Scorn echoed in his ears, a refrain that had grown all too familiar over the years.
“What have you done?”
“Can’t you get anything right?”
He had heard it from his mother, from his teachers, from his peers, his wife, his employers. So many women in his life, so much scorn.
He had attempted suicide several times, but the gas had leaked out of the window, the rope slipped, the pills only made him throw up.
He couldn’t even do that right.
It had taken him many years to discover his one true talent, he explained apologetically as he sat on the edge of her bed. He hoped that she didn’t mind that he had come to it so late in life. Did his age matter to her, he asked?
She said nothing.
He sighed as he stood up to go. Leaving was always the worst part; such sweet sorrow, as they say. He leaned over and cut a lock of her hair to remember her by. She stared up at the ceiling with empty eyes and said nothing. Beautiful, cold and forever silent.
He smiled as he left. He liked them so much better that way.
© Kari Fay
(Author’s Note: I had planned a completely different and altogether more light-hearted story today, but it didn’t come together so you have this instead.)