A Nightingale's Kiss

Everything inside of him told him to kill, but he didn’t. The earth quaked and tore a horrid scream from its soul so that the blood in his veins curdled. Its skin burned, caught flame by the savage murderers on their ruthless pursuit. Chunks of dirt showered down on him, and suffocating smoke billowed from the blackened trees. The river was close. He could help her escape there. Another bang shattered his concentration. He ran, his heart beating out of his chest while his sweaty hands gripped tightly to the hauntingly cold rifle. It should’ve been hot like the rifles of his companions, but it wasn’t. He hadn’t fired a shot. He couldn’t. Blood thirsty murder had never found a home in his heart, but the traumatising genocide of his own people begged him to take the revenge his enraged soul desired.

“Miraal, come this way! Hurry. They’re comin’!” He grabbed his wife’s arm, shielding her from another explosion in the forest, which echoed the sounds of shrieking friends and smelled of their burning flesh. He forced the images of his family’s corpses out of his mind, swung the cold weapon over his back, and guided her through the death traps of the forest, whispering to her a sense of security he wished he believed to be true: “You will be safe, I can promise you.”

Miraal met his gaze with a teary look of fondness, rested her hand on her stomach and attempted a shaky smile. Another bomb rattled the earth. Her body jolted from the shockwave, her dark brown hair catching pieces of debris. He gripped tighter to the rags of her smoke-scented clothes and hugged his shielding figure around her. He wouldn’t let them take her like they did his family, his sister, his nephew, his aunt and uncle. He wouldn’t let them murder her like they obliterated his dog with rifles, burned his home and his fields of peaceful farmland. Maybe they’d kill him, but not her. Miraal was everything to him. She was his past, his present, and his future. They’re love had no beginning or end. He had loved her even before their first kiss, and he promised to love her beyond their last. From the beautiful to the tender to the mess in between, he’d never given up on her. Thankfully, heartbreak never introduced itself to either of them, and he wouldn’t let genocide change that.

The river gushed just a few meters in front of him. His posture calmed slightly at the sight of her freedom. This escape could provide Miraal with a future where she could raise their unborn child, and one day, he might join her. The prospects of the future suddenly exchanged for grief as he grimly analyzed the truth of their desperate situation. He couldn’t go with her. He had to keep fighting, keep protecting his people. It was his duty, his promise to her and the years ahead. He stood next to the sloping river banks, felt the cool water leap up onto his torn shoes. This was it. This was where wistful beauty met wicked heartbreak.

He combed the hair out of her face and held her dirt-stained chin in the palms of his hands. Through the stains of the war, she still looked as pretty as she did on their wedding day just months prior. He rubbed the dirt from her face and smiled woefully while urging her: “You’ve gotta go, Miraal…please. It’s for the best, believe me.”

“I’m not going to just leave you here! They’ll kill you, Josef.” She coughed from the smoke that contaminated her lungs, and hot, salty tears created streams down her face, washing the bloody reminders of war.

He bit his lip, trying to resist his own shower of emotion and prove to be her strong husband in this situation, but he couldn’t. He loved her too much to fake this assurance. His eyes welled, and he sucked in a shaky breath. “You gotta go…”

“But I love y—”

“Please, Miraal.” His gaze flickered from the river to the ocean in her eyes, to the muddy ground and her dirt-stained face. “It only hurts worse when you say that…Now go! Please.” Josef let go of her face and stepped back, biting his lip harder and reaching for the rifle slung over his back.

She opened her mouth for a response but choked on the words. River water soaked the bottom of her brown dress as she waded deeper into the current, resistance in every step.

This was the first time he found himself encouraging her away from himself: “Run as far away from here as you can, and don’t come back for me!” He backed away from her, tripping over the boulders behind him. He grippe the rifle in his hands until his muscles spasmed. Through tearful gasps, he hollered, “I’ll find you again! I promise!”

As she finally let go of her tears, her body rattled. “I can’t lose you! I can’t do this! I can’t. I just can’t.”

He took the cold rifle and held it tightly in his grip, hands sweating: “Just go!”

Her eyes reflected his own internalized fears, and she turned away, picking up her dress and stepping into the river. Another glance back drove a knife into his heart. As she stepped deeper into the river, he spied through the bushes a figure approaching the rushing waters. The silhouette highlighted the shape of an enemy soldier carrying a rifle similar to Josef’s; the only difference was that the barrel smoked at the end like a pipe. His heart raced. They were coming for her. Rapid breaths fogged his mind. Instincts urged him to kill, and he held up the rifle.

He nearly vomited as his breaking voice hollered to his wife, “I love you!”

Suddenly, the piercing crack of an enemy rifle split his ears. Her body jerked. Red sprayed onto the grass, and she crumpled into the water. Overwhelming rage exploded like the bombs in the sky, and he fired his rifle. Shot after shot, he yelled at the soldier, watched the body twitch with every implanted bullet. His ammunition ran out, and found himself sweating, cold, hollow.

“Miraal!” He shrieked and threw his rifle into the grass. He neared the riverbanks, saw red taint the previously crystal currents. His heart frantically beat like the drums of the opposing army. “Miraal.” He reached down, pulled her drenched, limp body up onto the muddy banks.

“Josef…I…” She tried to speak. Her words were drowned with gasping breaths.

He combed through her hair, saw more red soaking into the cloth near her heart. “No…no, you can’t!” His chin quivered, and hot tears blurred his sight. His reality fused with nightmares. “No…Miraal. Come back to me! Say something!”

“I…” She paused, mustering up the strength to whisper her last words. “You wou…” She weakly grasped his hand and laid it gently on her stomach. “You would have been…you…” She winced at the pain and gasped. “You would have been a lovely father…” She smiled, a tear streaming down her cheek.

Josef choaked on the rising vomit in his throat. “Miraal…wait, no…Miraal!” He leaned over closer to her, feeling her shallow breaths on his cheek.

“I…love…y…” Her wounded lips pressed up against his, and she stole a last kiss from his lips. The life in her body quickly drained. Her head dropped. Her body loosened. Her hand fell away from his. She stole his heart, and he was as hollow as the enemy soldiers. That was the last show of affection he ever received from her.

He turned his head up to the smoky sky, pressing her lifeless body against his shivering chest, and tore the sky with the sound of a man’s shattering soul. The echoes shook the trees as this unearthly, guttural anguish erupted from his chest.

*           *           *

Josef gripped his chest as he shot awake. He couldn’t breathe. All he tasted was a fowl pungency on his tongue. It had happened again. He instinctively rolled over the edge of his bed and vomited more alcohol, chest heaving and stomach pained from this constant tightening. He rattled again, and once the seemingly routine event came to a close, he laid his head back on the stained pillow. His breaths came in short, rapid inhalations. His hands were clammy, and the full moon shined hauntedly on his face. The war. The baby. Miraal. He shakily sighed. It was another nightmare. The blindness of night fogged his vision. His hand tapped the cold bed next to him, then to the nightstand where empty bottles clanged. That incident was almost two years ago, and he still hadn’t recovered. He threw the covers away from himself and stood up to face the mirror on the wall. His beard was unkept, his eyes half closed from sleep. This wasn’t the man she fell in love with. No, this was the man who battled the demons of heartbreak. They said that nothing but time would heal these wounds, but time had proved worthless. Two years of attempting failed grounding techniques, and he still relied on the bottle.

The wood boards creaked. He sucked in a deep breath of the crisp night, rubbed the fog from his eyes and switched on a lamp. He needed the drug. The memory drug. The one prescribed after the war. Still tainted by sleep, he waved his hand over top of the dimly lit countertop, knocking over cans and empty bags until he found the bottle of black pills. Yes, this could free him from the chains of the bottle, from the pain of their last kiss. But just like love, this drug possessed possibly deadly side effects. The doctor told him to only use it as a last resort and to focus on grounding techniques, but they all failed miserably. Nothing stopped the dreams. He tried taking walks in nature, but the nightingales attempted to kill him with deadly songs during the twilight of the forest. He tried the soothing sounds of drizzling water, but it transported him to the reddened river where she died. And he tried calming the anxiety with five senses, but all he tasted was the blood on her calloused lips. Nothing could wash the haunting memory of their last kiss. Nothing but the memory drug.

He screwed open the bottle, poured a pill into the palm of his clammy hand. The darkness seemed to devour like a black hole in space. It would swallow the pain, the memory, and then there was no return. The drug tempted him with its hissing whispers. He needed to escape from the dreams, from the tortures they possessed. Who knew that love could be so haunting? No one warned him of the aftermath when it’s stolen. All they had spoke of was the cherished moments, the warmth of having someone to hold and the beauty of knowing they’re present through every avenue of life. But who ever warned him of the complexity it had to offer? They never mentioned the love gone wrong, the heartbreak and chaotic circumstances that come with giving someone every ounce of energy inside. They never told him that the intimate moments of desired affection could turn into haunting recollections of lost adoration. But the drug could end this. It could eradicate the memory of their last kiss and heal the wounds caused by hypocritical love. He weighed the decision in the palm of hand.

The nightingale’s whistles echoed through the walls. It was that time of night when the lonely males called out for their loved ones, and now, this desolate Josef cried out for his own. With the drug still gripped tightly in his wounded hands, he stepped outside of the house, down the creaking porch steps and into the dark forest. His bare feet crunched on the leaves and sensed the pain of the cold earth. The trees rustled. The wind danced to the songs of the nightingales. The moon and stars echoed his solitude. He tracked himself to the base of a tree where he and Miraal used to sit and watch the comets rain. It was here where she first fell in love with him…in the calm and peaceful night. There at the base of the tree, she professed her love for the first time. And it was also there, by the riverbanks, where she professed her love for the last time. The echoes still reverberate in his mind.

Josef sat next to the plaque engraved with her name, the drug still in his hand, and stared up at the stars. All he wanted was her warm body next to his, her skin on his skin, her lips pressed up against his own. He wanted her affection, her breath on his neck and his lonely heart returned to his chest. But it was impossible. She was in the grave, and so was his soul. His hand grazed over the letters of her name, and he became haunted by the complexity of love. The night sky distorted with the welling of tears in his eyes. His breaths staggered out of rhythm with his heart. To face the beauty meant to face the calamity, and here he was forced to acknowledge her death. The end of his first-born child and of its mother. The sound of flapping wings brushed across his ears, the pulsing river triggering his trauma. It was all coming back again. His technique wasn’t working. The river. The screams. The gun shots. The kiss. He urged himself not to give in, not to think. If he thought to much, he might go insane. And he couldn’t afford that. Love couldn’t turn into a monster…or could it? Was this the secret of love?

His heart began to race. His hands turned clammy. The drug. The memory drug. To take it now or forever suffer. To kill the reminder or embrace the change. Either way, he’d face the same set of circumstances. Love was a drug. It was beautiful, pleasant, addictive, and yet it towed behind it heartbreak and chaos like a ball and chain. Without love, he suffered the unbearable withdrawals. Now, which would he bind himself to? Love’s narcotic or the memory drug? His anxieties increased. Which would kill the haunting last kiss? Love’s cocaine or this psychic assassin? Everything inside of him told him to kill. Kill the pain. Kill the loss. Kill the grief. Kill the memory. This time, he gave in to the depraved instincts of human nature.

He tossed the black drug onto his dry tongue and scooped up the river water to wash it down. Almost immediately, he regretted his decision. His alcohol-saturated body lit the fuse of the drug like a bomb. His hands became hot. His chest broke out in a sweat. He stood up, staring frantically into the night to find solace like he used to do with Miraal. But the constellations silenced themselves, and he found no wisdom from the moon. His mind fogged as shallow breaths dispersed before his lips, and his heart beat like a drum. There was no way out. He’d been sucked into the blackness of the drug, past the point of no-return, only falling deeper into the deadly emptiness of dark. The forest around him hazed and spun. The earth rocked from side to side and around again. It was coming. He knew it was coming. The ground slapped up against his face, and his eyelids slowly closed on the sight of the moonlit grave. At last, he kissed the world goodbye.

And so, the nightingales continued singing their deadly songs.