Living Dead

“I died a long time ago. It means nothing that I breathe, that I wake up every morn awaiting a day of housework, chores, and entertaining company. My life is endless toil, and I’d hardly call that living. It was easier when I was young. When I was bright and full of hope for my future that would surely never end in eternal grief. Before my spark went out, when I still had light behind my bright blue eyes and volume in my auburn hair. People could have easily confused me for someone happy, but not anymore. Now my skin is pale, my red locks thin and flat, my body so frail I feel as though my bones will break in the wind. Everyday I pray instead of waking I may just turn to dust. 

It's like the old songs say. You only miss the light when it’s dark out. You only mourn the sun on a cloudy day, but beg for the rain when the earth is dry. I learned that long ago, when I left a comfortable life that could have offered me education, adventure, and opportunity for a mediocre man and his stability. 

You see, I thought I was making the right choice when I married Luke. He was a Christian man, decently handsome, had a good family and a stable job. So when he proposed, I played my part and said yes. All my life I was told my wedding day would be the happiest day of my life, and I was preparing myself for it. In the end, it was okay. I remember the ginormous dress like it was yesterday. I hated the fit, and I despised the color. My mother-in-law did most of the wedding planning, and by the end of it I was dismayed and terrified for my wedding night. Thankfully, that was just as underwhelming.

My life since has been encompassed by a man with a big phony smile, deep frown lines, and dark eyes with darker circles underneath them. He isn’t happy, so neither am I. 

After the honeymoon (A week away in Italy. We had our first fight there. I loved the museums, he found them boring.) we moved to a nice two-story house in the suburbs. Luke began working in an exciting cubicle-central career that regularly evolves. Weekly meetings are his challenge, and professional handshakes are his best skill. His feeble mind is stimulated to the greatest extent. I did what any good 18-year-old wife would do. I stayed. I took care of the house, befriended the neighbors, and fell pregnant as soon as possible. 

I was only 19 when I gave birth to Blake. Now that’s something I remember. I nearly hemorrhaged during the birthing process, and afterwards vowed to never go through something so tortuous ever again. Once I saw the baby, my feelings towards the experience softened ever so slightly. Blake was so tiny, and he was all my doing. He was the only wonderful thing I ever did. He was beautiful right from the start, even though newborns are rather reminiscent of overripe radishes. Blake would cry and I would tend to him. He stimulated my mind, as I was the one to teach him how to be. Luke was around for the first two weeks, and then he went back to work, leaving me with a baby. 

I was happy taking care of Blake. That is, until he went off to school. The fun part was over, and I was left with nothing to do but manage a household and attend PTA meetings. Tiresome, laborious, dreadful work. 

I started to hate life, so I decided to befriend the other young wives travailing around me. Was their experience as bleak as mine? Not always. Some of them were in love, some enjoyed their children even more than I did. Still, so many felt the same way as I.

Every Sunday I would sit and chat with the other housewives of the block. Women with empty eyes and blemishless skin. They’re exhausted, but they’ll never move on. Just like me. After all, we have the kids to think of now. Kids we are giving our lives up for. Kids who didn’t ask to be here, and who’s fault is it that they are? Ours, of course. Well, mostly. So, we sit and talk and sip coffee and mourn silently.”

I set down the pen I'm using, as it's running out of ink. Writing this account of my days has grown bleaker and bleaker. Today I am attempting to recount the events that have led me to where I am now. I just can't stand another second of it. I look down at the page and notice it's spotted with tears. I wipe my cheeks, only just now realizing I have been crying. 

I stand from my seat at my desk and move the red cushioned chair aside. I walk in a pointless manner around the room my husband and I have shared for nearly thirty years now. I open the velvet curtains and take in the fading light of day. I make the bed once more, neater this time, and fold the laundry Luke has left on the ottoman. All of these are meaningless, futile tasks that I’ve been doing every day since the day I got here. I sigh, decide to leave the laundry on the ottoman and walk into our bathroom. 

Our, what a strange word to use. When have we once, in the entirety of our marriage, ever truly acted like we or our? 

Our, my, the communal bathroom is rather luxurious. It has a large vanity as well as the other typical accommodations. I’ve always found it curious that we call them vanities, considering you usually hate yourself after peering into it. I sit down on the white cushion stool and begin my daily routine. I use the bottles of creams and oils to look perfect and therefore twenty years younger. Perfumes and combs and lipsticks dot the countertop. As I get to work, I pause, and end up staring at the woman with empty eyes in the mirror. I think to myself, I don’t have to wear that perfume just because he likes it.

In an instant I stand up, decidedly done with getting ready for the day. How could I possibly handle all this noise in my mind? I nearly run back to my writing desk and pick up the pen, shaking it to release more ink. 

“I pace endlessly in the late hours of the evening, spiteful and grieving my own life. I am an insufferable, tiresome person. I have made my very own hell, paying for my past transgressions in this white-picket prison. The worst part is, if I had the chance to go back, I would give up the good life I gave to my child for my own happiness. I would exchange the sacrifices I made for Blake’s stability for my own freedom. I am a horrible, selfish person.”

I stand. Damn, that’s a confession. No one can ever find this, I must burn it. Which reminds me, I should light the fire. It’s getting cold out and Luke will want a warm home to return to tonight. 

Warm in temperature, not in company. Of course. 

I leave my room, walk down the dimly lit hallway and waltz down the rickety old stairs. The stairway is lined with pictures, as is the hallway it leads to. I pause to look at them. Blake’s high school graduation photos next to pictures of him in kindergarten. A photo of Luke the day he got promoted for the first time, and a picture of him with his mother on our fifteenth anniversary when we all went to Hawaii.

I realize how few of the pictures I am in. It feels as if the dismal fire inside of me clinging to life is only gasping out smoke. 

Oh right, the fire. I need to light the fire.

I continue down the hall and into the living room. A giant window that peers out into the neighborhood lines one wall, and on the opposite wall is the fireplace. I walk towards the window and see a young mother holding a toddler while walking a dog on the sidewalk. I watch as she sets the boy down, looking exhausted. I quickly pull the curtains closed. I take a breath and grab the matches from the coffee table next to the couch.

I start to try to light a match, but the first one hesitates respond and doesn't light. In frustration I grab a second one, which I manage to light. However, I was it fizzle out dismally in seconds. Finally, the third match I scrape against the box holds the flame just long enough for me to toss it into the fireplace. I gaze as it ignites the old wood. 

I find myself absolutely transfixed on the growing flames. I can't stop myself hoping, dreaming,and being more honest with myself than I’ve dared to be in years. If only I could go back in time and reignite my own spark…

I shake my head, banishing the rogue thought. Sounds nice, in theory. But I can’t go back. I can't leave. I can’t change. And so I wake every morning and breathe. I say my prayers and wait until the day my body catches up with my soul’s phase of rotting. 

I turn from the room in anguish and rush back up the stairs. Back to my desk. Back to my paper. Back to the pen.

I pick up the pen, not even pausing to shake it, and write once again. “I can’t-” I begin, before taking a moment to pause. I scan the page, and then flip backwards through the days of my life. Everywhere those five letters stand out. “I can't" “I can’t” “I can’t” over and over again.

Can I? 

I set the book down and stand. I walk down the old wooden stairs, and begin to pace. I wander around the empty house, past the pictures of Blake holding his Baylor acceptance letter, past the pictures of my husband playing football in college, past my wedding pictures from eons ago. I pass the window that has the perfect view of the neighborhood that holds women like shackles. I peek through the curtains. The toddler was now crying on the ground clutching his scraped knee, the mother holding him and crying as well. The fire cackles behind me. 

Can I?

I run back up to my (Our?) bedroom, the room that’s been the lonely zoo containing my body and mind for far too long. I grab my notebook, the journal my therapist suggested I write that I’ve been narrating my days to for months now, and add one last sentence to my collection of miserable entries. Underneath the paragraph about how selfish I am, just beneath my last miserable “I can’t”, I write, “And so, forevermore, she mourns the death of herself.”

Perhaps he won’t understand, but that's the point, isn’t it? It's my simple resignation letter to a cruel, uncaring world. However, the world I'm leaving is minute compared to the world I'm about to enter. I tuck the book underneath my silk pillow on the fresh-made bed and pull a plain black coat over my shoulders. I drop to the floor and search under the bed. I find the worn brown suitcase I packed twenty years ago, "Just in case." I strut down the wretched stairs and pass the dust-free picture frames in the hall. I nearly sprint to the heavy carved oak door. In desperation I grab at the polished gold door knob. For a moment, I pause, and consider what I'm about to do. I take a deep, slow breath. After a moment, my mind is made for good. I open the door and step outside.

I was free, and I vowed to never turn back again.