My Wilted Flower

Like the wind that howls at night, she would too. It was an eerie sound that always chilled me to the bone, and left me often very wary of my surroundings. I’d stop my work at these times, pressing my finger tight against my pen. The paper’s always marked with my nervous moves. Fear would fill my soul.

Often I found myself wishing I could leave the household during these times; I feared for my life...but far more, I feared for the sound state of my mind. I was mad, am going mad. My life felt as if hysterics had all but taken over.

However during the day her beauty kept me captive; for when, during this time when the sun shone upon her face, I could only see her and the brilliance of her smiling eyes and her gloriously elegant motions. Her golden eyes would flash with love and devotion. A wisdom so deep was embedded into her. Ah I found that I would be kept by this woman and sated for many years. As I had already for so long.

But at night I doubted this. I always found myself, begging myself to pardon such thoughts and phrases...but how could I? Did I love her?

Yes I did.

I loved her during the day when her elegance bloomed like the sweetest flower, yet my blossom would wilt every night, giving into insane fits of agony and rage. We rarely spoke of her problem, the few times I ventured as far as to ask her she would become stiff, and her smile would fade. It was in those few times I would see how deliciously delicate she truly was.

Recalling the first time, upon mention she had all but vanished from my sight. Movement had stopped and it had seemed that even the world around us had been interrupted. Her thin fingers trembled with what looked to be anger, but that was all. I learned then it was a mistake.

Even now and the past times it seem that she has not changed. She has no measure of patience for such subjects. I would amend myself on her behalf, and we would continue on as though the words said by me were never spoken.

But, I wished to speak of our lives here, of our child. And so even though I know she will not acknowledge, I bring up Thomas. The first time she reached for her stomach. Panic crossed her face and then I saw it. Her golden eyes...hesitant, angry and confused.

Sadness filled my heart, “may I hold you?”. But the response turned to what it always was and routine was set back in place. Now when Thomas was mentioned she didn’t even flinch.

How could she do this to me? I longed to hold her through the nights, to be her comfort; more than once I had tried, only to find her chamber door locked and bolted shut. She had shut me out in this life. My wife had disappeared into the night like the light had from the world.

Such rage does fill me when I think of this, how she would not let me help her. I swore upon myself I would go mad if this was to continue. I felt as though I was condemned to my own heaven and hell...heaven when the sun is out, and hell once it has departed! I wished to yell out, to bang on her chambers and demand her to let me hold her, to let me take away that god forsaken pain! But she did not. And I did not.

Once too I had tried. But her pain and anguish filled every ounce of the house when she heard my words. As though the knowledge of me on the other side sent her into a fit of rage. Like by a demonic presence, I would be pushed back from her door. Flung across the corridor. The windows would shake and it seemed the house was at her whim.

I thought, if I stayed away and simply did my work at night, stayed with her through the days... That she might change her ways, stop the fits. She hasn’t stopped, I do not cage her. She is free, I have no reason to prevent her from small pleasures. Why must she hate me so?

Before I stopped accepting visitors, they would convey to me she was a witch. I laughed every time. I was not under her spell. I knew when we met. The rumors were strong then, but my love for her, it was stronger. At times though I feel cursed. They began to sway me, I was told it wasn’t my love here with me. I almost believed them, so I no longer feel the need to have company. She is all I need.

Yet still every night I hear her screaming...

Once our son was to be born it was then her fits began, far before the night she gave birth her screams of agony could be heard. It was indeed a hard labor on her, and she fell very ill during the pregnancy. The Dr. stopped coming shortly after our sons arrival.

So small, he never cried. His eyes the color of his mother’s. Hair dark like mine, and that same wisdom behind them. I knew we were not prepared. She never held him, and her screams kept him from peace of mind. We both needn’t bare this burden.

I feared she would never forgive him. Not long befor he reached A year, I sent him away to live with my brother, his uncle, in Granard. I thought it would be best for him to go where he could be raised by both a healthy man and woman. It was my mistake, as she has never forgiven me.

Her wailing is as sure as any indication or sign.

I do not regret this however. My brother can give that boy a life. One we will never be able to give him. I do send him my love and allowance. I send my brother my thanks and payment. Recently I received his portrait. Our son looks just like her.

But we do not speak of that child, nor of how my body and face continue to age and hers look as it did fifteen years ago. We do not speak of how I may never hold her again, nor of her headstone in the family graveyard. We do not speak of anything related to her illness or the timely death it brought.

And so during the day she is as I once new her to be, my loving wife. And during the night she reminds me of what she has become... what I have become.