Psychology of a Guilty Man

Dear Cassandra,

I watched life leave your eyes. The stark expression when you laid motionless on our carpet, which now stained blood red, a red darker than that of a rose. Thoughts of you haunt me and I don't go a day without thinking about what I did to you.

It was only natural that nobody found out. Your hair, once silk-smooth, was now hardened and gritty and tainted with blood. I sunk to my knees, gliding my hands across you, trying to make sense of what I had just done. I started from the top and made my way down, covering your body with tarp so I didn't have to see you in the state that you were in. I carried you in my arms, just like the day we were by the ocean. I remember that day well; the water kicking at our feet, your laugh playful and energetic and your expression serene. It was the stuff of movies. We had so much hope in our new life. I stood there now, where we once stood together. I looked towards the water, the stars crystal clear. It felt like they were judging from above. I dropped you in the water and closed my eyes. I couldn't bear seeing you become one with the water. I got back in my car, like we did on that day, except this time I was alone.

When I got back to my apartment-our apartment-your blood faded in our acrylic carpet. I spent hours trying to clean it up, but you just wouldn't come off. I threw the entire carpet out. The knife I used to take your life was still on the kitchen counter, still tainted with your blood. I picked it up, seeing a blurred man in the silver. He had my features. When I moved, he moved as well. But I just couldn't imagine that was me, after what I had done. I felt numb to the point of no return. I watched myself cut my left wrist with the knife, watching my blood seep into yours. Once again we were together. I didn't realize what I was doing until I felt the pain in my wrist, my veins pleading for resolution. I was silent as I cleaned the blood off the knife. There were also spots of blood on our wood flooring and on our marble countertop, too, but for some reason I left it there. Maybe because that was what was left of you.

The next day you were on the news. All the local channels, in fact. I did a very poor job of hiding you. A fisherman found you inside the tarp on the seashore in the early morning. I don't know how I managed to do such a poor job. Maybe I wanted to get caught and accept my due punishment. But what if this was my punishment, living with the guilt every day that I caused you not to be here.

I tried switching the channels, but no matter which channel I switched to, you were on every single one. I didn't want to see you anymore, so I turned off our television and walked to the bathroom. I rinsed my face and hands in water. I scrubbed vigorously but they still felt tainted with you. They were clean, but they will never be clean enough for me. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. A single tear from my eyes streaked down my cheek. I didn't recognize the person staring back. The longer I stared the more distorted my face became. My ears started ringing and suddenly it felt as if you were next to me, your eyes looking dull into mine. I couldn't take it any more, so I punched the mirror. It shattered with a loud crack, and suddenly we were in pieces. I punched it again. And a third time, and a fourth until my hand was sore and bleeding. What was one tear turned into a river, and I collapsed on the back wall of our bathroom.

It was later in the night when I received a sharp knock on the door. Could it have been you? The crashing wave of reality hit me a second later, and I was reminded of what I did. No way it was you. When I opened the door, I was greeted by two officers. Maybe part of me wished it was you on the other side. You would rush into my arms, I would feel the weight of you on me, causing me to stumble backwards onto the floor. I would run my hands through your blond hair as we kissed passionately, you running your hands through mine.

             I miss you, you would say.

            I miss you t-

The officer on the left looked at me with sympathy, waving his hand over my face as I left my dreamlike state, and the other one cynical, like he was looking right through my façade. He asked me if I knew about your death, how I felt, and how I was doing. I answered honestly. I could tell that the one on the right was younger, and definitely more prudent. I looked at him closer, and that’s when I was struck with the realization. He was Carter, her brother. I met him at our wedding. He peered into our apartment, trying to look around me to see if he could see anything. He asked to come inside, and it was obvious that he knew something was up. I held my ground though, and he didn't push any further. They eventually left but as they walked away he looked back one more time, giving me a stare that screamed suspicion. I didn’t know him well, but he seemed like the kind of guy to not let things go easily.

In the following week I received dozens of calls by those who knew you. Your mother called. 

"I know she loved you a lot," she said over the phone, I could hear her teary voice on the other end.

"I know. It's very unfortunate," I replied to her apathetically. There was no emotion in my voice. I wasn't even trying.

"Are there any suspects?" She asked, her voice more composed but still shaken to some extent.

“I did it,” I thought to myself.

"The police are still working on it," I said. "I don't know if they'll find anything, though."

I heard a sigh on the other side of the line.

"How are you holding up?"

"I'm doing just fine."

"That's good."

An awkward silence ensued. I hung up.

A week later, I received another knock on my door. The sound was firm, and I had no clue who it was. As I opened it, I saw Carter. But this time he was out of uniform. Before I even had a chance to say anything, he took a hold of me and pinned me to the wall, punching me over and over again. I was suffocating, and above all confused. After he punched me for the tenth time, he let go, and I crashed to the floor as he started a cursory inspection of our apartment. He entered our kitchen, and looked through everything, with no regard for covering his tracks. He opened the china cabinet, and in a fit of fury started forcefully tossing the rare plates and tableware on the ground, desperately looking for something-anything-to aid his suspicions of me. Unfortunately for him, I already hid my tracks. The only trace of you left was in the floorboards, which was still visible but he didn't notice.

He found nothing, but before he left, he whispered ominously in my ear.

I know who you are.

I felt so guilty. Every day, people on the street would recognize me. They always approached me and offered me their condolences. They always said how sorry they were for my loss, not knowing that I was the reason for the loss. If they knew what I did, they would change their attitudes in a minute and label me a psychopath and evil and demonic and the worst of human filth. And, you know what, maybe they're not entirely wrong, now that I think about it. But I also couldn't imagine them in my shoes. How could anyone else bear the tremendous burden of guilt that I carry?

As of writing this, it's been a year since I did what I did to you. Nothing changes. I always hope that things will change, but nothing ever does. The guilt that I carry is weighed on my back from the time the sun rises to the time it sets. It's overbearing and persistent. I don't go a day without thinking about you. I miss you. I miss you so much and it kills me that you're not here.

My life has been somewhat of a mess recently. I slowly start to lose myself and everything blurs. I torture myself, as if it will make a difference. Our apartment - once meticulously clean and beautiful - was now trashed. Paper plates lay everywhere and nothing makes sense anymore. It's like I've completely disassociated with my environment and now I'm nothing. It's kind-of funny, actually, being nothing. Look at that, I'm nothing. I look disgusting and I've grown in weight considerably. People talk behind my back and they all pity me.

Since your death I've lost all meaning. The pain is too great. I'm going back to the water tomorrow. The water where we had made memories. The water where I disposed of you a year ago. In the water, all is quiet. A stillness which my pain will not reach.

-Phoenix