The Embers of us

I can’t count the number of nights that we sat in front of this very same fireplace, the room lit by its flickering flames, blissfully unaware of what would one night take place before its hearth. As I sit here now in the chair beside it, alone and in-wait, I’m struck by the zemblanity of the situation.

You purchased this place just after our wedding and surprised me with it, you said it was somewhere we could escape to that would just be ours, away from the rest of the world, our little haven. Back when the heat and the passion reflected in our eyes, and we felt alive with the flames inside of us. Before it gave way to a fire in my soul that was no longer born of burning desire but replaced with insane rage. This was the place where we’d lounge in bed all morning, take mid-afternoon walks through the adjacent land, collect kindling for the fire and then of an evening listen to music and dance in front of the fire drunk off old malt and make love and fall asleep in each other’s arms. Back when we didn’t have a care in the world. I close my eyes as I imagine our silhouettes dancing against the flames, knowing I’m left here stoking the embers of us. 

In the early days, before we had kids, we’d come here every weekend or whenever we both had time off work. You taught me how to shoot out here. Big mistake - one that would prove fatal in fact. I laugh aloud to myself, as I stare into the flames, allowing the heat to water my eyes. Then later on we’d use it every other weekend with the kids, or on the occasional romantic night away. But then as time went on, the kids got older, your work got busier, it became forgotten about. Excluding of course, your weekends away with your boarding school friends out here shooting, if that’s really where you were. Rising, I find myself wondering towards the cabinet to see whether there’s any of that old malt left over. We probably should have hired somebody to take care of the place, I think to myself as I creek over floorboards and rip the dust sheets off items of furniture along the way. You could have at least run a hoover around, especially since you knew you were bringing somebody back here. 

I mean, I’d probably get this in the divorce, but I won’t, not where I’m going, and it will have no value where you’re going either. The kids will probably get it, but I doubt either of them would want to inherit the house that their father died in, so… Anyway, all these thoughts are things I’ll never get to say to you…you’re not leaving here tonight and I don’t plan on staying around here long enough to provide any explanation. Anyway, I digress. I want your blood to run cold and your soul to drain out of you – just like mine did in those very moments when I discovered what was going on. I thought it was just an archetype of middle-aged men in the office pursuing affairs with their subordinates, or at the very least I didn’t think it would happen to us. Did we become too mundane for you as we fell into the rhythm of routine that you felt you needed to look elsewhere?

When I first felt you starting to slip away it made me hold on tighter, but that just made you resist further. A mixture of hope and denial fuelled my every waking thought, yet one part of me must have always known the truth as I snooped in places I didn’t belong and found things not meant for my eyes. As the vision between your truth and your lies began to ignite before me, I began to form a plan. 

Every sound has felt as though it’s been heading towards a huge crescendo from the moment I arrived here, but at the same time strangely like I’ve been sucked into some kind of vacuum. The sound of the ignition being cut on the engine, the slam of the car door, my heels on the gravel, the key in the lock, the door relenting in its resistance. The old lodge is not as welcoming as I once remember. The past hit me as soon as I walked through the door. I was confronted by memories that this very room bore witness to. I wavered in pause momentarily; there was a seriality to the scene. Almost as though I wasn’t the person the room was expecting.

Almost immediately, I busied myself by lighting the fireplace before I lost the last of the daylight. It took me a while since one hadn’t been lit for a while and I had trouble locating the kindling. Trying to recreate what once was, already submitted to its futility. In some kind of masochistic way trying to set an ambiance for you and her.

Outside the sky has succumbed to complete darkness. I pace a room now lit by flickering firelight, yet without the old warmth that the place used to give off; or maybe it’s me that’s gone cold.  

Anyway, my ruminations are cut short as I hear laughter approaching over the crunching of rubble on the path outside. I hastily re-take my place in the chair beside the fire. I get into position and wait for what feels like an eternity in anticipation , but in reality, was probably only a few seconds. And now finally, you’re here, propping each other up in drunken stumble. You haven’t noticed me yet, neither of you. I allow you to enjoy a final few moments before I make a noise and alert you to my presence, but before I do, she notices me first. She starts. Not being able to fully make out the form that must be dancing in the shadows of the flame’s illumination. First, there’s a brief expression of confusion but then as her eyes become adjusted, I see the smile drain from her face and then change to a countenance of alarm as she further notices what I am holding. You look up to enquire what’s gotten her attention. It takes you a few seconds – but then again you were always a bit slow off the mark. 

You push both hands out in front of you, as if it’s going to somehow shield the blast, or as if you’re coaxing a toddler who’s picked up something they shouldn’t have and you’re trying to get them to put it down without causing them alarm and trying to ensure further disaster doesn’t occur. It’s laughable. She looks at you as if to ask you to do something, but your only concern is for yourself. Coward even in death.

I can hear the fire crackling behind me, I can hear what sounds like your incoherent pleading, something about the kids and that this isn’t what it looks like. Can you even hear what you’re saying, or can you just hear your own blood swimming in your ears? I feel a smile tug at my lips. Then BANG! the gun goes off. My finger quivers. I’d been caressing that trigger most of the evening and it feels just as good as I imagined it would be to finally get to pull it on you. Now all I can hear is ringing. You drop to your knees, and she follows down to your aide in synchronicity. She looks at me as if to plead for help with an expression akin to a wounded fawn. I only smile at her – I have some dignity left. Smoke billows out of the gun and disperses into the haze of the rest of the room. As I step over your gurgling form on the hearth, I take one last look around at the room, at the memories that flicker back at me, but then the fire goes out – at least the one inside of me does.