The darkness is bitter. It leaves me feeling alone and empty in the middle of the night, lost in the abyss of this anguish. It seems I’ve forgotten how to smile, laugh, or enjoy life at all because all I can ever think about is how I’d like to dig your body out of the ground and place you right back in our bed. I often imagine grabbing a shovel out of the tool shed, driving down to Oakridge Hills Cemetery, and digging you out until the protection of an unjudging dark night turned into the transparency of the rising sun. Oh, Eleanor, I’d dig. I would dig until the emptiness consuming me was replaced by purpose. Perhaps I would feel a semblance of what it is to be alive and truly enjoy it again because every agonizing second that God forces me to be of existence is spent praying to the same God who took you from me and left me to rot, asking Him to die a violent death. I’d like the remaining of my insides to be sprayed and displayed onto the burning pavement so everyone can finally see the vacancy that absorbed my being. I’d like for our children to discern that the only thing keeping me alive was the sharp pain contaminating every good thing inside of me. Whatever made me a real human before is now decomposing. It has been sullied by the deepest, overwhelming melancholy, and there is nothing I can do to stop it from taking over. Honestly, I’m not sure I mind it. Elle, I envy the peace you have surrounding you. The darkness that isn’t really darkness, but rather a soothing hole. The real obscurity has now made me its’ scapegoat, and left me out in the real world with the monsters hiding in broad daylight. This loneliness and emptiness eats me with a fork and a knife. It uses a napkin and is careful not to spill me, as it wants to savor every last bite of me. It wants to taste all of my inadequacy, so it eats me very slowly, and very tenderly, cutting me into the smallest of pieces attempting to make more of me to compensate for the parts of me that aren’t there. Parts that will never be there again.
Every morning, I am awaken by the optimistic sun sneaking its’ brightness in through the side of the curtains, and every morning, it makes me angry as if I don’t expect the disturbance. I don’t want my sorrow to be interrupted by the upbeat glare of the sun. It interrupts my darkness, and in a way, forces me to accept that a new day has approached. A new day where I must function, be friendly when I occasionally step out of the house, and make small talk with our neighbor who’s obsessed with his lawn. I mean really, how many times must you cut your lawn? In any case, I do not want to function, Elle. I was once a boulder of a man, strong and unmoved by any aspect of distress, but now, the only thing keeping me together is my distress. I contemplate the idea of suicide as if I’m choosing which cereal to eat in the morning. I toy around with the idea effortlessly, but never decide that it will be my exit strategy. When Christina came to us at 16 and said she tried to kill herself, I wouldn’t dare tolerate it. You know I despise quitters, Eleanor. That’s what she was doing, and I refused to understand it. Now that I’ve made myself into a snack for a bottom-feeding vulture called Misery, a knife is no longer just a knife. My razors are no longer just razors. Simple appliances that happen to be sharp have become instruments of death, and introduce to me a means to an end. I often wonder if Christina wanted to use the knife we often handed her to chop up onions for dinner to stab herself brutally in the middle of the kitchen, right before our very eyes just so we could witness the gaping hole that became her, just as I am now a reflection of that same monstrosity. I want to join you, my dear Eleanor. I want us to be together in the tranquil oasis of the underworld, and be unbothered by any true obligation. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem like that will happen any time soon, though. The only thing I have to look forward to is the dreadful anger that I can’t seem to get rid of, but can’t live without, as this anger is the only feeling I’ve got left wallowing in the morbid carcass that is me. Without it, I’m afraid my heart will stop beating and the blood running through my veins will cease to a halt. I ask for death, but not this way. I don’t mind living with this possessive insanity, but I refuse to let it kill me. I can’t seem to carry on, and the desire to do so no longer fills me. I’ve given this world 76 years of my life, and for however long I remain alive, I’ll spend my time giving myself to the emptiness, allowing it to fill me to the brim and bruise me to the core. The emptiness will have me and accept me for everything I am not, it will not fuss with, or try to make me do anything. Rather, it will tolerate the insignificant mess I have become, and although that makes you sad, my dear, I am okay with that. My darling, the moment you passed, I knew my life would no longer be the same. I knew it would be meaningless and inconsistent, and I knew that the countless hours I would bitterly spend awake would consist of nothing but pining after you and a farewell kiss from Mr. Grim himself, promising me a darker reality, and the lack of one entirely.