Progress

***Please note: the following story has themes of mental health and suicide. It is my work of fictional art, intended only to entertain.***

Catching his breath, he watched her from across the way. They were way high up; it was dark and cold, the moon too big and too bright. Panting, sweat coated his face and sat in every wrinkle of the pushed-up sleeves of his driving jacket; he carefully swung his legs out over the edge. She was wearing a loose-fitting black dress, her hair pinned up in tight curls, and long legs bare. She looked out across the divide at him, their eyes met—his frantic, hers grey-green and glittering from the light of the moon. She smiled suddenly, then looked over as one of her slippers slithered off her foot and tumbled down, blending into the street below. 

“NO! No, don’t do it, Rose!” Think. He had to think. There must be something worth saying to keep her sitting there, or better yet, have her crawl back inside. There’d be no time to climb back down and go around to meet her. Though, he could just imagine himself slipping his arms around her waist and pulling her back through the window. The warmth and weight of her familiar body crashing onto his as they fell back into the carpeted room. 

And without a beat more, Rose pushed off against the wet stone ledge and spilled through the air, plummeting like an ungainly pigeon with clipped wings. He twisted back against the open window frame. Clutched at the collar of his too-tight jacket. Pinched his eyes shut. Sucked in a breath and swallowed down hard. The echo of Rose’s protracted arms flopping against his closed eyelids, her body shooting earthbound like a dart pitched towards a dartboard. 

Why did she jump? Because she was pregnant? No, that couldn’t be… Rose had always wanted to be a mother. She thought long and hard about a list of names—Lisa if it was a girl, Jacob if it was a boy. She sold most of what she owned to afford a good life for her unborn child, but then why else would she have ended not only her life but the life of her child? Was she so desperately unhappy that she couldn’t think, couldn’t feel past a moment of despair?

Like a dog chained up in the yard overnight, he let out a strangled, loud howl and tried to push back against the souvenirs of Rose swamping his brain. It was his child and his lover that lay on the cement below, warped and wet. 

There was no moving past this. No getting up off the floor, no straightening out of his jacket, and definitely no collecting what would be left of the woman he loved from outside—and yet, he found himself groping the banister in the dimly lit staircase as his teetering legs took him closer and closer to the front door. Water weeping from his eyes and nose, and hands so unfamiliar and knobby grasped at the door separating himself from the rest of his life without Rose. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t quite make his fingers work. Couldn’t quite stop the shaking inside his chest. Couldn’t quite focus his eyes, and so he slumped against the floor once more.

Not a dream, but a memory that elapsed across his closed eyes each night, and greeted him as he stepped out the door of his home each day. Not a dream, but the reality that patronized him with every woman that even bared the slightest resemblance to that of his Rose, or any young family he passed by on the street. Like waves crashing against a shore, his insides were unsteady and tossed, and going through the motions was all he could manage, all that stopped him from following after Rose. It was fear. Fear that if he, too, took his own life and didn’t see her face again… 

And so he recited the same speech he’d practiced over and over to a room full of young people, full of lives yet to be lived. The energy from one half of the room colliding with the other and forming stale air where he stood. 

“Sometimes, in fact, most times, the hardest things in life are the most worthwhile. The hardest things are not only those that help us to grow…” He wetted his throat with a long sip of water from the half-empty glass on the desk before him, “But they are the moments that teach us. We are taught to be strong, to learn from our mistakes, to push forward at every cost. We learn that life is progressive—life will continue even when we wish for nothing more than a pause, a breath. So, if we are to survive, if we are to grow, we need to learn to push forward, even when we don’t wish to.” 

So practiced was his speech that he aligned his last words with the bell that ended another day. And the rows and rows of resounding clapping rang through his ears as his noontime class packed up their bags and filed out the door. Some would wander down to the front of the room to shake his hand, and he’d apply a smile to his face, but it never quite reached his eyes. He would mumble a couple of polite thank you’s and nod his head generously, but never meant it. 

The sun filtered in past the boardwalk and into the stuffy classroom, heating his skin as he locked up and paced towards his car. The hardest things in life were often the most worthwhile, but every moment of his life felt whitewashed in comparison to the moment he would revisit again and again at night. Though tonight, he intended to stay up as late as his body would allow, grading papers. He relied on the glare of his open laptop and disagreeable living room couch to keep him from unwelcome sleep. He did not wish to entertain another round of his cruel nightmare. 

What if he had gotten there a moment sooner? What if he had picked the right building? What if he recognized her depression quicker? What if they hadn’t attended the party that evening in the first place? Rose hadn’t even wanted to go. She was acting off that entire day, and he just busily pushed them through the day towards the party that seemed so important at the time. Work. Work always seemed important… Would Rose still be alive if they’d never left home? Would his daughter or son be celebrating their first birthday? 

Question after question, scenario after scenario passed through him, like an electric current as he buckled up and turned the key in the ignition. He didn’t stop to check his mirrors before peeling out of his parking spot and heading towards home. He decided he’d take the long way home today. He needed time and distance. Everything was still fresh, too fresh, but he couldn’t bring himself to move from his home, from their home. Rose had picked their home. She loved the backyard, claimed that it was perfect for their growing family. Images of her running around barefoot in the damp grass, laughing and trailing wet leaves and dirt through the French doors that led to the kitchen leaked into his head. He stopped paying attention to everything else as he focused on the markings of Rose’s beautiful face—those grey-green eyes, always bright and wide open. Her full lips and round cheeks, her tight coffee-brown curls that bounced as she moved. It felt like she was in the car with him, so he didn’t notice when he turned right instead of left. 

It wasn’t for a couple of hours down an unfamiliar road that he realized his mistake. When the buildings lining the pavement morphed into tall, bumpy trees and the light of the day grew darker and darker.

Throwing on his signal light, he turned the car around only to find he was sputtering on empty. The car slowly rolled to a halt as a colourful string of words leapt from his tongue. He had no idea where he was. The passenger seat sat empty and cold; his briefcase and the seatbelt was strewn haphazardly across the dull, ashen fabric. 

“No matter…” He said, pulling out his phone. But that too had burned out. Feeling like a cliché, he sat in his car for a moment, listening to the silence and the rhythmic clicking of his signal that surrounded him. Tall, dark green trees and a twisting, unoccupied road painted his windshield. 

“Fuck. Fuuuuuck!” He screamed, pounding his palms against the leather steering wheel before remembering his laptop. Unbuckling himself, he launched across the car, untucking his shirt and his laptop. Stabbing at the power button repeatedly, the laptop lit up and immediately reminded him that there was no signal precisely where he happened to stop. What now? He’d have to walk, obviously, but how far? The sun had already set, and it was late enough into the year that nighttime’s were cold, but the movement would be better than just sitting here in his car. That, too, would cause him to start thinking and remembering. 

So he buttoned up his jacket, stuffed his laptop back into his briefcase and slipped it over his shoulder, and set off. Looking back at his car abandoned on the side of the road, he pushed forward. It wasn’t long before he began to shiver, the thin navy blue polyester of his slacks and driving jacket not much protection against the chilly night. Walking down the road was not much protection against the uninvited questions that crept around inside him, like a stranger in an unlit house. What was it, what was it that caused Rose to be so different that night? Was it something that he should have been more aware of? He was usually quite good at paying attention to his wonderful Rose. He loved her, after all. An ache grew inside him, starting in his gut and travelling to each of his limbs. Then a phantom sensation much like a pair of long limbs wound around his chest from behind, warming him. 

“Why do you torture yourself like this, my love?” The words were a sweet whisper in his ear. He stopped then as if having walked into a puddle of wet cement. He looked around but found himself alone. Shivering, he took off again, hugging his briefcase tightly against him. Breathing loudly, sweat began to drip down his face as he picked up his pace, eager to find somewhere where he could call a tow truck, and yet the road seemed to never end—a winding pathway to nothing and nowhere. 

A caw from the darkness up ahead. The rustling of the wind through the trees lining his path. The full moon lighting only a couple of feet ahead. The slapping of his briefcase against his side. And there it was again, that sweet, hot breath accompanied by the familiar voice. It couldn’t be, though. She was… he couldn’t bring himself to finish that thought, though it seemed irrational. He was losing it! And yet he found himself wildly looking about, wheezing filling his ears, and when he turned back, he was face to face with her! 

“Rose!” His eyes grew wide, his knees quivered and threatened to buckle. 

“My love…” the voice, airy and far away called back. Arms extended and inviting, she wore the same loose-fitting black dress and slippers as the night he last saw her, her belly swollen and full of life. That night she had also still been alive. Somehow she was here, before him. Did that mean he was dead? 

“No. NO! Leave me alone!” He screamed, starting up again and pushing through her. Agony filling every word—he was torn. Of course, he didn’t wish for her to leave, but this was unfair. He couldn’t have her but he couldn’t keep going on like this. Rose was… 

“Stop! Don’t…” The voice called from behind him. He looked over his shoulder and took in her frail limbs passing over her abdomen, the wind ruffling her dress and hair. Rose floated a couple of inches off the road and when his eyes scanned the length of her, she smiled suddenly, amicably, and then looked down. His heartbeat bounded inside him, and he squeezed his eyes shut and blindly ran forward. Somehow he knew what would happen next. He couldn’t watch her jump again! 

She was following him. He didn’t need to look back to know. And part of him was so tempted to turn around and run into her open arms and have them be solid and real. Then abruptly, two round lights bounced against the road in the dark behind Rose. He squinted, studying them as they grew closer and brighter. It was a car! Rose seemed to also notice this, and an otherworldly chill filled the space between him and the car. 

“Don’t leave me!” She bellowed, her voice airy and hollow. 

Waving his arms frantically, he swallowed hard and met Rose’s eyes, “I’m sorry… I tried, but I didn’t make it.” The car was almost close enough. Anguish pulsed through him as he tried to cling to the reality before him, tried to leave behind a state of limbo that he’d been surfing through for too long. Sometimes, in fact, most times, the hardest things in life are the most worthwhile. The hardest things are not only those that help us to grow…

“I didn’t know what was wrong, Rose! I wish you had talked to me. I miss you every day. I ache for you and our family, what we could’ve had…” But they are the moments that teach us. We are taught to be strong, to learn from our mistakes, to push forward at every cost.

The car began to slow, and a pitchy scream sounded from Rose. Her eyes grew dark, her hair flying wildly about, and the loose-fitting dress began to tear off of her body as if she were mid-descent. Choked and realizing that what was before him truly wasn’t his Rose anymore, that she had died that day as she leapt off the side of the building, he ran the last couple of feet towards the car, towards his escape. 

“I need to go, Rose. I need to move on!” His voice was raw and bouncing with every distressed step further. We learn that life is progressive—life will continue even when we wish for nothing more than a pause, a breath. So, if we are to survive, if we are to grow, we need to learn to push forward, even when we don’t wish to. 

There was nothing he could’ve done to stop her then, but that didn’t mean that he needed to fall with her now. She chose her path, and though he loved her and missed her, and she loved him, he now needed to choose his path. He knew now that it was time to move on, to permit himself to live his life again and to let go of what he couldn’t control. As if sensing that she was losing him, Rose lashed out, she twisted and spiralled, her eyes rolling back in her head as her limbs flailed around in desperation. Reaching for him, trying to trap him with her. 

The car came to a stop, and inside was a woman, short blond hair and almond-brown eyes, “Please, I need help! My car broke down back that way,” He pointed down the dark road in the direction of his abandoned car, “Can you take me to town?” A curt nod from the driver and he tugged on the door and slipped in, narrowly missing Rose’s grip that he was sure would’ve pulled him in and not let go. 

Leaning back into the warmth of the passenger seat, he inhaled a shaky breath. The only direction now was forward, and as the car rolled across the dark road in the direction of home, he knew that he would be alright, that he was on the road to recovery. Quietly, intimately, he whispered into the night, saying a final goodbye to the woman he had loved.