The blood ran freely from the singular slash to his submerged wrist, the very force charged with keeping him alive blending with the warm water in which he lay, a distinct lack of caring in the callous flash of teeth when he looked grinning at the door. Rhythmic banging became the drumbeat of deaths march as fists forcefully slammed against the door, helplessly reverberating the solid oak panel that stood between him and the women who had called him husband, lover and soul mate but it only widened the callous flash of teeth.
Of all life’s incentives and motivational encouragement the razor, as sharp and flashy as his current facial expression, had endeavoured to win the argument that began that Friday night with much earnest, and vodka. The bottles removal from its long slumber on the fridge’s shelve had left a telling void, even more telling was the morbid intent behind its removal as the liquid energetically escaped its confinement and found a home in a tall glass, soon to reside in his blood stream.
For the whole time the glass had rested in the hand of a dead man, his slumped posture and lacking energy as he lazily bypassed the mouth for a swift entry direct down the back of the throat a mere delay before the fatal act. A happy reminder was vividly staring him in the face in the form of a posh picture frame, within which rested a wedding photo sickeningly overflowing with infectious joy, but not enough to douse the finely tempered depression lurking behind the blank eyes fixated on the picture perfect window into that day.
He had heard her keys rattle in the stiff lock; gasp as her heels clicked into the dimly lit lounge to find the empty bottle and now she was incessantly banging on the door, an exhausted sigh lingered with his fading breath. She screamed something about not doing it but it was too late, panicked tones demanding him to open the door as the rhythmic beating lost its fevered tempo, his eyes closing slowly as the peace and quiet he craved was only broken by the occasional drip from the tap.
Blackness enveloped him as the crimson shade of the water took on a darker shade of life, expressionless, still limbs flopping slightly as bloodied razor clattered to the floor, his grip weakening with as much pace as the dying pulse in his veins. Her sobbing an unwanted emotional backdrop to the final seconds of consciousness that clung desperately to mortal life, even if his will to endure had let go a long time ago.
The sound of a lock shattering, voices screaming and flashes of green in his blurred vision as he was forced to look up at the paramedics elevating his limp arm, binding cut flesh with reddening fabric to stem the bleeding, and her. His wife could be heard violently trying to push her way into the room, equally violent was her screaming at him to hold on, in between showering abuse as she berated her visually lifeless spouse for doing this to her.
It all went movie ending black, silent relief as his last articulated thought was ‘She’ll be pissed with me if I wake up, or not!’ what minute energy that lingered went into contorting his face into a grim flash of darkly inspired humour.
Ghost of a Shadow 