Eternally Lost: A Voice From the Grave

Eternally Lost: A Voice From the Grave

January twenty-fifth wasn’t any different from the seconds, minutes, days, and weeks that made up the forty-seven years of my life. The only real difference lay in the fact that unlike the scattered, lost moments of those forty-seven years, I now lay lifeless on the freezing asphalt just two blocks from where my wife and daughter filled the space without me. My wife—a sleepless, nervous wreck because of yet another note, another attempt, and another frozen moment—probably wondered if I’d succeeded this time.

A deep sadness flowed through me as I began to realize—a bottle of valium and a fifth of vodka too late—the magnitude of what I’d accomplished. I’d murdered a woman’s husband and a little girl’s father.

Only now did I stop to wonder what my daughter would remember of me. Would she remember how we’d spent those rare, lazy afternoons together—days considered rare because her mother and I weren’t arguing, and I wasn’t wasted—eating butter and saltine crackers? Or would she only remember the shouts that had pierced ears far too young to understand the words being launched through the air like weapons of mass destruction?

And years later, when she’d reach the age of wanting to visit me, would she bring flowers? Would they wilt by the time she found me? The disquieting knowledge sat in the deadened gut of my lost soul. I knew I would miss her wedding day, miss the birth of my grandchildren.

I would miss so much.

I took a step away from the scene, a scene unfolding like a movie before my eyes. I looked back as the sheet lowered to cover my soulless face and wondered if I’d ever find my way home.

© Copyright 2011 Gemma James