Mrs Icarus Love

I hate him. I hate him for being stupid. I hate him for not thinking about his responsibilities. His baby boy. Me, in particular. How did he think I would be able to raise a child on my own? Who was going to provide for me and our child? Why did he have to be so daft?

I'm talking about Icarus; my husband, my one true love. The father of my child. The person who knew how to make me smile; how to make me rave with anger. Who knew my weaknesses and my strengths. Whoknew me through and through.

I was his "humming-bird" he whispered. The light of his life. He couldn't imagine a life without me, he frequently said. He always made my heart flutter in mid air like a humming bird. So I ask myself, how could he have imagined my life without him? Without Icky, my buzzing-bee.

When I was told that he was dead, I had just given birth. I had tried to swallow the news but my throat seemed to block up with dry hairs and I started to choke. I choked up mixed feelings; anger, pain, exasperation. My heart twisted and throbbed, my blood boiled, my pulse quickened faster than lightning itself. I was furious with Icarus. With myself. I was out of control; shrieking curses. Throwing objects at no one in particular. Tears dropped from my eyelids. Each tear slowly aggravating me more. I was desperately in needof someone to comfort me. Someone to hold me and tell me, "Everything is going to be alright, Elsie." I closed my eyes and held myself around our baby boy, protectively, wishing that that person would come. That, that person would be my buzzing bee. My life seemed to depend on that.

I sometimes talk to Icarus at night when I'm in bed and I almost believe he can hear me. I'm always cautious about what I say, though and I try not to cry when I remind myself that he left me at the worst possible time because I wanted to raise our child with him.

He didn't give our child any memories to cherish. He didn't give me enough. I'm still scared of using the few I have and turning them into memories of memories like songs played too many times. I don't want those memories to become slippery, to just disappear into the thin air, the way most things seem to. I want those memories, our memories to stick- both good and bad- so I that I could repeat them often. And every time I do, I just feel an assortment of both pain and tranquillity.

I remember that he was a stickler to rules. He freely abided by them. It was in his blood. He would never attempt to do something like that. No one would. He always told me off if I tried to cheat my customers; sent me after them to correct the fraud if I did. So, why on earth would he suddenly feel like breaking them? He had crammed the laws off-by-heart. Okay! Maybe there wasn't a rule that said "Men should never fly"

Yes! Fly. As in fly like those creatures that soar through the air: feeling the wind against their wings; floating like there wasn't such a thing like gravity. A man flying.

For crying out loud, no one would have ever expected Icarus to do something like that. He had more sense than that. Why would he want to break the status-quo by challenging mankind and the gods; crossing the moulds between them? When did science reach that level? When?

Yes! While living with him, I had known his work depended on him trying new things out. "Exploring" he called it. I understood that. I even helped him out often enough to know all the wacky ideas he tried and made. I enjoyed doing that. Just me and Icky working away on a project, testing it out, evaluating them, correcting mistakes. I enjoyed standing back and watching him mix chemicals, slice things, dictate his results and writing it down. I was proud of him. I was swollen with pride that I had my own scientist and he was very crazy.

I loved clearing away his test tubs, beaker... I loved telling him off when he made horrible mistakes. I like the respect we had for each other. He made me laugh, smile and be myself. Even though I was a control freak, he still adored me. Not many men are like that. Men usually had authority over their wives, but I had the authority over him. I loved correcting him. I didn't make him look stupid, though, he did that all by himself.

Then he goes and does the most absurd thing ever. Risking his life trying to prove what? Nothing, I tell you. Nothing!

It's not as if I can tell him off, this time, slap him hard across his face, make him look at me with that bigbrown "puppy dog" eyes, the sparkle that made me forgive him all the time. I can't do that now. I can't see his luscious golden hair fall across those mild chocolate eyes, softly touching his full delectable pink lips. I couldn't move his hair away to fully see his i'm-really-sorry face. I couldn't do that. He has done something I finally could not correct.

He is DEAD!

He left a mark that has been callously carved in my heart. That mark symbolises the unfinished business between us. That is the true colour and shape of love. Because our love for each other would never die.

Love is never finished.

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Short story By: Comfort
Memoir

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