Inspired by VU, of course. Much respect.
Part 1.
A cold, grey dawn broke over a lonely horizon. A noiseless wind drifted to the east, too soft to rustle the rotting leaves littering the ground beneath the empty branches. Warmth was returning to the world, and with it, to an unmoving figure began to stir, sitting next to a shallow, rocky grave he took no notice of. It was a man, too young to show the mark of the years upon him, but too grim to show any innocence in his face. Fingers, clenched painfully from the cold, uncurled painfully as blood coursed through them. He was dressed in military fatigues, yet no rank, no name, no nation adorned his clothing. Shivering, for the first time in an eternity, he brought a hand to his throat, to clumsily grasp a dog tag and rediscover his name. “Wait Out”, it said. But that made no sense. It was simply radio protocol. And there was only one.
Answers were needed, and there were none here. The only sure possibility, is that something, somewhere, had gone terribly wrong. Though the figure walked steadily onwards, time refused to pass. The dawn had stalled, sunlight refusing to return to the world. And what seemed like hours later, as he struggled over a final rise, he looked towards the valley, and stood completely still in amazement.
It was a home. Yet not. Where once had stood a small, proud house, this one leaned at a crazy angle, half-sunken into a swamp. A brick wall had fallen outwards, leaving an obscene, gaping hole at the base through which water flowed. Weeds grew on the balconies and landings. And finally, the roof had completely caved in, daylight visible through what was left of the framing for the shingles.
A voice spoke. “Go inside.”
Memories flooded back. Dishes sat collecting dust in the cupboards, paint they had chosen together peeling off the kitchen walls. Two snow shovels for clearing the now non-existent driveway sat together in a closet, the blades smothered in cobwebs. He drew his fingers over the plastic handles, thinking of how she’d insist on helping him with her ridiculously small shovel, protesting she didn’t want to feel like a princess. He closed his eyes and exhaled, concentrating on breathing slowly. Then, composing himself, he walked into the bedroom.
The futon frame had given way at the sides, now forming a low A-frame. The mattress was rotting. The stuffing had collapsed onto opposing sides, while the fabric slowly tore into two at the middle. A corner of the room had caved in, through which light entered. They had made a lot of love here. At first truly, openly. Then passionately, hungrily. Imploringly, desperately. And finally, despairingly and lost, not understanding what had happened to the other and unable to be close.
The other rooms held little meaning, aside from the scattered possessions inside them, meant for domestic dreams which had never survived their stressful lives and turbulent relationship. In the very corridor where he stood, as a young man he sat on the floor in despair, staring bleakly ahead while he told her it was his fate to be alone, her afraid and now uncertain of herself, no longer able to reach him. He’d told himself at that time it was simply melodrama, self-pity borne of weakness and fatigue. But standing here now thinking back, he realized he’d meant it, and he’d kept to his statement as faithfully as a promise. Without ever consciously deciding on it, he resolved never to open his heart to women again, passing off his deepest wounds and immaturity that was beneath him to acknowledge. After that night, they met once more to return her possessions, neither truly speaking to the other. Afterwards, they never saw each other again.
He left the crumbling house, a tightness around his chest. As he stepped on firm ground away from the sinking house, he noticed a presence before him.
She was willow thin, a gauzy white dress hanging off her shoulders from her breasts to her ankles. She was perfect, young. Her posture betrayed no fear, discomfort, or malice. He made eye contact, held it defiantly, keenly aware of his own pitiful physical state – until he saw the kindness in her eyes. Ashamed of his own suspicion, he broke his gaze to the side, and then returned it.
“Ask me what this is,” she said.
“I know what it is,” he said, unhappy with her line of questioning, and how she saw through him.
“It is a ghost, my love.” She spoke softly.
He said nothing, silence weighing on them like a solid object. Wishing to distract himself, he turned to her. “Who are you?”
Without emotion, she replied “I am death.”
He looked at her. “Can you give me peace?”
“I can give you nothingness, if you so desire.” He looked again at the sad, pitiful house, and then towards her.
“Not yet.”
Death stood, watching the man at work. He moved through the house methodically, wetting the floors and counters with gasoline. When the house was ablaze, they stood together, watching unmoving for hours, perhaps, until the flames consumed it, the skeleton of the framing collapsing on itself, the marsh swallowing everything.
All that remained was the quiet landscape. “I feel empty,” he said.
“If you dwell here, it will come back,” said Death, quietly.
“What about her?” he said. “Will she be alright?”
Death turned towards him with a look of sadness. And all at once, the insanity of a man tending to a ghost struck him, and he would have laughed out loud but for the tragedy of it. How much of his life had he wasted? And seeing the realization in his eyes, Death smiled, and the man grinned back. He took the single dog tag from his neck and kissed it, then threw it in a long, slow arc towards the memory of his first true love… but a love that had ended. He then walked away from the trap, being very careful not to look back or tarry.
