White Marble
He could not sleep. He had come home from the funeral two nights ago and hadn’t slept a wink. Now he sat in the corner of their bedroom, shivering, covered in a cold sweat; the pistol trembling in his pale hand. How had it come to this? He could not remember. The last two nights had been a blur, and the only thing that remained with him was the merciless cold. He had come back from her funeral to a cold, damp house — and it had been like that ever since. The fireplace burned and crackled, but the unearthly chill of the room remained. But deep down, he knew it wasn’t the room, or the house, or the storm thundering through the conifers outside. His heart had felt like a block of ice since he buried her. And slowly, the chill had spread through his body, freezing his veins and rotting the blood inside them.
Crouching in the corner of their bedroom like a coward, he tightened the reins on his mind. Every time it wandered, her lifeless face would flash before his eyes. They had fixed her up they had patched up her wounds and she looked like a doll a porcelain doll her skin so pale so beautiful in her coffin her skin in her grave PEELING OFF HER SKIN PEELING OFF HER EYES MELTING SCARS BRUISES SHE HAS NO FACE HER STITCHED MOUTH — he was screaming again-screaming through an aching throat and tightly sealed lips, for he couldn’t bring himself to make a louder sound. Would they believe him if he told them how he had lived for the past two nights? They had certainly believed him when he said she had fallen down the stairs and split her head open on the floor below. His beautiful wife, young and in good health. The only heir of a wealthy father. Oh, a tragedy — and how naively the village had mourned! No, it didn’t matter if they didn’t believe him. He had to put an end to this. Another night of the aching cold would kill him, surely. Still shaking, but with new vigour, he scrambled to his feet.
A bolt of lightning outside, and he caught a glimpse of his eyes in the mirror — wild and ablaze with fear. The man in the mirror was but a shadow of who he was not too long ago. The pistol felt heavy in his hand. What am I going to do? Shoot a dead woman? Shoot her until she dies again until she finally dies for good and leaves, and I won’t even bury her this time? Burn her. Burn the wretched witch — his grip tightened on the cold steel. (to be continued)
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Neeharika Nene
