Final Goodbyes

For the past few nights, he had become a recurrence in my dreams. Never too close, too far, or of any prominence, he swung within the distance of barely being seen. At times, he was around the street corner, smoking a cigarette nihilistically by the streetlight pole. Other times, he walked directly in my path, like he was determined to run into me. Then, in the blink of an eye, he was gone. I saw it as his way of blaming me for not saying the final goodbye and murdering him when he had his back to me. I, however, longed for no farewell nor closure. I wanted him to haunt my dreams, lingering in my vulnerable subconsciousness until his face was blurred by the unforgiving time.

In December, he was laid to rest. No trace of snow was blessed upon him. Though the hope for snow was futile, I wished still. There was no funeral. De Rossi offered to buy the furthest plot near the line of dense trees in the cemetery, and I purchased his limestone headstone. I didn't dress as I had pictured, nor did I have a veil. Instead, I wore that condemned green dress and those gold lamé shoes and stood perfectly straight as I watched his coffin lowered by the underpaid, dead-eyed, grave diggers with my lips pursed. I was the only one who knew him. After filling the disturbed earth with dirt, the men looked at me for approval. I nodded, and they went back to work. As they left with shovels over their shoulders, I tipped each of them well and thanked them individually for the labor they were put through.

"Condolences, ma'am," said the talkative one. "Must've been hard to be alone."

Faintly, I smiled but didn't engage. He realized that he had crossed the line. Quickly, he mumbled thanks, took the money, ad left in a hurry without making further eye contact.

The weather was mild and calm, the sky was clear, and the sun shone generously. I clasped my hands, inhaled and exhaled slowly, and remained motionless like a statue. My mind was blank, overwhelmed by the utter nothingness. Earlier, the undertaker asked me politely if I wanted to see him before he was sealed under the heavy mahogany for eternity. To that, I agreed. By his side, I looked down while keeping my chin up. I'd never lower my head at him again, not even in death. He seemed as if he was peacefully asleep, only the painted color on his face was slightly off. It was a shade darker than what he used to be or what he was. I should've said my last goodbye then, but I didn't.

Now that he was six feet under. He was so desperate to leave a mark in the books, yet the only note that signified his existence was the carvings on that headstone:

Neil D. Ferguson

1899 – 1934

A devoted Catholic

and

Once a beloved father and husband

I was torn by stripping him off the notion that he was loved. The truth shouldn't be masked or denied. At last, despite the sins he had cast upon me, he was, without a doubt, loved and should be laid to rest in peace. But he wasn't, and would never be, forgiven.

"If you must seek vengeance for your tragic end, then haunt me," I whispered. "Haunt me till I see you again in the next realm. Haunt me as if you had loved me."

His death was what I had come to terms with, though I struggled to accept that he was truly gone.

"I didn't know he was a year younger than me," said a voice from behind. "He's dead, and I'm still living."

Turning around, I found Wesley in his best suit a couple of feet away from me. He had a sincere and solemn look. I could not tell what he was thinking, except that Neil's death made him feel something he was reluctant to feel.

"Come," I said, glancing over the new grave for the final time, "we should go."

-----

Thomas called my name as I reached for my hat and was ready to head to the table. I hung the hat back on the hook and turned to him with an expressionless stare.

This was the first time he had tried to speak to me since the day I returned in that green dress, the day that marked the beginning of the end. He was pacing around neurotically in the foyer and stopped abruptly when he saw me. Purposefully, I paid him no mind and proceeded to carry out the futile attempt of walking past him.

He cleared his throat, and I halted. Silently, he voiced his disappointment with those eyes. He opened his mouth, not to speak but to let out a sigh; he then forcefully and hastily grabbed my waist to pull me close. His right hand seized my neck as his warm fingertips exerted pressure on my exposed skin. I did not doubt that he'd choke me there and then. The pathetic fact that both he and I knew very well was that he couldn't. My death would come as a cosmic relief, but it would have to mean more to him than the simple passing of the subordinate he trained and married. He had no justifiable reason to kill me. Not yet.

Gradually, the pressure on my neck subsided, though the grasp on my waist remained strong. His right hand slid down my chest and to my thigh. In a swift motion, he hiked up the hem of my dress, sneaked his hand under it, and reached for the holster that housed the murder weapon. Taking it away from its home, he maintained eye contact with me. The process was prolonged, but eventually, he pointed it upright in the air, leveled, and next to my head. Without breaking the gaze, he began to unload my revolver slowly. He counted each time when a bullet hit the floor and made a thud, echoing in the otherwise empty room.

Five bullets yielded five counts, for the missing one was lodged in the man from before.

I thought he'd drop the revolver. He didn't. He placed it back to where it belonged in a reversed action sequence. During the entire time, he said nothing. There was no need for anything to be said. Backing away, he locked eyes with me for another few seconds before turning his back to me and walking up the stairs.

"Anne," at present, he spoke broodingly, "I won't ask you why you thought it was a good idea to bury him. However, I'd like to advise you to make rational decisions from now on."

"I understand," I said.

"Now," he changed his tone, "tell me, do you want to know whether your son, Louis, is dead or alive?"

He spoke indifferently and blandly as if he was talking about an inanimate object, not a life.

I hesitated. If I were a better person, I'd say yes. Though what good would come out of it? If he was dead, then I had mourned him. I would have to trust that he was safe and looked after if he were alive. The guilt was immense, and I had to live with it.

"No," I bit my lip and answered, "it's better if I don't know."

Being a father himself, I thought he'd be enraged. I thought he'd tell me I was a vile woman and mother. At first, he curled his lips. Then, he sighed.

"I understand," he said. It was the last thing I expected him to say. He sounded sympathetic, and I was taken aback. "I'd do the same if I were you."