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Bound by Love

Book By: Millford
Young adult



SHORT STORY .
What happens when you die; when you fought for so long but gave in to the thoughts that haunt your every living moment? What happens after death? With so many questions, and so few answers, Torin Rainfields is left, alone, in the dark. He died so he could be with the one he loved eternally, for happiness and eternal life. But now he is dead. Dead, alone, searching.


Submitted:Mar 11, 2014    Reads: 19    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   


This was originally written for an English CA, but i decided to explore and extend it a little. This first chapter may seem a little, um, psychotic, but it really conveys (to me anyway) what it feels like to lose someone and what the extremes of this grief can be. So, enjoy!

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Oblivion. What was it? No one truly knew what it meant, what it felt like to be scattered into the night, disspating until he reached the... the what, exactly? Darkness. That incessant cold, the numbing chill, the never-ending darkness that seeped into his veins in place of his blood. Never-ending darkness was all he felt now, because of one moment of insanity, recklessness and hopeless desires.

Her death broke him, devoured him until there was nothing left to save.He had tried to recover, attempted to pull his sorry excuse for a life back together, sew the seams of his sorrow shut. Everyone told him "it's just a phase, you'll get over it, everyone mourns". They said he would recover, the pain would fade until he no longer felt it or he learned to shut it out and pretend that he no longer felt it. No one understood the longing to see her again, the depression that held on to him with a death-like grip, a skeletal hand around his neck, forcing him to gulp great lungfulls of air in the most relaxed of situations, as if that breath was his last. He found himself increasingly comparing what he felt to what she must have; her last breath, her last smile, her last laugh filled with that unfaltering that he missed so goddamn much.

The days were survivable, barely; he could drown out the drones of meaningless anecdotes spouted by friends recruited by his parents to in a last ditch attempt to distract him from his thoughts. He could make a decision in the light, choose to block the hopelessness and pain; the only thing she had left behind for him.
But the night always came. When the sun disappeared behind the horizon, panic washed over him like a tsunami, tears falling from his tired eyes, the need to sleep burning like a flame in his tortured mind.He tried to stay awake, fought to suppress the nightmares threatening to rise to the surface, using bottomless cups of coffee and late night movies; for weeks he tried to stay awake, resist the stupor that loomed over him, but he couldn't- not any more, no matter how hard he tried.

Sleep came to him like an old friend, a warm embrace in the cold days of nothing.And, then, slowly, like falling in love, the images started seeping into his mind like an infection: flashes of hospital beds and wires, the constant hum of machines, the smell that pierced his nose, sending sharp, waves of fear and helplessness through his head. Her pale, drawn face, weathered by a full life flooded his mind, and he smiled subconsciously in his dreams, every imperfection a reminder of his love: her crooked smile, the creases at the corner of her eyes where she had laughed with him at their stupid inside jokes.
But then the torment began. Every machine started to beep, sirens wailed, and a scream, a piercing scream shattered his world. The noise started all at once and grew to an unrelenting tone, forcing him to clap his hands to his ears and sink to the ground, trying to block out the unbroken note of pain. The memories were to much for him, even the ones where they were happy haunted him, simply reminding him of the future he could never have, not with her at least.
He woke up in cold sweats, tears streaming down his face, a silent scream etched upon his ghostly face. Scars were littered on his knuckles, showing where he had turned to the wall in desperation, and beaten it until he bled. The pain was good, he thought, it is reminding me I'm still alive, still breathing.
Every night, without fail he lay there, awake in his busy New York apartment, listening to the sirens and cars drive past, a soft breeze making the white curtains flap away from the open window in a desperate attempt to escape the danger that lay outside the walls.
Silently he rested in that bed, whose sheets were unclean and old, the bed made for two, and had indeed housed two for a brief period, thoughts turning over in his sick mind, thoughts of escape from this world that had always hated him.
Before long he turned to the bottle, his silent companion that passed no judgement on his bereaved state and served only to please him, unlike these people who only pities him to settle their own selfish desires of helping people. Silly fools, he couldn't be saved. Not now. A drink wouldn't betrey him, and when it was finished, as it alwyas was, there was another, just lying there waiting for him to pick it uop and take that lomg, grateful sip of despair. It was simple, honest and by God so much easier than facing his fears and his family.
Anger filled him, a rage only fueled by the drink and the dreams and the memories. He didn't want to be angry, he didn't want to still feel like he was being punished for his grief. And so he retaliated. He smashed things, he hit things, sometimes people, and ono ne occasion, threw his TV out the window when the remote ran out of batteries.
But still, when people knocked on his door he smiled politely and nodded along to the anecdotes of people who had never suffered real loss, not really.
So eventually, when he grew tired of the advice and gifts of pity coming from those who had no inkling of how he felt; the sleepless nights and horror-filled days, he decided, in a moment of self pity and utter loss, that he would find her. And there was only one way he could do that without losing it completely.
This decision, one he had come close to making almost every night after his countless, nightly horrors, but never taken, was going to end his pain, end this torture he was cemented in.

It was obvious really, the only way he could ever see her again, feel the touch of her hand against his skin, the warmth of her smile and the joy that filled him when she laughed, the deep brown of her eyes that was like a warm Autumn day, the gentle, loving way she spoke to him. Here on Earth he could reminisce about these little things, but he could only truly, truly be with her if they were both gone. In time he would forget her, no matter how hard he tried.
Why hadn't he made this decision sooner, made it all easier for those around him falling apart while trying to piece him back together again?

Stumbling into the kitchen, he swung open the refrigerator door, and grabbed a bottle of whisky, swigging the bitter liquid, relishing the burning sensation in his throat. He was no stranger to alcohol; even before her death he drank frequently, high school parties and college had led to his fondness of the numb edge to the world it brought.
It woould be easy, he told himself, to slip away.
Indeed, it would only benefit the others who he knew resented him for his relentless mourning, his fits of madness and grief.
His hand shook, wavered as he thought of all the hurt he had caused. His fault.The knife fell to the floor, the loud, clattering noise ringing in his head.
"SHUT UP!" screamed Torin, clutching his head- in fear more than anything else.
He picked up the knife tentatively, runnning his hand lovingly across the blade, weighing it in his open palm. His breathing slowed as he relaxed, falling into the warm blanket of alcohol and hope.

In one swift movement it was done.

Crimson droplets fell to the floor, pooling on the oak floor and soaking trough the boards drop by drop. A dull ache spread through his bones, a fire burning through his veins. He let out an involuntaary whimper, like a wounded dog left for dead. He began to shake, his hands dropping to his side, his head collapsing to his chest, realisation of what he had committed setting in.

Now unconscious, he plunged to the floor, eyes open but not seeing, unaware of the scene that lay around him: the knife lay precariously by his head, where an open wound began to weep blood, his body crumpled, like a piece of scrap paper. His wrists were the crowning glory of his attempt, covered in blood, the flow not stopping, boasting of the sin he had done.
There he lay, a life-force ebbing away.

His death wasn't dignified: dying never is. But he was one step closer to finding her, he had ended his pain, now it was time to end hers.





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