Night Peril

I’ve been alone for the past six hours in this library reading dark novels by my favourite author. It is around closing time when I receive a call from Addison who asks what time I am coming home. I tell her I am on my way. I have been in a black abyss for the past few months. No one ever found out. About the abortion, I mean. The truth is to live inside of me and only me for the rest of my life. It has been seven months since Robert has passed. My mania and impulsive decision making that followed remains in the past as well. I’ve not been involved with any men other than those I see at my work, and I don’t mean my artist job. I have returned to selling my body at night. Not much else has changed. The kids are on summer break at their aunt’s house in Florida. I spend most of my days by the pool reading murder-mystery novels. Every so often crying over my losses. I didn’t want to make the mistake of getting pregnant. My mental illness is to blame for not having made sure I was doing myself right. My decisions were rash. I fully regret everything regarding Richard. We haven’t spoken since our meeting in my house that Saturday afternoon. He knows nothing to this day. I prefer it that way as I feel nauseated even remembering his touch. I drive home listening to my favourite soul radio station. Something I only do on my own as a part of my meditation; something I must do as a borderline to balance my mind. Commercials of vacation venues at discount sales play between songs. They kill my mood immediately, even though you’d figure I would be used to hearing them by now. I fix my eyes on the road as traffic ahead indicates an accident. I am disdainful. I instantly think of my husband who died a similar way, along with every lewd thing I did to disrespectfully cope with his death. Using mania as an excuse to explain why I’d ever get knocked up by a stranger was beyond my moral code. I sigh once I see the yellow tape. The road is closed. Just my luck; I must take the route that takes an extra twenty minutes. The graveyard Robert’s parents had his body buried in is on the way. I decide it’s only right to visit his grave. On my way there, I pick up flowers, an assortment consisting of red roses and white lilies. It isn’t until I’m there that I’m jarred. His stone indicates he’s as dead as the men who have lived longer lives than him. I stare at the stone. This is all that is left to publicly represent him; a goddamned three feet tall stone. I stare at it longer feeling more and more uncomfortable. I drop the flowers into the ground in front of his urn and leave, wanting nothing more than to forget this awful moment.