapped spine. Bones popped as they realigned. Agony like white-hot fire flowed through every part of my body.

I felt everything.

Soon the tears came, and with them the images of my wife and children. I saw them as they walked up the stairs, walking through me without stopping. I tried reaching out, talking, pleading.

Nothing worked. They have been gone a long time, but the house won't let me forget, and it won't let me die.

Maybe it wants me to remember them?

Maybe it's just lonely and wants to keep me around?

Maybe, and this is what I believe with all my soul, my family is here and they want me to stay with them. But every time I see them, I lose a little more of myself.

Why not leave? 

Well, I would, but everytime I get to the front door it ‘moves’. That is the best way I can describe it. Whenever that happens I can hear the sweet laughter of children, like the tinkling of wind chimes. It is distant, but it is there.

So here I sit, with the straight razor that Shelly gave me for my last birthday. It draws me, whispers to me. It knows my name and I'm not surprised.

The first cut is the worst. It hurts like a mother… but I persevere. It's something I have to do. Maybe my family - this house - will finally let me rest in peace and be with my family, but I don't hold out much hope. I think they want me to live, to carry on. How do I tell them I'm ready when I cannot talk to them or ask for their forgiveness.

They are ghosts, images of the past like old movies played at half-speed. I didn't want to kill them, but I had to. I had to get the evil out of them before the darkness consumed them all.

I am not the bad person here, not the killer of innocents. Although some, well, most would disagree.

Screw them!

I knew exactly what I was doing. I did it for them. And I would do it all again.

Blood, red and running, colors the water. A pool of it spreads like oil on the surface.

The second cut is easier, but it still hurts. As I lay my head back and wait for the darkness to take me, praying it will be the last time, I see my wife and children standing just outside the bathroom door. The children stand next to each other, holding hands.

She takes a step into the room and shakes her head with a small, wan smile.

And I know I have not achieved forgiveness, not even close. This was her home before I came into her life. Her very soul is in the bricks and mortar. Down in the basement, in the loose earth of the fruit cellar, this is truer than ever before.

And her house, her soul, will not let me die.

Not ever.