For
Ever
by Irmgard
The rain, which had been
beating down for many days, stopped finally. The deserted street, that
reflected the weak shine of the sunrays, lay in front of him. The sun had dared
to come out late. It was almost, as if it was embarrassed that it had neglected
the people for such a long time.
He was sitting at the
fireplace, looking out at the very world whose attention he didn't need. When would
he see her again?
Last Tuesday, she passed by;
she threw the paper into his mailbox and then she vanished so quickly that he
even didn't have a chance to go outside and approach her.
What was her name?
It didn't matter. He didn't
want anything from her, did he?
She - the girl with the black,
braided hair that was adorned with a blue ribbon. She was of slender build,
wearing bleached jeans and a yellow jacket.
After a deep sigh, he reached
for his glass to appease his thirst, but then he hesitated and stared
desperately at his mailbox, which was fastened to his garden fence.
The newspaper was in it. A
bad-mannered boy, however, who lived in the neighborhood, had put it into it.
That rascal never closed the lid. He should give the boy a piece of his mind.
He was too tired for that
though; much too tired.
How much time had passed since
then? Three weeks? Maybe more, probably even less.
He put down his glass with
disgust. It was whiskey, and it brought back memories he wanted to forget. He
should pour away the whiskey, so that he could get rid of the unpleasant
pictures in his mind at the same time.
Laboriously, he hauled himself
out of the armchair, thereby touching the glass, which toppled over and fell to
the floor. Silently, the golden yellow liquid seeped into the carpet.
"You are good for
nothing! Look, what you have done!"
He shook his head. Then he
bent down to pick up the glass, while he tried to ignore the voice.
She was gone, but he couldn't
remember when it had happened. Somehow, he was glad that she wasn't here
anymore; she had vanished, forever and ever.
"Loser!"
It was only one of many biting
remarks.
Maybe the girl would come
tomorrow and deliver the newspaper. Then he would go outside and wish her a
nice day. They could enter into a conversation, and he would ask her how she
was doing.
In the kitchen, he rinsed the
whiskey glass. He dried it carefully and put it into the kitchen cabinet with
the glazed doors. White varnish and painstakingly polished glass, everything
had to be always neat and clean.
The last delivery from the
supermarket was still sitting next to the door. He threw a doubtful glance at
it. No, not now, there would be sufficient time for that.
Once again, that girl haunted
his mind. He visualized her running along the street, stopping at his garden
fence and putting the newspaper into his mailbox. She always closed the lid,
and then she looked at his entrance door. She merely glanced at it, as if she
expected that somebody would take notice of her. Her black braid waved in the
wind, when she left and quickly disappeared again.
Why couldn't he simply ignore
her? Forget her?
In the living room, he dusted
the porcelain figurines, which were sitting on the table next to the television;
one after another, until the china animals were clean and shining again - a
white/red cat, a sheepdog and a parrot.
Their eyes flashed in the
light of the old floor lamp with the lampshade of fabric, almost
conspiratorially, as if they suspected something.
Such nonsense, he thought.
They are merely dead objects!
Nervousness was coming over
him as always, when she didn't show up. Maybe tomorrow.
Why had she always tormented
him and pestered him on and on? My fault! My fault! The consistent staccato in
his head made his surroundings vanish, and it led him to a point where he was
completely at a loss.
Colors, smells and noises took
possession of him and forced him to the floor. He moaned aloud. Holding his
head in both hands, he could merely wait until it would finally stop.
"No!"
Nevertheless, everything was
still droning in his clamoring thoughts, which were dancing up and down and
back and forth like a small boat on a stormy sea.
What had happened? An
argument, a trivial dispute, just as it had happened day after day. One word,
many words. Very sharp and full of hatred. And yet, they had been happy once. A
long time ago...
He saw her in front of him;
her pinned-up hair and his hand running through it, through that jet-black
softness. He couldn't remember anything else.
The girl resembled her. She
had looked at him in the same manner when they had met for the very first time;
here in this quarter, at the old, wooden bridge. Their love had been innocent
back then. So unspent and pure. In the course of years, everything had changed.
Is it true that love is the sister of hatred? Is there only a narrow patina of
civilization between those two feelings? It must have happened insidiously,
doubtlessly silently and somehow maliciously.
Finally, the turmoil in his
head died down again.
He slowly got up and went back
to the window. Right now, the street seemed to him like a way to freedom, and
in the twilight of the early evening, it looked less menacing. The people in
the houses were either having dinner or watching TV.
He had to go outside and get
some fresh air. His coat hung in the hall, right beside the basement door. He
should go into the basement. He didn't know, however, why it was so important.
The entrance door snapped shut
with a soft click. He gave a start. Then he turned around. For a moment, he
thought that he had heard something, a voice in the distance.
"You are completely
nuts!"
He put his key ring into the
pocket of his coat and he rushed down the stairs to the garden path.
"You are wrong. I am not
nuts!" he said, without believing it. The voice in his head sounded like a
giggle. It accompanied him all the time, while he opened the garden gate,
closed it again and arrived at the sidewalk.
How had it started? A
pointless question. It had started as it always starts. He didn't know though:
How would it end? Where had she gone to? Why hadn't he heard from her again?
Fall foliage rustled under his
shoes. He stopped walking and looked down. He was still wearing his slippers.
He wasn't sure what to do, as he looked back at his house. Should he return?
Change his shoes?
He couldn't finish his train
of thoughts, because somebody called out to him.
"Mr. Joseph! Mr. Joseph!
Hello! I am pleased to see you!"
A small, stout woman rushed
towards him with a beaming smile.
"Good evening, Miss
Holly." He realized with relief that he remembered her name.
"Have you heard that the
neighbors of number 114 are moving out? Don't you agree with me that it is a
real shame? They are so nice people, and their daughter is such a lovely,
decent girl."
"Oh well, yes," he
mumbled. Number 114 was ten houses further down the street. He didn't know the
residents.
Holly looked at his slippers,
and her grin grew even broader.
"Honestly, Mr. Joseph! You
must take better care of you. Those shoes are much too cold for this
evening."
"Yes, Miss Holly. I know.
Have a nice evening."
"He turned around in
order to return to his house.
"Do you need any
help?" she shouted behind him.
A cold breeze touched him, as
if he were in the basement all of a sudden.
"No, thank you," he
answered Holly's question without turning around.
"Have a nice evening, Mr.
Joseph!"
He didn't pay attention to
Holly anymore. He merely wanted to get home and enter the basement.
Certainty! He needed
certainty.
She, his wife, Noelle, had
never called him Joseph. Their nicknames were either of tender or sardonic
nature. It solely depended on her mood. In the course of time, he had almost
forgotten that he had a real name, and that they had been in love once. Such a
feeling is so fragile. A slight touch of indifference could destroy it.
Sometimes, an angry word arouses the contrary, namely hatred. Joseph didn't
know whether he hated her. He was certain, however, that he didn't love her
anymore.
He unlocked the entrance door.
Then he rushed to the basement door and hesitated. His heart was racing and
cold sweat covered his forehead; he was full of fear of the things he would
find in the basement.
His hand was trembling, as he
opened it, and he stepped on the first step of the wooden staircase that led
downstairs.
Seven steps. She had had a
motion detector installed. Therefore, the light switched on automatically.
Noelle had always been the prime mover, after all, when it was about changes in
the house; a new kitchen, beautiful marble tiles in the bathroom and so much more
than they actually needed. Although he had never wanted those new things, he
had agreed with Noelle for her sake.
Reluctantly, he went
downstairs, and he felt like a child that entered a room it had never been in
before.
That black-haired girl could
have been his daughter. They didn't have any children; a childless couple, at
the mercy of each other, completely and utterly. Noelle had refused to have
children.
"When we have a child, we
will never be as happy as we are now. It would disturb us, sweetie!"
Joseph had put up with that as
well, and with the passage of time, he had even agreed with her. Their intimate
togetherness, however, had led them into a trap they couldn't escape anymore;
in this very house that should have been their home, sheltered and well
provided...
"Come on..." the
voice in his head whispered.
"What do you want from
me?"
"The truth! You must find
the truth!"
He stopped on the foot of the
stairs and he took a deep breath. He looked around.
Many cart boxes were on the
shelves, which were lined up on the walls. The boxes were neatly labeled and
filled with things, which were too good to throw away, but they actually didn't
need them at all.
Noelle had insisted on storing
them here.
There was no room left on the
shelves now, which obviously was the explanation for the big box in the middle
of the room.
Noelle, however, hadn't put it
there. He, Joseph, had done that.
The box contained Noelle's
things; her clothes, jewelry, personal care products and several plush toys he
had given her as presents at the beginning of their relationship.
The removal of her belongings
should have helped him to dare a fresh start. At the same time, he had begun to
suppress Noel's farewell - a circumstance he couldn't have foreseen. He had simply
forgotten it. Now he was standing there, as his eyes were fixed on the box, and
he visualized the last scenario.
"What are you doing? Stop
it please, please!"
"It shall burn,
burn!" she shouted in a shrill voice.
Joseph smelled gasoline. A
matchstick flared. He lunged at her and dragged her to the floor. The tiny
flame died down. However, she fought back. She scratched his face and she
stroke blows upon him like crazy. He was stunned that this slender body could
summon up so much energy.
Wasn't there a saying that
lunatics had more power that common people? Noelle, his insane wife, wanted to
torch their house.
First, he clutched her upper
arms, as he tried to overpower her. Then both his hands reached for her neck
and he squeezed it as firmly as he could.
"Stop it, darling!"
she rasped, and then he let go of her. She twisted and turned under him and she
kicked her legs, until he was too exhausted, and he finally rolled from her
body.
She lay in front of him in a
puddle of gasoline and laughed. She laughed so loud that he had to cover his
ears.
It took all of his strength to
lock her up in the storeroom. Then he called her physician.
"Will she regain her
health?"
"You have to be strong,
Mr. Joseph. This disease is incurable. The first phase is often accompanied by enormous
aggressions. I am very sorry."
They tied Noelle to a
stretcher, and she was very silent. The tranquilizer had worked quickly.
Then she was gone. For ever.
