BROKEN........

Dear Laura,

I have a dreadful tale to tell. Your man lies dying, struck by a nameless plague that came from the unknown.

He is pale and weak, his eyes dim, his voice faint, his breath short. He suffers from fever and pain, from nightmares and visions, from memories and regrets. He is haunted by death, and by you.

He loves you still, Laura, with all his being. He speaks of you always, awake or asleep. He calls you, begs you, implores you. He says you are his only hope, joy, and salvation.

He blames himself for your parting, for the harsh words he spoke when he left. He says he was mad with jealousy and pride, that he doubted your love and faith. He says he was a fool, a villain, a wretch. He says he deserves to die.

But I know you are not cruel, Laura, not unforgiving. I know you love him too, that you treasure your happy past. I know you have him in your heart and yearn for his arms.

Therefore, I beseech you, Laura, to grant him one last boon. Come to him, ere it is too late. Come to see him, speak to him, comfort him. Come to tell him you love him still, you forgive him all.

Do not refuse him this last grace, this last mercy. Do not let him die without your face, your voice, your touch. Do not let him die without your care.

He waits for you, Laura, with hope and fear. He counts the time till you come. He clings to life by a thread of love.

Hasten then, Laura, do not tarry. Come as soon as you can. Come before it is too late.

Your loving mother,

Perhaps she knew for he had lost all sense of time and season; he knew not if it were winter or summer. He had lost all feeling and emotion; he cared not if the sun shone or the rain poured. He lay there, staring at the white walls, feeling the cold sweat on his forehead and the damp sheets on his skin. And all he could think of was her.

He wondered how she fared, and where she dwelt, and with whom she shared her bed. He cursed the fate that had torn them apart - and the cruel world that had kept them separate. He wished he could see her face again, and hear her voice, and touch her hair. He longed for her to return to him, and say "I love you", and that she cared.

But he knew that it was all in vain; he had to bear his woe alone. She was gone, and he was left behind; nothing could undo what had been done. He had loved her more than life itself, and though he had betrayed her he could not bring himself to hate.

He tried to forget her and to fill his heart with other things. But nothing could ease his pain, or heal his wound, or stop the bleeding. He felt like he had lost his soul, his reason, and his will: he was a broken man, a hollow shell, a walking corpse.

He dreamed of her every night and saw her in every shadow. He heard her in every sound and felt her in every breeze. He smelled her in every flower and tasted her in every drop. He was haunted by her presence, and tormented by her absence. He was obsessed by her memory, and consumed by her love.

He knew not how long he could endure this torture, or how long he would have to live. He knew not if there was any hope for him or any mercy for his sin. He knew not if there was any justice in this world, or any meaning in this life. He knew not if there was any God above or any hell below.

He knew only one thing: he loved her still.