The Melancholy Mr.Goldwasser

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic
A chemist grieving over the death of his fiancee.

Submitted: June 23, 2016

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Submitted: June 23, 2016

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The Melancholy Mr.Goldwasserby
by: Cahjli Symes
 
She had a closed casket cause her eye's wouldn't close for some reason. You know, maybe if I was home an hour earlier and delayed the splicing process-hell at least told her! But I don't know how or why she would have randomly ingest something enigmatic to her. It's not like her, she has more self control than that. I know she's a recovering addict but when she was using she wasn't a child about it! Fuck man...just- just thinking about this shit is eating me alive. 
 
Back in 2009, I sold the house and left town on foot with only a toothbrush, a pocket knife and a wallet with $3,000 and good credit. I slept in recreational parks just to try to forget everything, but the event keeps replaying in my head over and over again. Every time I hear the name "Vivian" and it's like I'm some fucking sleeper agent with PTSD activated amidst my handler. Literally I'm thrown right back to the very moment her convulsing body was gripping on my shoulders for dear life... with an aneurysm so powerful it made her eyes bleed down to her lips. But what fucks me up is- I feel I'm the blame for this. If only I put everything away and told her more details on my research she would have been alive!
 
But stupid me; me and my bright ambitious ideas!
I should have told her. And I should have shot that motherfucker who drugged her in the back of the head. I was in such a state of shock and I was trying to comfort her and come to grips with the reality of what was happening. The drug was missing a few more chemicals and had no human test subjects. I haven't even gone as far to use lab rats.  She was the first test subject. But I question if this murder was just an occupational hazard from my corporate competitors in the pharmaceutical industry. I walked into her convulsing on the floor and he was just watching out of fascination, and had the nerve to stare me dead in my eyes three seconds after I drop to the floor to console her.
 
I remember every single detail about him. He was in all black. Wearing a black hoodie with a red zipper, black jeans, and black running shoes. On the bottom of each leg he used black electrical tape around his legs, in order for his pants not to get caught on anything. His hoodie was up and he was wearing a black Russian SCHM-41M gas mask with red lens and a red apparatus connecting to a black filter, taped to his abdomen. I had a reaction time of another two seconds. Within those two seconds I realized I had a loaded 9mm under the fridge in case of an home invasion. By the end of those three seconds my left hand was under the fridge and he was gone. 
 
The choice I had then was either I chase him down to shoot him, which would be illegal; or I get her some medical attention immediately. I chose the latter but by the time I turned to check her pulse she stopped moving and went limp. She was already dead.
 
It's been two years after the funeral.
 
2010.
 
Since the funeral I went off the grid and flew to a time share in Germany just to be alone for a few years. My parents got worried, deathly worried. But I didn't care. They're just a bunch of upper class snobs looking for someone to point a finger at just to not take responsibility for their own failures. Their youngest son is a fucking cokehead con artist book publisher who pulls a 360 deal on any author who signed to his legal gridlock-this is such bullshit. Hell I'm not even their biological child anyway. I'm under enough stress and guilt and if I pick up a call from them I might as well put a gun in my fucking mouth and call it a life.
 
While I was in Germany I spent the majority of my time either doing research on how I fucked up on my cure or spending time in the woods reflecting on the times I've been with Vivian. 
 
Every. 
 
Single.
 
Moment.
 
 All the good. All the bad, and all the bullshit. Even til' the first time we met as toddlers in an orphanage. However somehow no matter what I'm doing she's always on the back of my mind. The cure or "drug" in question is my life's research. It's the cure to end insomnia and night terrors. But at the time of the murder the formula was incomplete and still had to go through another splicing process; as well as living test trails.
 
 


© Copyright 2017 Cahjli Symes. All rights reserved.

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