Her phantom hold

For three months, 15 weeks, 111 days, and all 2678 hours, my mind has not stopped thinking about her, about it. Nothing helps. Not that I’ve tried much, but the promise sold with the white pills neatly tucked in the clear plastic bag hiding in my bottom drawer was of a tranquil night of sleep. And even that hasn’t been fulfilled. It feels like throwing money down the drain. Preston promised results, and I foolishly believed him yet again, just like I believed myself when I said, "this is the last time."

That’s why I’m here in bed, being mocked by the red digits on my alarm clock: 03:28 AM. She’s holding my hand right now; I can still feel it, her warmth, her soft breathing on my left shoulder, but if I turn to face her, she disappears. So I stay eerily still, looking up at the ceiling. Having her sleep next to me is quite relaxing, even if temporary, and it’s way more pleasant than the screams. I’ll just keep my head forward and my eyes open for now, maybe make a list of things I’ll do when I officially wake up.

I have to call my mom, or she’ll start signing me up for more grief support groups like she did last time I didn’t reach out. Then I’ll cancel my appointment with Doctor Morgan, tell him I’m coming down with something and I’ll see him promptly next week. Text Preston since I'm running low on Xanax—next time will be the last time. I have to be in school by eight; I have a lecture for the ninth graders, but then I’m free all afternoon. Still, I should get some sleep.

“I’m sorry, darling,” I whisper softly into the darkness and turn on my side. Immediately, the illusion of her presence disappears, and I try to sleep.

Teaching this class is irrelevant to me and monotonous. Just like the previous one, and the one before that. I leave the school building with Preston’s text in mind:

P: "I thought you said it was the last time ;)”

He makes my blood boil. Always has. Ever since I caught him selling to some students and I accepted the "hush hush" discount rather than reporting him, he’s been so smug. The condescending prick always thinks he’s so ingenious, being able to keep me as a loyal customer for so long. As if he does anything—the only marketing he needs lies in his product burning my synapses. I want to stop, I really do, but this isn’t something I want; it's something I have to use. I can’t keep going if I don’t sleep, and I can't sleep with her there. Plus, let's be honest, those stupid meditation tips don’t actually help; it's drugs that do the work. I need them. I just wish I didn’t need to buy them from Preston.

I reach our meetup spot behind the alley near the museum. There’s always another druggy lurking around here. Today, this guy is lining up white powder on the back of an old iPad, his eyes are bloodshot and his hands are trembling. He looks really bad. Where is Preston? I want to leave. I finally see him as he turns the sharp alley corner, dressed in a white pantsuit in the middle of the day on a random Tuesday. His blonde hair is gelled to the side and his gold chain hangs on his neck like a medal of honor. What kind of drug dealer isn’t inconspicuous? I hate his guts.

“Hey, my favorite guy! What’s up, Teach’?” Preston basically screams, waving his hand like an idiot.

“Shut up, will you? Why are you so loud?” I answer by shushing him and swiftly turning around to check for any onlookers.

“Oh, come on, don’t be such a pain. Plus, I was bullied a lot for my outgoing personality in high school, so you’re hitting a sore spot, man,” he whines, hitting my shoulder with a soft punch.

I never find him amusing. Not in the least. “I have the cash right here, just give it to me so I can leave,” I say, handing him a $20 bill.

“What’s the rush, Teach? Need to go back to your snotty students?” he mocks, making no move to give me what I want.

“If you’re so jealous of a ninth grader’s ability to spell, I’ll help you out sometime. Now give me my stuff,” I reply, about to lose my temper.

“I can spell,” he scoffs. “Here’s your little pills, druggie,” Preston finally hands me the packet. I count five inside. His sweaty hands left droplets of liquid on the packet, making it feel warm.

“Thanks,” I say before walking away toward my car, not before hearing him mutter, “Asshole.”

As night follows, I hold her hand again and look up at the ceiling, wondering why I let her do it. Why didn’t I stop her? “Just close your eyes, darling,” and so with comfort I don’t deserve, I imagine the warmth in my hand for the whole night.

It’s 2704 hours. I’m taking more Xanax than ever. Before class, after class, during lunch, and now. At a bar. At night. With a drink in my hand. I checked online; this isn’t going to kill me. It might slow down the metabolic process of my body breaking down the drug. But that’s good. It’s been 2706 hours now. The bartender told me I don’t look good. He’ll call a taxi. No. I’ll drive. Being behind the wheel is fine. It's dark, but I can’t find the button to turn on the headlights. I can see enough. There’s a deer. Swerve. Please swerve. I can’t; I'm not fast enough. It's okay, it's just a deer. I’ll call the shelter? Who do I call? I should call the police. This is a girl. This isn’t deer blood. It’s a girl’s. Her blood is on my car and on my hands. Not metaphorically. It really is. Where’s the pulse? No pulse. It’s dark until her hand joins mine on the girl’s chest. She looks pale, almost translucent. She’s helping me keep pressure on the wound, but I don’t think it's doing much. Still, my darling is back here and she’s crying. She’s breathing heavily, panicking, looking around. Her sobs are so loud, but at least she’s here with me again.

“I missed you,” I whisper into the night.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she hisses angrily, still shaking. “Not again, not again, not again,” she mutters, shaking her head.

“You’re back,” I say, inching closer. And just like that, she’s gone.

But I saw her. I SAW HER AGAIN. I saw her—was it the pills? No, it's the dead girl. I killed a girl. But I saw her again. After all this time, we spoke again, and if blood on my hands is the answer, then so be it. I leave the car behind and the girl on the street. She already bled out; there's no point in turning myself in just yet. The warmth of the blood on my hands just fuels my need to feel her warmth again. I don’t care if I’m hallucinating, it doesn’t matter, I just keep walking. I’ll find another one.

I walk all the way home, undetected in the veil of the night, and stumble to the kitchen. Of course, no one is home. No one is EVER home; I'm sick of it. As I move around in the dark, I reach toward the light switch and coat it in blood. But the second the light fills the room, I make a beeline for the butcher knife on the counter. It feels cool on my fingers and fits right in my palm. I get a feeling of déjà vu. I ignore it. I have a shot at seeing her again. I'll gladly take it in exchange for a life. Any life. I rush out the door in a frenzy; the cool knife has since gotten warm, and my sweaty palm makes the handle slippery. The liquor in my blood is making my feet stumble over themselves. I’m in no condition to start a fight, and yet I have no intention of stopping. I stalk my neighbor’s house. Brenda, a 65-year-old woman, her husband recently passed. I suppose I relate to the lady and am willing to relieve her of the torture that is existence. That's what it is, an act of selflessness. There’s a dim light coming from the window reassuring me she’s home. Alone? Maybe. It’s a risk I'm willing to take. The hag left her door open, so I’ll just go in. I see her on the couch, she’s sleeping there. The TV is illuminating her face. She’s hideous; killing her will be fine. I slice her throat. I coat my hands in her blood.

“What are you doing.” I hear from behind me. Her voice. I turn around and there she is. My beautiful wife, standing with the clothes I last saw her in.

“Darling," I sigh, feeling as if a weight has been lifted form my chest, I attempt to stop the sobs from crawling out of my throat buy I can't. "I’ve missed you so desperately, I'm sorry for committing such heinous crimes but I can't take it anymore,” I cry out, approaching her silhouette, wish to feel her touch once more.

“Why are you killing more women? Wasn’t I enough?”

What?

No, no, darling, you killed yourself, remember? That night after our big fight. I wasn’t ready for kids, but you wanted one so bad. “I’m pregnant,” you whispered in the living room. I told you to get an abortion. You said no. No? No. I wasn’t agreeing with you and we went to bed angry. You were always too sensitive, you battled with depression for many years. Choosing between your unborn baby and your husband was too much. Your guilt led you to stabbing yourself in the kitchen in the middle of the night. You killed yourself. Left me all alone. 

“No, you hated the idea of having a child so terribly after going to sleep that night, you waited for me to get a glass of water in the kitchen and attacked me. Don’t you remember how I pleaded? How I begged for you to let me live. Let our child live. In a frenzy you stabbed my womb. You let me bleed out, my blood on your hands felt warm and you let it gush out for hours. You claimed it was suicide. I was insane and  your reputation protected you.” She says. “But even if you keep denying it, by now you must know which one out of the two of us is actually insane.” And then she disappears right before my eyes yet again. 

All of a sudden, I register the police outside. I hear the sirens closing in on me, but it's all insignificant as I stare down at my bloodied hands. The walls of reality crumble, and her words ring in my mind, sparking my memory. I killed my pregnant wife. These are the hands of a murderer.

As the police officers burst in, her ghostly hands grip mine—not in comfort, but to ground me in the reality I've denied thus far, trapping me in her agony. And so tonight my darling will hold my hand once more.