About Alice

Dear friend,

To whom this letter is addressed, I do not know. It has been written by me in some form or other many times over, but for now, I have no means to send it. Perhaps I am writing to myself, for myself, but hopefully not forever, though the activity is somewhat therapeutic.

I find myself in a pickle, stuck in this hot cabin deep in the moors. I share the space with my beloved wife, Alice. She suggested coming here for a month to find ourselves, to clear our heads, but that month feels like many, and my head is more bruised than clear.

Since I wrote my last letter, I cannot say I have been busy. I watch from the solitary window, distracted by the flickering of clothes drying on the line. I look further and marvel at the fields, the hills, and the rich woodland that collectively paint the landscape green as far as I can see. I would drop this pen instantly and head out into the cool air, stroll here and there, immerse myself in nature, and breathe in its beauty, but the only available door in this cabin was locked by Alice and has been kept that way for some time. Instead, I walk this room only; I know every corner, the furniture, the roaring fire, the pictures on the wall, the broken television, the carpet and its stains, and the flowers on the sideboard; they all remain unchanged. What I would give to leave this room to refurnish, clean it, and make a fresh start, but for now, I am stuck.

My wife wasn't always this way. I remember her fire. We met on a park bench. I was dazzled by her every inch and stole her heart with my jokes and irreverence. I would be arrogant if I said our romance broke the mold, but it was good. We saw movies, drank cocktails, and danced badly. She would guzzle the liquor, but I would keep up. Then, I would keep up until she couldn't. Drunk or not, we would talk about anything from shopping to Schopenhauer; she was intellectual, to be sure. I considered myself smart enough underneath my carefree exterior, but she would invariably beat me to the punch, and I didn't care for a moment. I proposed on the bench with a £400 ring stuffed inside a lunchbox.

I can't pinpoint the day she began to change; it was gradual, I swear. She became forgetful but controlling, forgiving but unable to grow. The fire in her that I had always loved was now only lit by anger, and I was often made to feel foolish. I accommodated her, of course. I loved her and felt partly to blame, but she changed first, not me.

We are on talking terms these days, but it is never as it was. I dote on her catwalk curvature, and the exquisite countenance remains, but that inner simmer is gone completely. There is an emptiness in her eyes, and a smile is rare. Some call it passive aggression, but I fear it is resignation. The foolishness I felt has become an ever-present state of being, but I am unresentful towards Alice; for now, I blame only myself for this situation. She has become my world, and I will take what is left.

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I apologize for any break in continuity or flow. I have just been reminded that my dinner is ready. It can, however, wait a little longer, as today's menu is the same as yesterday’s, and my palate is tired. Dear reader, I may seem unappreciative or even self-absorbed, but you must understand that the inner resignation that has consumed Alice has also rendered her patience strong. She now allows me my time to think. Often, this is torture, but it means the food can wait, and my missive to you can be brought to completion.

You may wonder how it got to this. How did I let the everyday grievances of a passionate woman seed a soulless resignation? Well, we came to this paradise to find ourselves, but in those first few days following our arrival, I came and went and still found only bookmakers and taverns where the women would turn my head as before. Out here in the serenity of nature, those vices reduced me to something tragic and beyond the reach of rescue. The locked door only exacerbates this, but as a resigned Alice mirrors one that has found closure, I keep my temptations to myself.

This is not to say I don't miss our arguments, despite the bruise on my head. Sometimes, I will speak to Alice provocatively for a rise, but she will only stare with those beautiful eyes and smile. She is placid but persistent with her tactics, and her determination unnerves me. "I just want us both to be happy," she will say, to which I will always assure her I am. "Stay here, and you can love me forever," she adds. I assure her I always will.

Yes, yes, reader, I know; I brushed over my bruise like it is a trivial matter. This is counterproductive when I crave your sympathy, but I must confess, my knuckles are bruised also. You know how couples can be, but that's over now, and I can't leave. The drink, the women, and the racetrack are all out of reach.

Do I regret that fight to end fights? Of course. The day I gambled for the last time, the day I drank for the last time, of course, I regret it. I returned to this cabin to the smell of a cooked meal and freshly picked flowers, but they were soon accompanied by a deafening rage. Alice was apoplectic. My behavior had brought her to this state before, but the fire was harder to extinguish this time. She flapped and screamed, overwhelming my efforts at reconciliation. In these situations, returning to the tavern would be my escape, but this time, the clever girl locked the door behind me in her madness and kicked the key underneath. You can imagine my anger, but oh, reader, if only I had stopped to breathe in that moment.

My temper escaped me. I wrestled Alice to a standstill, knocking the TV to the floor during our contortions. Still, I did not breathe. Her writhing was only suppressed by a shard of television screen presented to my free hand. The screams stopped. She fell silent in my arms, and the blood seeped between us. What had I done? I soddened her shirt with tears and whispered for forgiveness, but her heavy body gestured its demise. My Alice was leaving me, and only when I relaxed my grip, my breath returned. Oh reader, if only the shard weren't so sharp, if only she had let me explain, and if only I had held on a little longer; her final wave of farewell carried with it a nearby vase which was shattered against my right temple.

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I promise you I looked at her body for signs of life. The blood suffused the surrounding carpet as her face drained to a chilling white. I rushed to the already closed curtains and picked and pulled at the remaining gaps, blinding the outside and dimming the room. When I looked back at the corpse, she was whiter still.

I did what felt wise. We were acres from life in a cabin barely known. I would torch it. I would leave my clothes behind for the flames to consume. Nobody would know I came back, and her remains would be scant. I rushed over to a nearby drawer, from which I removed a disposable lighter. 

Returning to her side, I ignited the carpet before running to the door to depart. Reader, you can foresee this fool's predicament. As I rattled the door, the flames rose. I kicked and charged with no success. The window, I thought. I looked around for a tool to break it, but to my surprise, the room was unburned. The flames spread, but the carpet, the furniture, and the body were all pristine; even the pool of blood still glistened.

I questioned my sanity as I searched, but the heat was real, and smoke filled the room. I coughed and coughed but remained conscious. Then, through that thick smoke, before my very eyes was Alice upright. I jolted but was unable to speak. In the flames, I was frozen, and she approached. Running her fingers over the bruise on my temple, she whispered, "Now you can love me forever."

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How long have I been here? A year? A hundred years? Who knows? Now, the flames burn around me while the room lives on unscathed. I hear screams, but not from Alice, who has fallen more reticent since then. The cries of that afternoon find their origin within me, and they plague the thoughts of a sober man; they taunt me. I hear them as I write and eat; they provide a soundtrack as I view the trees and fields from the window. The flames redden my skin and singe my eyebrows; they burn the tip of my tongue when I speak. The heat is difficult to bear, but bear it, I do.

I will eat my meal now because Alice is calling to me. If anyone reads this letter or is privy to my thoughts, please know I am sorry. I am sorry for what I did and ashamed to admit I am sorry for myself and my situation. My deepest apologies, though, those that imbue my every cell, I wish to give to Alice. While she walks amongst me in this cabin, she is not what she was. Her soul resides somewhere better, and I have come to accept this. The Alice presented to me, my relic, is my torture. She tells me that if I really do love her, I can love her forever. Unfortunately, when I search my own soul for answers, I fear that I will.

Yours faithfully,

A damned fool.