Final Peace

That was the conclusion I reached almost twenty minutes ago, after thinking about what had happened. She was gone now, far from me, and she would not return. And how am I supposed to go on now? She was the driving force behind every thing I did, every move I made, she was there, with a kind word, to guide me, and protect me. And now she's gone. And I gave her support, financially. But she could not stay. She couldn't pretend to love me.

One question had been ringing in my mind for the past 15 minutes, a cry of fear, and of desperation. The cry from the friend.

"HOW THE HELL DO I GO ON NOW WITHOUT HER?"

It was another man, I realized. She left me because I was so inadequate, and unworthy of her. She tired of nursing this weak, fool bastard, and left him for someone more able to be what she envisioned the man in her life to be. I'm not surprised. But I feel no anger for the other man now. Only for myself. It is I, and I alone, who failed.

I am sitting on the corner of the bed, on her side, my hand resting slightly on her pillow, I can almost see her lying there! Her soft blond hair, her face, her beautiful face, like an angel she looks. Katharine, where did I go wrong?

I look in the mirror, my eyes are black, my features clouded. Maybe it's just the state I am in right now, but I can't bear to look at that face for another second. It disgusts me. I turn away, looking in the other direction, and rest my head on her pillow. I can almost smell her hair, the faded scent of her cheap perfume on the pillow. She always insisted on buying that cheap perfume, even though I could've bought the best for her. All for her. I look across the large master bedroom to where her things lie on shelves, strewn about the floor. She will come around later to pick them up. I won't be here.

I stand up, and look again into the mirror. Anger clouds my features, a fearful sneer crosses my lips. My fist goes into the mirror, through the mirror, and into the drywall on the farside. Ouch. I pull my hand out, it is obviously broken. The pain is incredible. Shocking, too, that I have done this to myself. I stand back, and use the broken hand to wipe my face, smearing blood all over, it runs down through the stubble on my chin, onto my expensive armani suit. Odd, that I should be wearing an armani at this moment.

The servants will be along to inspect the noise of crashing glass, brought about by their master. So unlike him, They will say. The poor Master. Yes, I am quite rich, I bought her everything she could have ever wanted. But I was too devoted, she would say. More like a child, than a lover. The servants should want to inspect my wound. That coupled with the loss of separation. I will have none of it. Heading downstairs, I move into the bathroom, ignoring the pain in my hand, the blood dripping off the cuts that cross the back and the fingers like canyons. Trivial now, these things.

I go to the shower, and blast the cold water onto full. I turn on the radio which I keep in the bathroom, the volume set high so I can hear it above the shower. I remove my clothes, and throw them out the open bathroom door. The well-tailored armani hits the wall just outside the door, and falls to the floor, sliding for a few feet before finally halting.

I walk the distance from the radio to the shower stall, leaving large pools of blood from my hand. It hasn't begun to go numb yet, the hand. In fact, it is beginning to clot, scab tissue already forming. I didn't hit an artery or anything major in my little trip through the mirror. I sit down on the floor of the shower, and the cold water does little to shock me back to sanity. The blood, red crimson trails pool on the floor with the puddles of water, and runs down the drain. I rest the hand on my stomach, and I watch it run down between my legs, covering my genitals in it's deep, dark wash of red. I watch the trails, running off, my legs are almost dark with the stuff now. The water slams into my head, a painful rush of freezing, yet cleansing liquid that makes my long black hair press out flat against my face.

I can hear the radio now, loud over the shower. It's the Beatles, playing Yellow Submarine. They keep singing, "We all live in a yellow submarine, a yellow submarine, a yellow submarine." I would laugh if wasn't so ridiculous. I would cry if it wasn't so funny. I might even return to my senses if it wasn't so sad. And it's still there, that decadent scream of pain my mind shouts at me constantly.

"HOW THE HELL DO I GO ON NOW WITHOUT HER?"

The song wraps to a close, and the shower fights a futile battle to remove the blood from my hand, which keeps rushing out in a stream of deathly crimson. Maybe I did cut an artery. Maybe not. Either way, it hurts like hell.

I think I fell asleep there, because I woke up, and saw that the servants had found me, they looked at me. They spoke. I can't hear them. Their mouths are moving, and I do not hear them! I stand, they try to take me, to nurse me, to tend my hand. A flash of rage, and I throw them off, running for the bedroom. I will not be babied like a child.

I return to the bedroom. The smashed mirror goes unnoticed now, forgotten as though it were several years ago. I pull on a pair of jogging pants, and a ratty old T-shirt. I am still soaking wet, and the clothes cling to me, becoming wet with water and blood alike. Finally, I ignore socks, and pull on a pair of shoes. They must have cost over $420.00 at some posh, expensive shoe store I couldn't remember the name of now. They contrast nicely with my ragged appearance.

I move slowly outside, the servants now trailing behind me, at a distance. I don't acknowledge them, and barely notice them. I am out the door before they can say a word. The sun is too hot, I think to myself. And Katharine is gone. Huh.

"HOW THE HELL DO I GO ON NOW WITHOUT HER?"

There's my old friend. The partner in my head that reminds me that Katharine is gone, and that I am not all there. I can not help but laugh that he should even exist. I hope the laughter will free me, get me away from the friend. But it is hollow, controlled. I can not even have laughter, can I?

I walk into my car park, an enormous building, practically an entire mechanics shop, here only to maintain my collection of foreign cars. I have so many, I stopped counting almost three years ago, shortly after I met Katharine. I walk down the rows of cars, and stop at the Porsche. The wonderful black Porsche. I bought it for her, for our wedding, and I still remember the way she screamed, kissed me. She was so happy. I was so happy.

I keep certain items in all the cars that are essential to survival when you are a millionaire, and need to be connected to the outside world in as many ways as possible. A phone, a wash of credit cards, an ATM card, a laptop computer, top of the line, and connected to the Internet, and ultimately, my stock brokers, my connections, my investors. Ultimately, my entire being. A spare set of keys is kept in the glove box, and I take a seat, the blood on my hand dripping off the steering wheel. It's been at least 15 minutes, and the hand is still warm, and throbbing. It is still not numb yet. Maybe I just haven't noticed.

I start the car, without telling the engineers. They will be annoyed, I think. They say they always like to do a check-up on the cars before I take them out. Too bad. I speed down the highway now, towards where, I do not know. Somehow I arrive downtown, outside a shop. I don't have to read the name on the sign to know what kind of store it is. I just know. I move inside, and the shopkeeper seems annoyed, looking at my bloody, water soaked visage. I know what he thinks I am. It will only take him a moment to realize who I am. Everyone in this town know who I am.

As soon as he knows, I tell him what I want. He shouldn't really give it too me, he is saying, but I don't hear him, like the servants. I pull out the credit cards, and throw them at him, asking which one he wants for it. He jumps to fill the order immediatly. The flash of millionaire plastic is a powerful thing for a middle class man.

Right away, he gives me what I want, but at the same time, not what I wanted. He is trying to explain it is easier to use for beginners, and would be better for me. Again I don't hear him, but the message is clear. I take it from him and throw it to the floor, explaining what I want again, in a loud, irate voice. He returns with the exact make, and model. I ask him for the things, I don't know the word, to make it work, again and again. He understands, and hands me 5 of them, one of which he puts into the item. I pay him, leaving my credit cards on the floor.

I return to the Porsche, and get in, and sit down. I remove the gun from the waist band of my jogging pants, and place the 4 clips beside it. Odd, how only now I realize the full extent of my purchase. But it is not for Katharine. Oh goodness no. Never Katharine.

"HOW THE HELL DO I GO ON NOW WITHOUT HER?"

I arrive at her house. Finally, my hand has stopped bleeding, but I am still covered in blood, all over my face, my clothes, the car, the gun. I must look a frightful sight. I laugh at this, and it is real. Perhaps my friend is leaving me. Perhaps not.

I knock on the door with my broken hand. Ouch. I hold the gun in my other hand, my left. I am right handed, and it is awkward to hold the gun there. I have never fired a gun in my life.

She opens the door, the light spills onto her face, and for a moment, she smiles. She is so beautiful to me, to everyone. She is the California girl, extremely beautiful, blond, blue eyes, deeply tanned skin. She is beautiful to me, not only on the outside, but the inside as well. I have seen her soul, and know that she is something that can only love, and be loved. How can I not love her? She is an angel. The friend screams at me, only a slight change from his usual cry.

"YOU CAN NOT GO ON WITHOUT HER ANY LONGER!!"

The rage wells up inside of me, and I lift the gun, she looks at it, confused, as though she doesn't know what it is. I take aim. Not for her though. I see the other man sitting on the couch inside the house. He looks at me, a look of fear and desperation on his face as he tries to rush me. I fire twice, and he falls to the ground, his hands over his head. Did I hit him? I don't know, but I doubt it. I grab her almost immediatly, rushing off, and she stumbles after me now, screaming my name, screaming his name, the one I just fired at inside the house. I wonder again if I hit him. He does not come after me, and I think if I did not hit him, then he lies whimpering like a boy on the floor of the living room, his own mortality hanging on a thread before him. It is just as well, for if he came out, this time I would be sure not to miss him.

"HOW THE HELL DO I GO ON NOW WITHOUT HER?"

We are in the Porsche, she is crying, her former tranquillity gone now. I think how I do not want to be here. Am I still even insane? I can't tell, but now I am too far into this to just quit. My ram my hand into the steering wheel, my broken hand, and the pain shoots up my arm like a knife being jammed into my wrist and pulled up towards the elbow. Ouch.

I am driving, no direction. I don't look at her, she is still crying. She thinks she has lost her love, back in the house. She thinks she is going to die. But she is wrong. I could not kill her. She is my love. I drive past the police station, and realize they must have received a phone call from a neighbour who heard the gunshots. They are watching the car go by, at the speed limit, oddly enough. They scramble to their squad cars. I floor the accelerator. She has settled to a low whimper.

I arrive at my destination at least a good minute before they. We are, strangely enough, at a pier, on the edge of town. I do not remember driving in this direction. No matter. I hustle her out of the car, and rush her to the dock. We are standing at the point of the dock when it meets ground when the cars pull up. There are at least 15 or 20 of them. I do not hear the sirens, or the policemen screaming. I drag my Katharine, my beloved, sweet loving Katharine, to the end of the pier. I nearly break her neck trying to do it. I am sorry, my love! It will all be over soon. I love you.

The police are there before I put the gun to her head, and begin screaming. I can't even hear my own voice, for some reason. I can't hear anything, only I know that they are screaming, I am screaming, she has gone limp in my arms, I am holding her with my broken hand, pointing the gun at her head. Somewhere, in time I had forgotten to notice, It had become night time. Odd, but not. I had missed so many details in the past few hours.

"HOW THE HELL DO I GO ON NOW WITHOUT HER?"

I let her drop, then, for some reason, and I reach out, screaming at them. I am unaware of everything, but my throat, because it hurts from the screaming. My hand, broken and shattered now, the dried blood fusing the fingers into a single claw. And them, the police.

How did it come to this? Where did my mind disappear, and this thing, so unlike me, and everything I hold dear, become my reality? My mind? When did I become the thing, the thing you see on the news, screaming at the police, threatening an innocent? I can't answer that question. I can't. There is no time.

I point the gun at them, advance towards them, screaming even louder. They step back. I fire at them. I know I hit at least one of them. I know I fired again, and again. I know they fired back. I could hear the gunshots. I could hear the gunshots!

How sweet it was, the end. My body blossomed out, into millions of cherry red explosions. Fireworks. I was thrown back, over the railing, into the night. The gun was gone, and I could see the trail of blood, somehow still suspended in the air. Frightening. My body hit the ocean, and I was still conscious of the police of the dock. I closed my eyes, savouring the smell of the thick red blood as it spread out into a thick black pool around my body. I shouldn't have been able to smell it, smell anything but the ocean, but I could. It smelled like heaven.

How sweet it was, The End.

I am sitting on the beach now, I can see the pier from here. It is silent, except for the sound of the ocean washing against my feet. I am wearing the armani suit again, but my shoes are gone. My hand is no longer broken. I am free of injury. The ocean air blows my hair around my face. I feel good.

I am dead.

A man walks up the beach now, he is naked. He is thin, narrow, but short. He has long hair, like my own, except it is red, and not black. He approaches me, and stands near to me, looking at the ocean, as do I. But I turn to look at him, and he seems to radiate something I can not identify. And then it strikes me. He is radiating love. He is the anti-being of everything that happened to me, and I can not remember suddenly, what did happen to me.

He looks at me. He speaks, I can hear him. Odd to a voice after the deafness of my insanity, it is. I look at him as he talks to me.

"The ocean is beautiful, isn't it, this time of year? I so wonder what it is about this time of the year that make the ocean look that way. It must be the weather, this southern California climate does things to you, and you see things in a new light. Don't you?" he cocks his head in an odd manner, it brings a tear to my eye. "Don't you think?"

I can barely speak. My throat has clogged with something now, and I realize that I am crying. His face does not change, he does not move. He looks at me, and I love him. He speaks again. I hear him again. My tears drip into the sand, I can not help but cry.

"Why are you crying? Can you not see the ocean? It is the very creation of all God's devices. Immortal. Unchanging. Everlasting. You may be dead, but the ocean is always there. It is so beautiful. The Ocean."

He says it the last time, and I can hear the capital on the word "Ocean" What it means, I can not understand. I can never understand. The Ocean, I realize, is like Him. He stands before me, and I can't tell suddenly, that He is naked. But even so, I realize that He is unchanging too, like the Ocean. The wind does not move his hair in the slightest. His features do not lose that wonderful smile. I love Him.

"What is this place?" I speak finally. It is weird to hear my own voice. I can't understand why I said it.

"This is the place between Mortality, and Immortality. This is the Ocean. Everyone, even you, come here, at the End." The amount of capitals in his speech is clear. He is speaking of things that are beyond my comprehension. Mortality. Immortality. The End.

This is Limbo.

"Do you want to leave here? We can go now." He says, smiling at me. I love Him. How could I not? He is God.

"Not God. But of God." He says. He can feel my thoughts. My mind.

I stand up, and move towards Him. He takes my hand, and I wrap my fingers around His. We walk down the beach, and I look down to realize that I am naked. The armani suit is gone. The friend, the one who reminded so often of where I was going, was gone too. He would not scream at me from the confines of my brain. I am free.

We walk down the beach, and the light appears before us. I am happy, at last. I enter the light, and everything is warm. It is only love, and peace. Yes, peace.

I have my peace, My Final Peace, at last.

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