Mr. Wobert

The moon is full and high in the sky tonight; or so I hear. If you were in my vehicle with me, you would not see the gleaming moonlight. All you would notice is the hazy clouds that blanket the sky above, and the dense, grim fog that envelopes all. The only other sound, other than my strained breathing, is the light pitter-patter of rain that echoes through the cab. I can imagine the droplets of rains plummeting from the grace of the heavens above and shattering as they crash onto the roof of my car. It is not enough to be considered a downpour by any means, but just enough to draw my attention from my dire needs. But the aroma from the bottle at my side stirs me back. The glass is cold within my grasp as I take a sip; the liquid burns a little. I swallow and return the bottle to my side. Time to get on with it.

My fingers grip the keys that dangle on the steering wheel, and the engine ignites. The engine rumbles, spiking up and down in a thunderous roar, before it reaches the point of idling. The music of the engine serenades me, but it does nothing to ease my torment. I inhale for a moment, drawing a heavy drag from the cigar between my lips, and for a brief instant, the glow from the vice illuminates the dashboard. According to gauges, the tank is near empty and the mileage is high. It has been a longer-than-expected campaign up to this point. The winding roads, the undiscovered voyages, and driving-in-circles have taken their toll. However, remaining stagnant in this fog is undesirable. I flip a knob, and the car becomes less gloomy. The dashboard flickers to life with a dim glow, and the headlights radiate ahead of me. My foot presses downward on the pedal, and the car lurches forward into the unforgiving mist.

            I drive slowly through the grey fog. The beams from the headlights have trouble penetrating the dense miasma. There is no sense of direction as my hands turn the wheel. Am I going forward? Perhaps I’m going backwards. Is there even road underneath the bald tires? I haven’t a clue. Another puff on the cigar draws the toxin into my lunges. It provides warmth within my chest that is quite different than the chill within the cab. The following exhale blew the smoke into the dashboard. The fuel gauge is dropping further, and the fog is growing thicker. Am I ever going to reach the destination I crave?

There is more pitter-pattering on the roof as I push the vehicle on. Murky water splatters onto the windshield. The wipers slide across the glass, allowing my view to be not obstructed. Suddenly, more of the murky water splashes across the windshield. The wipers swing faster and faster, right and left, right and left, but they only seem to smear the liquid on the glass. It is much thicker this time; perhaps like tar or some other substance. Slowly the car comes to a stop as I apply the break. The gears shift into park, and after another swig from the bottle, I open the door to the misty, frigid air.

            The fog engulfs me and my transportation. The illumination from the headlights refracts off the fog and gives the area surrounding me a dim glow. The only sound in the air is the rumble of the motor under the hood.

She was warm in my hands. Even in the icy rain that showered down on me that fateful night, she felt warm in my hands in the dim moonlight. She must have been there for no longer than an hour; she was still surprisingly fresh and not sour. The chill and grim mist in the air did what it could do to cool her lifeless flesh, but it still felt warm to my touch in the grimy mess. Against the wishes of the rain and the steady stream of murky water that had trickled through the gutter, blood had remained pooled around her form in gothic manner. A flash of a camera, and a smoky crackle that was like thunder to my spine, lit the scene for an instant, and within that moment, the whole world seemed to be silent, still, and rather carelessly distant. It was not like the warmth within my grasp.

            The passing world wouldn’t have noticed that scene on any other night. It was just a snippet, hardly a grain of sand, in the fabric of time and space that was unrelenting in its motion forward like any other night. Another flash from the camera, followed by another toll of bell, and the scene was frozen; locked in an inescapable cell. However, it was not the photograph that trapped this scene in a bondage of context, spectacle, and interpretation. It was the feeling of that setting, the atmosphere of that gloomy night, that will haunt my observation. She was still warm in my hands.

            The cobblestones of the alley did nothing to cushion that giver of life. She would dance and beat no more after that fateful night. It took all my fortitude, all my constitution and will, to look down upon such a dismal sight. There was nothing I could do, nothing I could say, that would deter such feeling misery and blight. She was surprisingly strong, must have put up quite the fight, even though she had been battered, bruised, and cast out during every midnight. I could do no more with the horror at my feet. I called for my carriage and left the sight. All I could do was remember warmth, and hope that some pearly gates she did meet.

The horses thundered through the narrow streets; their hooves echoing off the bricks of the path and close-knitted buildings. The driver hopped from his perch atop the carriage and opened the door so I could quickly take my seat. However, I was in no mood to hurry from the graphic scene of dread amongst the dreary sleet. I marched past the powerful horses to my ride, and I swore their strong, bounding hearts could be heard from their chests. Thud-thud-thud-thud went their organs deep within their breasts. One last look back toward her was all I could muster. The thought of her warmness was all that conjured within my mind without much fluster.

            Darkness engulfed me as I climbed into the carriage. I had escaped the rain from the heavens above, but the devilish carnage of the scene still clawed at my soul. The crack of a whip shook the foundation of my being, and away we went with great haste and flow. The carriage rumbled and tumbled through the town with a grim howl, and all I found myself doing was wandering back to that image of foul. No manner of comfort in that coach could resurrect me from the depression that weighed on me that eve for I found it cold and muggy like a moor once owned by thee. The lacking of the warmth that my fingers had once touched plagued my concentration that entire ride home.

            To my bed chamber I did climb, hoping to escape the reality of the world and to leave her far behind. The rain continued outside, much harder than before, pounding the roof in a manner that resembled a drum. My soggy clothes fell from my body like a snake that had shed its skin, and in that moment of being cold and in the nude, I found myself surprisingly numb. My flesh was balmy and cool, unlike the smooth, warm touch of hers. Enough of that madness and dreary thought; to bed I went to forget the mortal sin and dark plot. But no manner of bedding or furs warmed my slumber; all I could think of was her warmth and temperature.

            My eyes felt heavy, and against the wishes of the outside world, I fell into sleep. Tossing and turning, my rest was disturbed with the nightmares that did creep. They seeped into my consciousness, these dreams for me to keep, and soon there she was in front of me as I counted sheep. So full of life and love she once was. Even through all the turmoil, the unrelenting strain, and the constant need to resist every perversion that would do her harm, she remained true to her cause. No manner of destruction seemed to stop or tarnish the thought of beauty, love, and compassion that fueled her strength. The auras of beauty and romance were what attracted her the most, and to obtain this she went to such great length. But no manner of travels seemed to fulfill her need for warmth.

            Closer she came to me; she was so full of desire. Each step she took sent trembles through the air. Boom-boom-boom-boom; each strike of the chord stimulated my passion for her love and made it into a raging fire. I could feel with warmth of what I saw and inspired, especially in my breast. With great determination and will, it took a leap of faith into the dismal quagmire to retrieve the long sunken chest. The key is old, sturdy and worn, especially in these dark times, but no manner of lock was to keep affection from being born. Her hands gently pressed against my chest, and they felt warm; just like the standard norm.

            But the stroke of midnight did much to unravel such a blissful dream. Gong-gong-gong-gong – like old father time – and all happiness was tore away at the seam. The warmth of her touch across my breast vanished. The strain was intense, a pain unlike no other, and she was ripped away and banished. Screams filled my ears, blocking all that would be music in my slumbering delusion. She, my once loving, compassionate mistress, was then turned into a vile mirage of fear. No longer was she warm to the touch. She was cold as ice and left me in great distress.

            Broken was my slumber, and upward from the sheets my body sprang. My revolver on nightstand was my protection against all evil, and my hands quickly grasped the cold steel of the firearm. BANG!-BANG!-BANG! My shots echoed through the chamber, but no manner of bullets could stop the evil that lingered. I stretched the pistol ahead of me, into the darkness of my room, but there was nothing, nothing at all. The wind howled outside my bedroom window, rattling pictures on the far wall. I shouted for the demon to show itself; I got no response. I clenched at my chest; my heart should have been racing and ready to launch. But there was nothing, nothing at all.

            There was no pounding or turmoil within my breast. My organ should have been furiously beating as if to abandon its nest. But nothing, nothing at all resonated from my chest. I was awestruck with fear and terror until it all became clear. The images of her laying there on the stones brought back the feeling of dread and fear. Instead of the being full of life and passion which once was her calling, she was shattered, abandoned, and trampled from continually falling. She was what I cherished most in this reality, my reason for living, and all that was left was a hole in my humanity.

There I sat, amongst the covers of my bed, the feeling of nothingness enveloping my fat. There was no life, no passion, remaining within me in a world that was for the taking. She had fought with all her might, but sadly, she couldn’t withstand my blight. Forward time went, into a future so bleak, with me playing the living dead, a lifeless wreck. No compassion, no love, healed the grave that was left. She was all I had, and all the warmth I felt came from her; she was a piece of art. T’was miserable what happened to her my beloved heart.

Cold steel buried into one’s skull.

A bullet was in the chamber;

Its emotions were at a null.

While in unforgiving slumber,

It waited to slice through warm flesh.

The thunder would be a witness.

Beads of sweat covered each skin.

One is from panic, the other from dread.

Neither were brothers, or of kin,

But one would live, the other be dead.

One is filled with determination,

But both have a gory depiction.

Did one’s eyes open when the time came?

A single flash should be enough

For dreams to cry and to be tame.

It did not matter who is tough,

‘Cause life was to be cut short.

There was not any time to abort.

Two heartbeats pounded in their chests,

Both entwined in shared suspense.

Two breathes, one from each breast,

Took in stale air and were tense.

The face above shined white and cool,

Even though there was blood to pool.

Two minds envisioned the prospect.

Who was to live? Who was to die?

That was for only one mind to trek.

Neither did share a tear or cry,

For the deed had to be complete.

The choice was made; never to be delete.

Beneath the endless black blanket,

The eyes did glare downward to see.

They gazed on the forming portrait,

Like a horror on the marquee.

Was it revenge, or was it fright,

That pulled the trigger with such might.

It came, the awful flash and bang.

Just as it did, so did the light,

And upward so did one sprang.

An incubus from the last night

Had come to torment one’s sweet sleep.

And so the demon had done her creep.

But does one wonder the meaning,

Of what unfolded in the dream?

Does it leave the one baffling,

Craving an answer to the scheme?

Did one control the brash hoodlum,

Or did one play the frail victim?

Did one control the cold trigger,

Or did one play the martyr?

            I sit rather straight in the hard-backed wooden chair with the gloomy courtroom – a gloominess that encases the somber hall like an eerie mist – foreshadowing my fate. Even through the grave atmosphere – that coils like a serpent spawned from lady justice herself – compressed my flesh, I still feel the steel bondage around my ankles and wrists. I can only wait for the stage when the rough hands of death entwine around my neck, and take me from this land of heathens to the plain of martyrs. Then, my last confession to this world is read: “SIR – You have asked me to give a history of the motives which induced me to undertake the late insurrection, as you call it” (Gray 7). While my last testament is being read – like a sermon from the quagmire of hate – to the angry, or frightened, or perhaps blissful mass of onlookers that have gathered, the act that had transpired, begins to imbue my mind. With the image of my deed flooding my psyche, “it was possible, I reflected, that a mere different arrangement of the particulars of the scene, of the details of this picture, would be sufficient to modify, or perhaps to annihilate its capacity for sorrowful impression” (Poe 1553). I remember the night I became a Prophet.

            At first, the spirit – the apparition from the paradise of the holy book – came to me, and told me of my destiny. It was a “dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low… I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country” (Poe 1553). I was pulling a cart of young Negros, recently bought by Master Roderick, who slept peacefully – unaware of the impending bondage of hellish servitude they had been selected for – to the rhythm of the wheels against the dirt track. They were young boys, and their names were Will, Hark, Henry, Nelson, and Sam – my soon-to-be devoted apostles in my cause and gory combat. Suddenly, it came to me. In a flash of blinding light – as if illuminating purpose onto my soul – the spirit “said the Serpent was loosened, and Christ had laid down the yoke he had borne for the sins of men, and that I should take it on and fight against the Serpent, for the time was fast approaching when the first be last and last should be first” (Gray 11). Just as quickly as the spirit had appeared, it vanished. I had no idea what it meant at the time.

            I was unaware of how long I had been rendered entranced, but what seemed like an instant to me had been in fact many moments in reality. Our journey almost came to a grim conclusion when “I reined my horse to the precipitous brink of a black and lurid tarn that lay in unruffled luster by the dwelling, and gazed… upon the re-modeled and inverted images of the gray sedge, and the ghastly tree-stems, and the vacant and eye-like windows” of my master’s home (Poe 1553). The throbbing agony of my service at that malicious house swept over me like a cold frost; it sent dagger-like chills across my spine. With a heavy sigh, and another slab of burden placed my shoulders, - like the world on shoulders of the great Atlas – I drove myself and the boys to the front door.

            After directing the boys to the cabin of the overseer – who most likely quickly broke each one of them with his dastardly whip as if he was to break-in a wild stallion – I went to see Master Roderick. Inside the grim residence, I took note of its purgatory state: “Dark draperies hung upon the walls. The general furniture was profuse, comfortless, and antique, and tattered. Many books and musical instruments lay scattered about, but failed to give any vitality to the scene. I felt that I breathed an atmosphere of sorrow. An air of stern, deep, and irredeemable gloom hung over and pervaded all” (Poe 1555). I felt as if I was walking through the valley of darkness from the Bible – through a necropolis of fallen aspirations and dreams – while I marched to my master’s bedroom. I loathed every moment in that accommodation crafted for the Devil himself.

            Upon my arrival to his bed chamber, the possessor of my body glared at me with “a cadaverousness of complexion; an eye large, liquid, and luminous beyond comparison; lips somewhat thin and very pallid… a finely moulded chin, speaking, in its want of prominence, of a want of moral energy hair of a more web-like softness and tenuity” (Poe 1555). I stood at attention for him to deliver my report, but that mattered not to him; I was five minutes late, and my tardiness was unacceptable. He struck me repeatedly with a passion unmatched by any mortal – A showing of Herculean strength from his deep-seeded cruelties toward my race – while his bare fists bludgeoned my flesh. After I was no longer even able to kneel in servitude, he ceased his course – though I believe he wished to flatten me to represent a rug of submission. He ordered me out, and I thus retired to my shack amongst the other slaves. However, before departing the grim setting, I was accosted by Miss Madaret. She was usually a sweet blossom of innocence, but in that moment, “the maturity of youth, had left, as usual in all maladies of a strictly cataleptical character [she exhibited], the mockery of a faint blush upon the bosom and the face [taunted me], and that suspiciously lingering smile upon the lip which is so terrible in death” laughed at me with her cruel words (Poe 1561). I needed the peace of my Bible after that.

            Night crept over the sky like a blanket full stars, and in turn, I put down my Bible for the bliss of slumber. Sleep was my only true moment of pleasure in my forsaken life, other than the few instances of time when I can read from the Holy Scripture. But that night, the spirit blossomed in my thoughts. It quoted the Scripture to me while “I saw white spirits and black spirits engaged in battle, and the sun was darkened – the thunder rolled in the Heavens, and blood flowed in the streams” (Gray 10). Then, visions of paradise followed. The sweet chirping of birds around me soothed my soul, the warm glow of the sun’s rays across my skin healed my aches, and the sight of my freedom from my bastard master opened my soul to the gateway of happiness. There was even a song being sung in the background. I don’t remember many of the words, but I think it went something like this:

In the greenest of our valleys,

By good angels tenanted,

A fair and stately palace –

Snow-white palace – reared its head…

[With] banners yellow, glorious, golden,

On its roof did float and flow…

Wanderers in that happy valley

Through two luminous windows saw

Spirits moving musically

To a lute’s well-tuned law,

Round about a throne, where sitting

In state his glory well befitting,

The sovereign of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing

Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,

And sparkling evermore,

A troop of Echoes whose sole duty

Was but to sing,

In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king. (Poe 1558-1559)

I think the song was called “The Haunted Palace” for some reason, but I don’t know why. Nonetheless, I knew the paradise from the song was mine for the taking. I wanted it; I craved it; I desired it. At the end of my dream, “the Holy Ghost had revealed itself to me, and made plain the miracles it had shown me… As the leaves on the trees bore the impression of the figures I had seen in the heavens, it was plain to me that the Savior was about to lay down the yoke he had borne for the sins of men, and the great day of judgment” was among us (Gray 10-11). I was to lead this judgment day; and it was going to start with the deaths of Master Roderick, and his daughter Miss Madaret.

            Immediately, I went to the quarters of the young lads that I had knowingly brought to their doomed life of wretched slavery. They were lying in bed when I entered, groaning from the agonizing torture of the whip of the overseer. Blood pooled around each one of them – coagulated on their bed rolls of fabric – as if their souls craved to escape from their bodies. With the power of the spirit behind my voice and words, I delivered a powerful sermon to motivate them into action:

Are we men!! – I ask you, O my brethren! Are we MEN? Did our creator make us to be slaves to dust and ashes like ourselves? Are they [the white men] not dying worms as well as we? Have they not to make their appearance before the tribunal of heaven, to answer for the deeds done in the body, as well as we? Have we any other master but Jesus Christ alone? Is he not their master as well as ours?… The whites have been an unjust, jealous unmerciful, avaricious and blood thirsty set of beings, always seeking after power and authority… We see them there, cutting each other’s throats – trying to subject each other to wretchedness and misery, to effect which they used all kinds of deceitful, unfair and merciful means [on us]… But we will leave the whites… as heathens… In fact, take them as a body, they are ten times more cruel, avaricious and unmerciful… [Therefore my brothers, we will] take vessel loads of men, women and children, and in cold blood and devilishness, throw them into the sea, and murder them in all kinds of ways… [and] they are completely prepared for such hellish cruelties. (Walker 1689)

They became my followers – my soldiers and apostles alike, for the crusade against the whites – instantaneously. A flash of lightning illuminated the room, but they all saw the red passion of a blood lust in my eye. The crackle of thunder was like a battle cry for the beginning of our evolution of sovereignty. A heavy rain fell in sheets moments later, and covered our charge to the house. The murderous raid had begun.

            The pitter-patter of rain obscured our footsteps through the dismal household. Will, the oldest of the teens, was to be my apprentice. The younger boys were to watch from the doorway when “it was observed that I must spill the first blood. On which, armed with a hatchet, and accompanied by Will, I entered my master’s chamber, [but] it being dark, I could not give a death blow, the hatchet glanced from his head, he sprang from the bed and called his wife, it was his last word” (Gray 12). Without warning, Will leapt into action, and brought down his great cleaver like the Hammer of God. Blood splashed onto the pillows, wall and sheets when Roderick’s wife lost her head in one clean slash. The others rushed over with such great haste that they almost knocked me to the ground. Behind the group, I saw, in my master’s wide eyes, “there was a species of mad hilarity in his eyes – an evidently restrained hysteria in his whole demeanor. His air appalled me – but anything was preferable to the solitude which I had so long endured, and I even welcomed his presence as a relief” (Poe 1562). I scrutinized the boys as they hacked away – with a furious rhythm of swings that matched the thunder – for the reason that I yearned to dismember my antagonist.

            I commanded my disciples to dispose of Master Roderick’s and his wife’s bodily pieces, and then continue onto the next estate adjacent to Roderick’s. I was to stay at the mansion, and make it mine. I looked up to Roderick’s coat-of-arms, while the boys begun to heave the limbs of Roderick out the window, and glared at the family symbol as if it was an idol – a holy symbol of his terrorizing deeds against my race. I pulled a sword from the behind the shield, and held the saber like it was an extension of my appendage. With the bed clear, the boys departed to continue the campaign. With the sword representing my mace of power – my scepter of divine grace from the heavenly father – I claimed my master’s residence. But then, I remembered the last obstacle in my path: Miss Maderet.

            I stormed into her pink-walled bedroom, and gazed amongst the dolls and child-like things. Miss Maderet, “when I discovered her, had concealed herself in the corner… On my approach she fled, but was soon overtaken, and after repeated blows with [the] sword,” was  rendered cataleptic (Gray 13-14). The steel blade in my hand was rather dull, and had not sliced her to bits. I pulled her from her bed by her arm, and dragged her limp, lifeless body to the ground floor. The echoing thud of her small head as it thumped down the staircase rang like a church bell. I hauled her to the dark basement that would be her resting place – her forever tomb to mark my first murder. With a heave, I flopped her into the basement which “was small, damp, and utterly without means of admission of light; lying, at great depth, immediately beneath that portion of the building in which was my own [master’s] sleeping apartment. It had been used, apparently, in remote feudal times, for the worst purposes of a donjon (dungeon) keep” (Poe 1561). The young girl seemed to stir, and looked to vanquish her comatose state when she collapsed into the bunker. I eyed the sword in my hand, but another wand of destruction caught my eye. I lifted it from the floor, and held it above my head – upward to the heavens to be baptized because “the Saviour had been baptized so should we be also” (Gray 11). With the power of Christ in my hands, “I killed her by a blow on the head, with a fence rail” (Gray 14). The sound of her crushed skull resonated in the entombment.

            With my assertion to freedom at its conclusion, I retired to my bedroom; my former master’s sleeping chamber. Even though the large bed was soaked in the blood of my villain and his companion, I found a comfortable spot in between the splatters of gore. It was the softest mattress I had ever felt. With no effort of all, the bliss of slumber engulfed me. I dreamt that night, that I was a paladin of faith – a Knight of the Templar for the crusade of sovereignty of my fellow Negro brethren – and with a drunken lust for blood and power, found the grandest treasure of the land. To reach that treasure, I swung my baptized beam through the wilderness, massacring those in my path, with the fence rail thundering – with echoes “so cracked, and ripped, and tore all asunder, that the noise of dry and hollow-sounding wood alarummed and reverberated throughout the forest” (Poe 1563). But suddenly, I awoken from my blissful illusion in a fright – fore it seemed that the same noise of my crusade echoed through the mansion. I glared around, but there was nothing. The storm continued outside, and quickly I reckoned it was just the wind – the wind of freedom and change. I revisited my dream and slumber shortly after.

            In moments, I was back on the quest of glory to free my enslaved brothers. I came to an elderly hag – pale as the snow around me – that begged for mercy, but I dispatched her with one blow of my mace of justice. Her death-cry was “a shriek so horrid and harsh, and withal so piercing” that I leapt from the bed in bewilderment, because “I did actually hear a low and apparently distant, but harsh, protracted, and most unusual screaming or grating sound!” (Poe 1564). Without a forewarning, the bedroom door was caste open; sheer terror and horror overwhelmed my soul. At the door, Miss Maderet stood with “blood upon her white robes, and the evidence of some bitter struggle upon every potion of her emaciated frame” (Poe 1565). Even though her face was crushed beyond expression, I felt the portals to her soul were glaring at me in a revulsion I had never experienced before. Then, she overtook me, and “in her horrible and now final death-agonies, bore [me] to the floor a corpse, and a victim” (Poe 1565). I was found the next morning, unconscious at the foot of my master’s bed, after the massacre of fifty-five whites had concluded.

            My intellect finished its recollection of the events as the reading of my confession is ended: “I am here loaded with chains, and willing to suffer the fate that awaits me” (Gray 18). The judge, with all the power of his gavel in his hand, glares at me. His beaming eyes cast judgment on me – as if he is the true Spirit that gave me my power that faithful night. Did I fail? I believe not. I imagine my path to Heaven is secure. After another moment, the judge asks me if after everything that has happened, “Do you not find yourself mistaken now?” and I proudly retort “Was not Christ crucified?” (Gray 11). That is not the answer he wants. With a thunderous pound of his hammering gavel, he gives my verdict: “The judgment of the court is, that you be taken hence to the jail from whence you came, thence to the place of execution, and on Friday next, between the hours of 10 A.M. and 2 P.M. be hung by the neck until you are dead! dead! dead! And may the Lord have mercy upon your soul” (Gray 21). The courtroom roars with an ovation that can be heard throughout township. I do not care.

            That night, in my jail cell, the Spirit graces me one final time with its presence, and I am given a vision. There I was, hung from the gallows, swaying back and forth in the gentle breeze – when the sun was at its highest peak. The crowd of onlookers was silent in awe, but unaware that I stood amongst them. Suddenly, a dominant ray of light engulfed the scaffolding for the hangman’s duty – like an earthquake sent from God. The sun lowered into the abysmal tremor, and then swiftly turned to a “blood-red moon… [and] while I gazed, this fissure rapidly widened – there came a fierce breath of the whirlwind – the entire orb of the satellite burst at once upon my sight” (Poe 1565). The gibbet I hung from crumpled to the earth in bits and crumbs, and then, the fragments ascended in resurrection. I was a free man; a liberated gentleman; an equal.

Bibliography

Gray, Thomas R. The Confessions of Nat Turner, The Leader of the Late Insurrection in South       Hampton, VA. Baltimore: Lucas & Deaver, 1831. Documenting the American South: The Southern Experience in Nineteenth-Century America. Ed. Carlene Hempel and Natalia   Smith. 1999. Academic Affairs Lib., U of North Carolina, Chapel Hill. Web. 3 Nov.       2009.

Poe, Edgar Allan. “The Fall of the House of Usher.” The Norton Anthology of American   Literature. Ed. Nina Baym. 7^th ed. New York: W.W. Norton and Company, 2007. 1553-            1565. Print.

Walker, David. “David Walker’s Appeal in Four Articles.” The Norton Anthology of American     Literature. Ed. Nina Baym. 7^th ed. New York: W.W. Norton and Company, 2007. 1687-   1690. Print.

The alarm triggers its usual annoying tone at the exact time it has been set to for eternity. It is always the same blaring noise. It always seemed to be at the precise moment in time when it was most inconvenient for me. The buzzer would continually interrupt some fantasy I was living whilst in a dream. I could have been in the grasp of a handsome white knight. Perhaps my prince-charming had finally conquered the evil king and rescued me, the entrapped princess. None of that matters now though. The bothersome tone disrupts my slumber. There is a bright side to the agonist clamor though. It means my lover awakens.

            It doesn’t matter which side either of us fell asleep on; our eyes always open to each other’s face. My eyes flutter open to his. It is as if I can look deep into his eyes and see his soul. Oh my how sweet and innocent I feel when I look deep into his orbs. The blueness of his eyes is like catching a glimpse at the magnificent ocean, the clear pristine water at the beach perhaps, at the perfect moment of relaxation and romance. How wonderful it feels when he gazes upon me. We are just a couple of young lovebirds with our souls entwined in bliss. It is his eyes that attract me to him. I adore those perfect, passionate, loving eyes of his. Oh James, I love you.

            I watch as he stirs and stretches out in the bed. He then leans in and gives me a light kiss on the cheek. His lips were smooth and warm against my delicate skin. We exchange smiles before he slides out from under the sheets, hops off the bed, and makes his way to the bathroom. His smooth rear sways back and forth as he walks. I still can’t believe he got his backside waxed for me. It is a sacrifice that must have been difficult for him to do. He has always said he preferred the natural look, but I just love the feel of hairless skin. My lovely form follows him into the bathroom. I have always believed I am a stunning and attractive girl.

            I step into the bathroom, and already his hands are on my form. He always wants to play in the mornings. His hands slide over the silk nightie that tightly hugs my curves. I must admit, his hands always feel wonderful when they slide across the silk of my nightwear. I let out a giggle and grind my rear back against his pelvis. He wants to have me right there in the bathroom, but he can’t have me today. I thrust my rear backward hard, and pull it back just enough to give us space. I watch his face in the mirror. His eyes peer toward me, and I can read the confused expression over his face. His eyes do not look away from me, and I get a sense he wants affection so bad, but he can’t. I wiggle out of his grasp. My index finger shakes back and forth at him, signaling no. He lets out a sigh in defeat before walking out. I look at myself reflected in the mirror for a moment before my frame leaves the view of the mirror. I, however, continue to stare at the mirror. A vacant, expressionless, empty image reflects back at me. I am just a hollow aura of my true self.

            I know there is nothing wrong with the mirror. It shines brilliantly as ever. Its smooth, glossy finish reflects every detail with such clarity. Even with a sparkling of dried droplets of water on the mirror’s surface, it does not hinder in its effort to reflect. I can even see the old stains of chipping paint on the walls around the bathroom. That was a great day. It was the first day we had settled into this place. We were so happy at the time; so in love. Those were the best of times.

            “Do you like it?” James said to me while he admired at his handiwork.

            I stepped up behind him and wrapped my arms around his chest, just under his armpits. We swayed back and forth for a moment while my eyes took in the scene. Each tile had been delicately placed in the small shower by the former owners of this apartment. It could have been a master craftsman that had spent hours of work to make his bathroom perfect. And there I stood, looking at the wonderful tiled shower with cheap, pink paint all around it. “Think you went a little overboard with the paint?”

            “Hey, if my girl’s favorite color is pink, then I’m going to give her the pinkest bathroom in all the land,” he proudly replied.

            “Hmmm…. Does that mean I can have the living room pink?”

            “Not a chance.”

            “Thought so.” I giggled. “What color of pink is that?”

            “It’s called unspoken love….”

            I gently kissed his neck. “I love it.”

            “Glad to hear it.” He whispered as he slowly spun around in my arms to face me.

            Our eyes instantly locked onto each other’s. Even with the pink walls surrounding us in rose light, his eyes were still an amazing blue. My hands slid down from his under his arms and gently coiled around his waist and hips. The paint bucket and brush dropped behind me with an echoing clank. He smiled and gently pressed his lips to mine. I melted into his kiss and into his arms when they enveloped around me. Our bodies became pressed together in perfect unison. His hands slid up and down my back as we shared kiss after kiss after kiss. I didn’t want our lips to break apart. Suddenly, his hands caressed my bottom, and lifted me off the tile floor. I gasped in surprise and on instinct wrapped my legs around his hips. He murmured in response, and then he gently stepped back into the shower. I kissed him again; much stronger and passionately that time. He jostled me against the wall, and turned on the showerhead.  The water began to drench us.

            “What are you doing?” I said in a soft voice, directly to his ear, as I kissed his neck.

            “I’ve always wanted to kiss you in the rain,” he cooed into my ear. “Figured this was as best of time as any.”

            “How sweet…”

            That is a good memory. I snap out of my trance and return to the sight of me staring at the mirror. My hands gently move across my face as they apply make-up to my skin. The tank top I have put on hugs my chest and pushes up my cleavage. The short shorts, with the words “sexy” across the back, make my rear firmer than it is. I have never had a great butt in my opinion. I think my breasts are my best feature. Compared to the other girls in our apartment complex, I am the only one that isn’t full of plastic. None of that is a concern to James though. It doesn’t matter how I look or what I do to change my appearance. I am always an angel in his eyes. Even when things are rough, I never fall from my pedestal James has planted me on.

            I fix up my hair in a ponytail before leaving the bathroom. That’s when I see the bed has been made by me. The silk sheets have been pulled up, and the thick blanket has been stretched across the whole surface. James never notices how I would make the bed on days like this. I take great care in making the bed in my special way on these days. James never sees it. He is dressed and in the kitchenette before I make the bed. He never notices anything is out of the ordinary. He always notices everything that is about me and tries to pamper me, or he used to, but now, he never sees what is important to me.

            I find James at the table, reading away at his newspaper. I am seated at the other end of the table, working on a bowl of cereal. The clanking that comes from the spoon sliding across the bottom of the bowl echoes through the room. The only response is the crinkle of the newspaper. He concentrates on the business section for a long while before he moves onto the sports section. My eyes glare down at the front page that has been set aside. My eyes look to read the headlines for the day. For some reason, the characters look different to me. The whole newspaper looks like gibberish to me.

            My eyes just see this:

            “Damn, time to head to work.” James says as he puts down his paper.

            “Ok babe. Have a good day at work.” I say with a smile.

            “How about a kiss from my hummingbird?”

            “Sorry hon. Ummm… my lipstick is already on, and I don’t want to mess it up when Cindy and I go out to lunch.”

            “Come on, just a quick peck?”

            I look up into his eyes as he looks down at me. I get a sense that he wants a kiss so bad. I smile and giggle in front of him, but I don’t give him a kiss. He leans in to gives me a kiss, but I playfully push my head aside. He stops for a moment, leaving his head close to mine, before he closes his eyes, and kisses the far back of my jaw – where it meets my neck. He lets off a soft sigh as he holds it for a moment before moving toward the door behind me. His hand touches the handle, and that is when he glances at me. I can see his hurt look. His soft eyes become a rosy red, and his saddened look eats away at me. I should have just given him a kiss.

            He walks out and slams the door shut. My head turns, and I watch the lock turn from the outside. His footsteps echo off the old wooden floorboards as he marches away. I smile and quickly finish my bowl of cereal. As I am rinsing out my bowl, my phone vibrates from the incoming text message. I look down at it, and my eyes grow wide with joy. Christopher’s text reads simply, “I’m on my way over.” I shiver in anticipation before I quickly run back into the bedroom. I watch as the blanket across the bed is pulled away, and the spandex bondage outfit comes into view. I quickly slide out of my tank-top and short shorts. The newfound dominatrix-side within me starts to come out as I carefully buckle the harnesses and the straps of the outfit.

            A smile moves across my face. I remember how I met Christopher. It was a night when James had to stay late at the office, working on some business meeting. I had been growing so lonely with the long nights of James being away from me. When we were first dating, we couldn’t be separated. But as things progressed, James was pulled further and further away from me. James’s career as a stock broker was starting to take off when we got married. He was well on his way to becoming one of the firm’s best advisers. But all the company success had a major flaw. It meant James was putting his job above me. I had to take a backseat to his career. That was not how things should have gone.

            That night, after putting up with the loneliness and lack of attention, I stared to browse the internet. I surfed through the chatrooms of various websites, looking for some sort of attention. The wanting for any kind of interaction was too great from me to handle. After a while, I came across a bondage website. It was a random occurrence – a typo and a mis-click – but I was instantly intrigued. It was such a foreign thought to me. I had been raised like a princess, sheltered from the darkest aspects of life. But the strangeness of the whole idea of being a mistress was a seed never planted within my mind. I was used to being pampered by everyone; especially James. He tried so hard to give me what I needed to be happy. However, he had never given me anything like this. The seed had been planted.

            The thought of being the dominant female, the master in total control, grew. The more I browsed the website, the more fascinated I became. The seed had grown into a tall tree, and I had tasted the forbidden fruit plucked from it. Then, an instant message popped up on the screen from “tapoutslave 69”. He asked me how I would feel about giving him a “good spanking”. I laughed it off, but the thought stewed in my head for a little while. Soon enough, it exploded. The next night, when James had left for a two-day business trip, Christopher came over. He helped me dive deep into the idea. After that, I was buying whips, chains, and every other material for my new lifestyle. I wanted to be the real mistress of power.

            That was a few months ago.

            My mind returns to the present as I pull out my secret bag full of toys. I am still surprised that James hasn’t discovered the bag. He probably would have a heart attack if he sees what is inside. I dump out the contents and watch them spill out onto the bed. Whips, chains, ball-gags, paddles, and other devices spread out in a little pile of torment. I watch while my hands run through the pile. I lift up a green strap-on while thinking of Christopher. It is his favorite toy when I wear it. Christopher is a weird guy, but I love the feeling he gives me. He is completely willing to let me abuse him as I see fit. Oh what a power trip I embark on when I’m with him. It really has helped get me get through the feeling of being abandoned by James. Our once-a-week events are so pleasant; or at least pleasurable for me. Suddenly, a knock comes from the door.

            I quickly throw on a bathrobe and answer the door. My eyes gaze on Christopher as he walks into the apartment. His Tapout t-shirt squeezes his amazing chest and large muscles. He works out every day. His physique is his pride and joy; it is my flesh to control. I coax him over with a devilish smile. He marches over and wraps his arms around me. I am no match for his strength. However, I am his master, and he is the slave.

            “Alright big boy, kneel for me.” I order as I squirm out of his grasp.

            “Yes my mistress.” He says while getting on his hands and knees.

            “Kiss my toes slave. They are rather lonely this morning.”

            Christopher does exactly as he is told. He is completely obedient and subdued to do my bidding. I strap a leash on him while he suckles on my pinkie toe. I then make him bark like a lost puppy. It amuses me that such a strong, large man is on the floor like a mutt. He follows me into the bedroom where the fun really begins. Before long, I have him strapped to the bed posts, naked. I see the expression of pure bliss across his face, and it drives me wild. Momma is going to punish her baby. I place a blindfold over his eyes and gag him. Oh Christopher, you are going to be whipped until you cry tears of joy.

            I am so distracted at the moment; I don’t notice James standing silent and still like stone. There is a tremble in his lower lip, and a tear itching at his eye, wanting to fall. He tries to remain still, but his foot jerks. A floorboard in the doorway creaks. I look up at the door, and my heart goes cold. My eyes lock onto his set of bright blue eyes that are turning bloodshot and filling with tears. I don’t know what to say; I am completely speechless. Christopher has no idea James is standing at the doorway. The silence is unnerving. I swear that I can hear each breath taken. Finally, Christopher breaks the tension when he starts mumbling from the gag. James shakes his head and then runs out of the apartment. I chase after him, but he’s out the front door in a matter of seconds. I want to chase after him, but I can’t.

            The effects of the whole scene start to take effect of me as I stand in the kitchen. My eyes glaze over the outfit I have adorned, and the whip that is in my hand. I know I should be feeling guilty, but at that moment, I’m not. I’m confused. I mean, how dare James just walk-in on me like that. Who knows how long he had been watching. But, on the other hand, what a shock it must have been. Could he have just forgotten to grab his newspaper or maybe something? And then he came home to that. I’m so confused.

            I untie Christopher, and he soon leaves. He wants to start over, but I am too bewildered. I rip off my spandex suit, and put the tank-top and shorts back on. I throw all my gear back in the bag, and toss it into the closet; didn’t even bother hiding it. Emotions run wild within me as I sit on the corner of the bed with my face in my hands. James has been treating me like shit every since he got that damn job at the brokerage. The entire time we have been married, he has been a ghost to me. I am tired of it. I am just a trophy to him now. He has won my heart, even my soul, and now has placed me on the shelf. He thinks he is such a romantic husband, but he’s not.

            But I love him… I love him so much. He has always been good to me. He always put himself ahead of me. He loves me with all his heart. What have I done?

            I wait all day from him to come home, but he never shows. I become more and more worried that he isn’t here. He never was good at handling his emotions. Was he afraid of confronting me? I figure he is with each hour that passes. I try to stay up all night, waiting for him, but it’s no use. I lay down in the bed to fall asleep. It is the first time in a long while James hasn’t been in bed with me. I pull up the blanket with a tear slowly trickling down my cheek. We have this king-size bed, and it is usually so comfy. However, at this moment, it feels like a bed made of nails. I miss how wonderful it feels to have James in bed behind me. Our bodies fit against each other in a perfect pair.

            During the night, James does visit the apartment. I am long asleep, curled up in the blankets of the bed, as he softly steps through the front door. He is not the elegant and perfect image. His suit doesn’t look the same pressed and ordered it usually is. Even his tie isn’t looped around his neck and tied straight; it hangs loose and uneven. He creeps into the bedroom as if he is a specter. His eyes look weary and strained. Could he have been crying for hours maybe? I don’t know. He stands above me for a moment, the longest moment it seems, before silently shuffles around the bedroom, in the closet and in the bathroom. He hangs his head low, and looks like he is going to cry. Is he all out of tears? Before long, the apartment is empty except for me.

            The alarm triggers its usual annoying tone at the exact time it has been set to for eternity.

James is nowhere to be seen. I awaken, and I look around the apartment. It is exactly how I left it yesterday. I stagger from the bed, and go into the bathroom to take a shower. At first, I didn’t notice it, but just as I am about to step in the shower, I see something out of the corner of my eye. On the countertop are a small envelope and the day’s newspaper. I step up to the counter, and to my surprise, it is wet. I lift up the envelope and open it while my eyes glance over the countertop. I catch a glimpse at the headline in the newspaper when I pull out the letter.

            I open the letter and start to read. My facial expressions fill the mirror. James has an interesting way with words. At first, I suspect it is a letter full of hateful remarks about how I’m a cheating bitch, maybe rightfully so, but I am wrong. James keeps it rather simple and short. He talks about how he loves me and tries to give everything he can for me. He says he sacrifices all his deepest wishes for me so he can pamper me like the goddess that I am. I can hear his voice in my head as I read. The letter ends with him saying he will be home later to end all our troubles. What does he mean? I shake my head and set the letter down. How could I have been so stupid?

            I look deep into the mirror. I wish I am not the hallow girl I have become. Continuing to stare into the mirror, I step into the shower and begin to wash. I can see my figure behind curtain in the reflection. I stare at it, thinking how thickheaded I am. The letter lies on the counter, tormenting me. It reminds me of a similar letter, but one more romantic and good.

            “Your skin is a gentle meadow where each individual follicle of hair is a blade of grass that begs to be parted as my hand moves across your skin like a curious hare. Each curve of your voluptuous frame is a magnificent mountain range, and my lips are the adventurous climbers that are destined to conquer each ridge. Every time you speak, your words are a sweet elixir for my ears to drink. I am jealous of each particle of cloth that hugs your body when it should be my arms!” I read out loud.

            “Do you like it?” James asked.

            “Mmmmhmmm….. I love it.”

            “I want you to know how much I love you.”

            I giggled as he took my hands in his. “Oh really now?”

            “Oh yes. You are my world hummingbird. If I could, I would climb up to the stars, and pick you the brightest ones.”

            I leaned in to him and kissed him gently on the lips. The scene was perfect. He said he wanted to dedicate the night to me. He took me to the restaurant of my choice – sadly for him the most expensive one in town – and bought me a dinner meant for a princess. I was so happy. I even got to laugh at James when he got jealous at the waiter for hitting on me. He got so irate sometimes when other men looked at me. How foolish he was. He was so in love with me, and that proved it. The night couldn’t be any better.

            “Hummingbird…” James started.

            “Yes?”

            “There has been something I have wanted to ask you for so long…”

            I looked deep into his eyes. I knew what he wanted to ask.

            “Over these two years, we have been through it all hon. We have been to heaven, to hell, and to every land in between. I give you all I can my love. I give you my soul, my heart, and my flesh. You are my goddess; my angel; my warrior woman.”

            I laugh under my breath. He had such a way of going overboard when dealing with his emotions.

            “I am totally yours hon. I want to give you the world if you will have it. I want to give you all of me, if you will have it. I want to be with you forever, if you’ll have me.”

            “Oh James… Can’t you just ask one question? You always have to pamper me with your words and actions.” I rubbed his hand against my cheek. “I do love it though. I love it how you serenade me like a goddess.”

            “Babe, I don’t want you to ever feel like I don’t love you. I am your humble servant; your humble servant to kiss your feet and to be your slave. I love you that much.”

            “I love you too James, with all my heart.”

            “Will you marry me?”

            I wait all day for James to come home. Time slowly passes in the apartment, and it is excruciating. I grow restless. I try to plan out the confrontation between us. How mad will he be? How strong should I be about bringing up the point that he has abandoned me and that is why I have turned to Christopher? Should I beg for forgiveness? Should I make a stand for a change? I don’t want to lose him, but things can’t remain the same. Damn it. I love James. I love James, not Christopher. If I have to give up everything – the whips, chains, everything – then so be it. James is more important. He’s always been there, and always will be there. I was wrong; I should have gone to James first.

            Morning turns to afternoon, and then afternoon turns to night. Still there is no James. I cook myself some dinner, and still there is no James. I lie down in bed, and curl up alone again. I don’t want another night to sleep alone, but it looks like I am in for one. Suddenly, the front door opens, and James walks in. I move to the doorway and look at him. He drops his suitcase, and looks in my direction. He is hunched over, his eyelids are dark, and his face has a growing layer of hair across it. It looks like he hasn’t slept for at least a day.

            “Hey…” I softly say from the doorway. “You’re home.”

            “Had to stay late and finish up a contract.” James says from the kitchen as he gets a beer out of the fridge.

            “Is that all you care about anymore?”

            “What do you mean?”

            “All you seem to care about is your stupid job.”

            I don’t know why I’m starting so aggressive. Maybe it’s best to get all the anger out first?

            “That’s not all I care about.”

            “Well enlighten me then. Because to me, I’m just some girl you come home to. We used to be so close, so in love. And now it seems that all you care about is your job.”

            “I care about giving you everything your heart desires. That’s the only real thing I care about.” He sips the beer.

            “Well you aren’t. I want you. I have always wanted you.”

            He stands there, looking grimly at the fridge. I watch as he slowly lowers his head, and presses it up against the fridge. Before he closes his eyes, I notice him staring at the picture of us on the fridge. It was taken the night he proposed to me.

            “All I have ever wanted was to serve you with all my heart and soul. You are my hummingbird. I’d die for you.”

            “James… I love you. I really do. But you have never been around for so long. It is like you are a ghost haunting me. You are just a shell of the man I fell in love with.”

            I walk away from him and tumble into the bed. “That is why I went to Christopher. I need to feel loved, I need the attention.”

            “I know hummingbird… I know… You want me to be Romero… the romantic Romero.” He says from the kitchen. “I don’t know what to say… I try so hard to give you a life of luxury. I love you with all my heart hon. I always have, always will. I don’t want any other man to have you. You have always been my only love, my soulmate. If you left me for another man…I’d feel lost. I’d be nothing. You are my whole world hummingbird…”

            I wish I can hold him as he speaks. I want to wrap my arms around him so badly. I should not be in the bed.

            “What was that?” I say, curled up in the bed in tears.

            He slowly staggers into the bedroom, and stands next to the bed. I look up at him from the bed. “What do you want from me darling?”

            “I’m tired. I’ve been waiting for you all day, all night. Let’s just go to bed. We can finish this in the morning.”

            “If that is what you wish hummingbird.”

            “Goodnight James.” I turn away from him and close my eyes.

            “Goodnight Rosaline.”

            That didn’t go well, but I think a night to sleep it over will be good for both of us. The morning will be better to handle this.

            He stands above me for a long while, until I’m asleep. My back is turned to him, but that doesn’t matter to him. Tears stream from his eyes. Each one trickles down his cheek, down through is unshaven facial hair, and plummets off his chin to the floor below. I am fast asleep before he finally moves again. He drinks the rest of his beer, and goes into the kitchen. His steps are slow; it is as if he is walking through mud. After a few moments, he returns to the bedroom with his suitcase. He steps into the bathroom quietly. Gently, he opens his suitcase, and starts removing its contents. There is a black shiny outfit with metal chains, sticking out of his suitcase. There is also a glimpse of a bottle of some kind, and a handkerchief. What does he have planned? What are you going to do James?

            He walks into the room with both the bottle and handkerchief in hand. He steps around the bed, and stops in front of me. More tears trickle down his face. He leans in and gives me a gentle kiss on my forehead. It isn’t enough to disturb my slumber. What are you doing love? He gently places the handkerchief over my mouth and nose. He holds it here for a while, not hard enough to smother me, but close enough for me to inhale it all. What the hell are you doing James?

            He gives my cheek a rub, but I am unresponsive. “I’m sorry Rosaline… I love you so much… I can’t lose you to another man. Nobody else can have you.”

            He brings in his suitcase, and puts the bottle and handkerchief away. All my bondage gear is in the suitcase. Damn-it James, don’t do it. He snaps it shut, and looks at me. He shakes his head, and moves next to me. His hands move under me, and he lifts me from the bed. I am limp, but still breathing. He lays me over his shoulder, and grabs his suitcase. I am defenseless. He marches to the front door, but turns back for a second. He looks in my direction for a moment, but then leaves. After a while, he returns home, without me, and falls asleep.

            The alarm triggers its usual annoying tone at the exact time it has been set to for eternity. James awakens, and the pretty blueness of his eyes is on full display again. He stretches out on the bed in every direction. He rolls onto my side of the bed, and he feels the depression I have left there in the bed. It might even be a little warm still because I was laying there for much of the night. After a few more moments of groan-filled stretching, he staggers out of bed and goes into the kitchen. I follow him. He picks up his newspaper, and starts to read it at the table. He sighs heavily before turning the page. My picture is in the paper. It is an older picture of me, but I still look the same I did before. There is a story under it:

            James lets out a heavy sigh and leaves the kitchen for the bathroom. He tosses the paper into the corner of the countertop, and steps into the shower. The water begins to fall from the showerhead, and James begins to wash. Steam starts to perspire on the mirror. Mist expands on the mirror until only the bottom remains clear. The newspaper reflects in the mirror to me. The words are reflected back, and are readable. I read them, and become shocked. The mist fills the mirror fully, blocking the reflection. I fill with dread, my heart stops, and I lose all feeling. The bastard has killed me. The son-of-a-bitch killed me. I thought it was going to be ok. I thought the morning would fix everything. Why? Where? When? How? What the fuck? James, how could you?

            Everything goes black and silent. There is no feeling; no emotion; no memory.

            The alarm triggers its usual annoying tone at the exact time it has been set to for eternity. It is always the same blaring noise. It always seemed to be at the precise moment in time when it was most inconvenient for me. The buzzer would continually interrupt some fantasy I was living whilst in a dream. I could have been in the grasp of a handsome white knight. Perhaps my prince-charming had finally conquered the evil king and rescued me, the entrapped princess. None of that matters now though. The bothersome tone disrupts my slumber. There is a bright side to the agonist clamor though. It means my lover awakens.

            It doesn’t matter which side either of us fell asleep on; our eyes always open to each other’s face. My eyes flutter open to his. It is as if I can look deep into his eyes and see his soul. Oh my how sweet and innocent I feel when I look deep into his orbs. The blueness of his eyes is like catching a glimpse at the magnificent ocean, the clear pristine water at the beach perhaps, at the perfect moment of relaxation and romance. How wonderful it feels when he gazes upon me. We are just a couple of young lovebirds with our souls entwined in bliss. It is his eyes that attract me to him. I adore those perfect, passionate, loving eyes of his. Oh James, I love you.

The pitter-patter of the rain echoes off the walls of my bedroom. The steady beat of the falling tears, splashing onto the tin roof, encompasses me – besieges me. I sit here on the edge of my bed, alone. My only company – my companionship if you will – is the sinister darkness of my ambiance. A tempest resonates outside, and the grand flashes of lightning illuminate my gloomy cell for instants at a time.

My head feels heavy – overburdened with nightmarish rationales. It limply hangs from my neck as if it is still barely attached to my form. The connection remains, but has the control been lost? I gaze downward in a meditative-like trance. Another flash lights the room. My arms rest on my thighs, and my palms are open and turned upward toward my drooping face. My watery eyes itch; it is an irritation from my soul. A tear collects in my eyelashes; entrapped in the protective barricade for the portals of the soul.

My reddening eyes – my distressed portals – strain from the overwhelming pressure; the tear plummets into the shadows. In the dimness, the tear splashes onto one of my palms. A second starts its descent toward my mittens of destruction. There is another instant of illumination; I perceive bloody hands. The blood – the sanguine liquor – is still wet and warm. It drips from my fingers to the floor. The second tear lands unnoticed, joining the blood that covers my appendages for love and hate. Darkness engulfs the chamber once again. The pitter-patter of the rain echoes off the walls of my bedroom. Everything slowly quiets to a hush – a silence fit for a tomb.

*****

“Daddy… I’m scared… I want Momma…”

I stood in the doorway of my baby girl’s – daddy’s little princess’s – room. All her Barbie dolls, teddy bears, and other trinkets of blissful childhood innocence were scattered throughout her room. The rain – a restless barrage of sorrow – assaulted the roof, and the wind howled and bellowed against her window. Just a simple plate of glass shielded us from the true feelings of the tempest’s misery. With a flash of lightning, I was enveloped in pink wallpaper and Barbie posters. My eyes scanned her room – her sanctuary. They eventually made their way up to her cradle and across the pink bedspread. Another flash and I saw all I needed.

There was my girl – the better parts of my essence – all covered up in her blanket. Her little fingers held onto her chainmail tight, and she had it up so it was just under her chin. Her long brown locks stretched down around her shoulders and over the blanket. Her eyes – those sweet green eyes – were wide with fright. Darkness returned, but just as quickly as the shadows spread, flash! Only a covered, shivering, innocent silhouette remained in the bed.

“Where is momma? I want to be with momma…”

She missed her mother Jennifer terribly. I used to call my angel – my goddess – Jenni. But Jenni wasn’t with us anymore; hasn’t been for many sad, lonesome nights. She was off in a better place – a heavenly bliss I myself will never experience. She was taken from me; more like stolen. Abandonment in the gutters of humanity was not fitting – not acceptable – for a princess.

“It will be ok baby girl… Daddy will make it all better…,” I told her in the softest, most certain voice a father could. “I’ll be right back.”

My footsteps echoed throughout the apartment as I marched down the corridor. My feet felt heavy – more resigned – for each step bellowed from the wood floor. My room was the destination; it would be the commencement – even the conclusion – of Fate’s transgression this eve. Without reflection or a second consideration, I stood solemnly at my dresser. My fingers twitched – a hesitation. I opened the top drawer. No manner of concealment would prevent my search. My hand – my wand of force – slithered through the layers of garments with a cool precision. Cold metal excited the nerve-endings of my finger tips. I had what I was looking for.

By wrapping my fingers around the smooth furnish of the handle like a serpent around its prey, the connection – the amalgamation of sad will and definitive force – was complete. I exhumed the pistol from its supposedly final resting place. I raised it above me like a chalice – a Holy Grail of destruction. A flash of lightning; the gun glowed with an authority of domination. Darkness returned.

The firearm suddenly felt too heavy – too encompassed with historic damnation – to carry. It was lowered downward until it hung limply at my side; the bond was still intact. Muscle memory took over. We, the armament and I, had been at this point before. The skeletons of the past – the inner demons of the blackest part of the soul – were afoot once more. I eerily stalk the demons toward the familiar place. The thunder – the tempest’s groans of agony – rang through the corridor. It was an effective covering – a murderous accessory – for my footsteps and expedition down the hall.

Wooden panels, the tiles of lumber, changed to soft, fuzzy, pink carpet. There was no disturbance – nothing had changed – since the heartbeats that had previously transpired in this domicile. My little princess was still where I had left her: in the safety of her blanket-made cocoon. I slipped my hand behind my back; the gun, the purveyor of disheartening eradication, was hidden from my girl’s eyes. Slowly – with unhurried dedication – I traipsed the distance between us. I knelt down, on one knee, at the side of her bed. My fingers – soothing to the touch – combed their way through her hair.

“Daddy?”

“Yes sweetie?”

“I’m scared…,” she whimpered; it was a tender shedding of tears.

“I know you are hon… but you have to be strong for daddy.”

My girl gazed upward to me; there was confusion – innocent uncertainty – in her eyes.

“I can’t daddy… I wan–”

The flash of thunder and instant roar of thunder cut her off; she bawled in terror.

“Shhhh…. It will be okay my little princess. The storm won’t hurt you sweetie.”

I pressed down the hammer.

“It will all be over soon…”

I knew – I prayed – that this was for the best for her.

“I want momma…”

My finger traced the curve and cold metal of the trigger.

“I know you do love… I know…”

She deserved to be in a better place – an existence partaking that of a princess.

“Just go back to sleep… It will be all better in the morning.”

I shut my girl’s portals with the softest compassion I could harness; there would be no judgment from her soul. My sweet baby did what she was told. She settled into her shelter – her protective barrier from the evils of the world. Slumber’s sweet persuasion hopefully enveloped her. One final glance of her radiant purity and beauty was all my soul could partake – could consume like a sweet liquor.

The thunder – the tempest’s groans of agony – echoed. It was an effective covering – a murderous accessory. The inner demons of the blackest part of the soul were afoot once more. There was no stopping Fate’s transgression this eve. No need for reflection or a second consideration. The steady beat of the falling tears encompasses me – besieges me. My eyes, reddening under heartbroken strain, ran down the barrel while I took aim – steadfast and sure of the exploitation. The feel of cold steel – the icy sickle of Death – empowered the tiniest of nerves and silenced the loudest of adversaries. The gun – the contrivance of final resolution – fired.

A flash shrouded the room in light. The pistol kicked in my hand; my fingers lost their grip on it. Rumbling drums of shook the residence. The crack of the shot – the explosion of terror – rang through the house; followed by the grim thump of the pistol crashing to the wood floor. I prayed – begged – that the temptress outside, my sweet collaborator, did her part in covering my exploitation. The deed was done. And so, the memoir of the past, tragic transgression – the haunting of such destruction to such sweet innocence – was recited to my soul.

I still remembered – recalled every tragic detail – of the horrific episode. She sat there, looking like her angelic self as always, in her bed. Her eyes were brimming with trust; with faith; with hope. I never doubted – never mistrusted – her resolve in me. Her green eyes – her emerald gems – never peered away from my own; not even her luscious, brunette locks – the locks I’d run my fingers through every night before bed – could thwart her gaze. Even when the gun, that bludgeon of savage temperament, was pressed against her brow, I knew her love – her undeserving adoration – for me would never hinder.

I was powerless – void of enough resolve – to stop the incident. I was but a mere mortal; a pitiful excuse of a man. All my strength – my total allegiance to my deity – turned to icy stone as if she was not the goddess at all, but Medusa. Every muscle, every nerve, was frozen. The destructive blizzard was not caused by a seeping repugnance by my doppelganger, but by sheer terror and panic. There were no words that could illustrate the devastation that ensued. Just a flash; a flash was the only description I could conjure.

She was gone – stolen from me – just like that. No manner of existence, no manner of life, was complete without my angel. A storm, a tempest of melancholy, brewed. Tears – the rain of my heartbreaking – fell every eve. I was no longer a part of humanity. There was no resurgence – no resurrection – from the plummet. Such an act of self-obliteration – the abolition of my goddess by her own will – destroyed the soul; it only left a hollow frame of flesh behind. Why Jenni – my angel, my goddess – why did you do it?

*****

The pitter-patter of the rain echoes off the walls of my bedroom. The steady beat of the falling tears, splashing onto the tin roof, encompasses me – besieges me. I sit here on the edge of my bed, alone. My only company – my companionship if you will – is the sinister darkness of my ambiance. A tempest resonates outside, and the grand flashes of lightning illuminate my gloomy cell – my entombment – for instants at a time.

The blood – the sanguine liquor – is still wet and warm. It drips from my fingers to the floor. The second tear lands unnoticed, joining the blood that covers my appendages for love and hate. The pitter-patter of the rain echoes off the walls of my bedroom. My eyes slide to a close. I feel weak; my last strength – my ending essence – drains. Everything slowly quiets to a hush – a silence fit for a tomb.

“I love you Daddy…”

I stir awake. Slowly, I gaze forward. My girl, my princess, stands, cuddling her teddy bear in her pink pajamas, at my door. A tear – an innocent tear – trickles down her cheek as she stares toward me. Back down I gaze. The blood – and my sad soul – soaks through my shirt from the bullet hole, the single wound, in my chest, above the heart.

“I love you too baby girl…,” I am able to let out in a soft sigh. “I’m sorry…”

There is a flash – a single flicker of illumination. Then, there is only darkness. No echoing rumble follows; only a single beat – a singular pulsation. It’s quiet now. Everything is numb; everything is silent. Only a hollow form – a bare urn – of flesh remains. A storm, a tempest of despondency, brews. Oh how the tempest came.

     Darkness engulfed the sky as if it was a heavy blanket. It started as a trickle, but soon the flood gates opened up, and the rain began to pour. The crackle of lightning and the booming of thunder were all that were heard above the pitter-patter of the rain. The rain batted against the walls, but a few droplets made their way down the narrow corridor of the well. The icy cold droplets pinged off your head and shook you out of your unconscious state. Cold, covered with cuts and bruises, and becoming wet from the rain, your body trembled. Your hands, bound tightly in an inescapable bondage, rested behind your back. More and more rain fell from the heavens. Water trickled down a small drainage ditch and began to fill the well.

     The water pooled and began to rise up your calves. Your muffled screams went unanswered from the entrapment in which you found yourself. With each passing moment, your situation grew more helpless. Without exterior aid, your doom crept closer. You were in need of a hero, but none answered your calls. You’d even settle for a villain for a quick demise. I bet the water tickled your thighs as neither hero nor villain came. You squirmed all you could, but the ropes tied around you were too powerful of a foe. The rain continued to pour and the water rose. It toppled over your waist and up the flesh of your stomach. You called out to no avail. The only answer you received was that of the pounding rain.

     Soon the water flowed over your shoulders and signaled your upcoming end. As it inched up your neck, you called for a hero of a kind. Your chin dipped into the chilly water as it reached for your lips. With an icy kiss, your lips became submerged. In desperation, you tilted your head back to buy a moment or so. The water framed your face as you called out a last time. For what seemed like an eternity, the water wouldn’t end your misery. Your body, numb and unresponsive, your breath, short and unfulfilling, your heart, dribbled its lasts beats, and your soul, battered and heart-broken. The water finally washed over your face and soon your last breath bubbled at the surface. The rain settled and trickled to a stop. The lightning ceased and the thunder went silent. Everything became still as if nothing had happened.

     The question that comes to mind is what happened to the hero that you craved? Was your hero off saving another damsel in distress? That could be possible. Maybe your hero had been vanquished by the same antagonist that had put you into that scenario? That sounds pretty damn good to me. Could there have been no hero and you just decided to end it all yourself? I seriously doubt it, but you never know. So many possible answers go with that question, and yet, no answer seems to be golden. I know the truth of the events that night.

     Who am I you ask? I am just the teller of this tale. I am not the villain of this story, nor am I the hero that should have come and saved the day. I am just the bard, as I stand in front of this mirror, looking back on the act. I witnessed the dastardly deed in its entirety. From its swift beginning to its sluggish end, I watched it like a movie on the TV.

     How sweet, pure, and innocent you were. You treated me very kindly every time we met. Our relationship was rather friendly, and I must say it was rather nice. I played my cards daily to move our relationship further. The minx you were, however, would not have me. Immature you called me, and unattractive you blared. Battered and bruised my self-esteem became while I was in your vicinity. Soon I gave up on my quest to be your lover.

       I saw him grab you on the street tonight. He tossed you into his car and did as he pleased with you. He pounded away– not with only his fists. You had taken a beating before his pants landed on the floor. Hopefully it wasn’t too painful for you. Soon the car sped off down the road. I gave chase as I fought the shock of the scene I had just witnessed. The sky grew dark as the storm rolled in. Lightning lit up the sky for a moment or two.

     He pulled off the road and popped the trunk. As he tossed you to the ground, I could see the bruises that covered your body. A bucket and a bag he revealed from his trunk. Soon, there you stood in the bucket full of cement. Slowly he lowered you into the well that night. I stood in the shadows and did not do a thing. How cowardly I have become.

     The rain began to pour after he tossed in the rope. I think I heard him chuckle before he left. I crept to the well and peered down. There you stood blindfolded, gagged, and tied. You looked like a delicate flower in a pot. The rain fell and the well became full. There I stood in the moon light above you. I remember how you looked up at me, but all you saw was dark. Could you have sensed my presence behind that blindfold perhaps? The water flowed over your head and finished you off. After your last bubble popped and the rain had stopped, I marched home and came to this mirror. How grey and dismal my life has become.

     I could have saved you; yes, I believe I could. I wanted to save you, and make you mine. Happy we could have been together, you and I. However, the hero inside would not lift a finger. You pushed me away and I stopped caring. My self-esteem couldn’t hold up against your rejection. The good inside me faded away. The hero inside me disappeared and decided to fight no more. I’m sorry babe that your life was cut short. Hopefully, you will find the happiness I could not offer you, in the heavens above. It is very sad what occurred this night. But what can I say? This is what happens, when heroes stop fighting for the ones they love.