1 . Name: stubs @ 2010-11-08 08:01

Here's some emo shit I posted before the chan 'sploded. Beta'd by cancel.

He was the evil here. He had left her alone for many long years. He was buzzing around in her mind all the time, and when they were together he never stopped telling her how much he loved her, and still he never replied to her letters, never called, and never visited.

She wondered if he was dead, but knew he could not have been. He was too strong to die. He could leap over any hurdle placed before him. There was no obstacle too great to be surpassed by him.

And besides, he’d promised her he wouldn’t die. If nothing else, he was a man of his word.

He’d also promised to return, and return he did. When the doorbell rang that cool October afternoon and she opened the door to his sheepish face and a bouquet of posies, she felt an overwhelming rush of euphoria that she had never experienced before. She embraced him for the first time in several years, and welcomed him into the house that they had once shared. They would share it again too.

They had a quiet dinner together, made small talk of her sons and what they had done with their lives. One in construction, one working in small engine repairs, one a plumber, and the rest living in run-down apartments, nursing alcoholism and a herd of children from various mothers.

Her only son that had grown up to make anything of himself had been killed in the line of duty while working for the military. The only comfort that she had left was in knowing that her only good son had died a near-painless death, found with a knife in his back and tears staining his cheeks.

The company that he worked for had provided her with a hefty chunk of change and their condolences for her son’s years of service, but the cash did nothing to seal the hole torn in her heart. She dared not mention this to her other sons, who were still under the impression that his contract was just a very long one. If they knew she had this sort of money, she would never hear the end of it. Her phone would ring nonstop, her other sons asking her for money to buy this or that. Whether they liked it or not, they would have to earn an honest living by themselves. She wasn’t going to pay for them to be lazy, useless men.

When he showed up again though, there was a tiny flicker of light in her life again. It didn’t matter that the majority of her sons were unemployed and abusive to their families, or that no matter how many fancy dresses she bought for herself or how much she paid to have her house fixed up, she still couldn’t fill the gap left by her son’s death. All that mattered was that he was back and he said he was back for good.

The evening was the best she had had in years. He took her out dancing after their dinner, and treated her like a princess, like he had years ago. He brought her home well past midnight and made passionate love to her until she was aching and exhausted, but happy. They fell asleep together just as day was breaking, and she did not wake up until early in the afternoon. It had been years since she had had such a sound sleep as she did that night.

She woke up the next afternoon cold. She got up to go make coffee like she always did, and sunk into a chair at her kitchen table to sip away at it. It was sugary, just like she always drank it, and when she downed the last mouthful it was almost syrup-like with the not-yet-dissolved grains.

She went back upstairs to get dressed and her heart leapt when she saw the slip of paper on her night table, folded in half and propped up against her alarm clock. On the up-facing side of the paper was her name, written in an impeccable scrawl, so neat and tidy. She knew who had written it. She picked it up and carefully unfolded it. The light crinkling of the paper roared to match the pounding of her heart in the silence of her bedroom.

After the first paragraph, she was crying. Partway through the second, she had sunk to her knees in defeat. By the end of the third and final paragraph, the paper was soaked and the ink was running, and her hands trembled violently, so close to ripping the paper in half. She didn’t need to read the conclusion announced in the last four words to know that her son hadn’t been murdered by some anonymous assassin.

Even though the last few years made perfect sense with the information revealed in the letter, she didn’t want to believe it. She stared at the last four words first with disbelief, then denial, then finally malice.

Tense as the sheet was, it eventually gave and tore in half. She collapsed and the two pieces of the letter slid from her hands to the floor. Though her tears masked the majority of the words and a good paragraph of the letter was smudged beyond legibility, those last four words remained as visible as ever.

I killed our son.

She let out a wail and crawled to her feet. It took her six steps to cross the room, and once she exited her bedroom door, she was gone.