Stone Cold Grey

The hard, frozen ground crunched beneath his heavy footsteps. He stumbled down into the earthy ground, falling on his hands and knees. A drop of blood trickled aimlessly out of the gash on his head, and it fell with a silent splash. Yet the sound of it echoed through the icy fog that swept its way around him in every direction. The blood found its way through the decomposing leaves of recent autumn. It found its way deep down into the cracks of the cold, dry ground. The man started coughing violently, and down rained more splatters of red. The red slowly mixed with the dusty brown, and as the coughing diminished the man let a smile creep to his lips. He stared at the mixing colors with a strange twinkle in his eyes. After the span of a minute he flicked his head back up. Dead trees of every size outnumbered him on all flanks. He was surrounded by the greyness of the trees, lost with no sense of direction.

The cold bit through the tattered remnants of clothing that clung to his sticky body. His soul was slowly fading from the world that he walked. It would soon leave his rotting body, the body with all its sores and scabs, cuts and bruises. It would fade into the fog, lost in the depths of time never to be remembered. The man could not let that happen. He had to keep searching. As he struggled to stand upright, his knees buckled and he fell face first, smashing his head into the red and brown ground with a resounding thud. He looked up, disoriented, and a loud screeching started to fill his ears. An assortment of voices talking, whispering, screaming at him. No escape. No escape. His hands went over his ears, hoping to block the screeching and moaning of the loved ones he once knew. It helped to no avail. All he could do was listen. And then he heard her over all others. A sad moan filled the air, a sort of whisper that pleaded. No, please... don’t do this... no. Then the screaming came back, but this time it was only her voice. And with it the man also screamed. Screamed into the grey woods with all the strength left in him. The tears forming in his eyes started blurring the trees, and he curled up into a whimpering ball on the frozen ground of red and brown, and the world around him faded. Faded into a dull grey.

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His eyes opened. A clear ray of sunshine brushed playfully over his face. He lifted his head without restraint and glanced quickly around the room in which he lay. The bright color on the walls, a pale yellow, it seemed familiar. The soft white sheets that his back has sunken into, the clock on the wall- a different bird sound for each hour. The dusty brown hardwood floor. It seemed like home to the man. No, it was home, it had to be. His hands tightly gripped the bedding to make sure it was real. He slowly laid his head back and stared at the plain white ceiling, relaxing his grip. He pulled his arms around himself and hugged tightly, and a slight whimper escaped his lips. Because where his hands had been two bloody prints had taken their place. Panicking, he lifted his hands and stared at them. Clean. He looked back down at the bedding. Clean. Before he could think any further he heard a soft pattering of footsteps approaching the door. The worn hinges creaked and the door slowly opened. And there she was. The light danced on her pale, smooth skin, and the most beautiful smile lit up upon her bright innocent face. Her icy blue eyes burned with a deep passion, a love so strong towards a man so pitiful. She wore a bright yellow dress, brighter than the dandelions she grew in her neat little garden. Her natural, soft black hair glimmered with the morning sun. Before he could open his mouth to greet her, she froze. Her expression was locked in a choking grimace. Suddenly the man felt like he had been hit by a gunshot, and the memories came pouring back to the man.

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That night. That night before he ended up with the woman. God, what had he done? That woman, that oh so beautiful woman. Dead because of him.

He faintly remembered their faces. He remembered wandering around the dark, crumbling streets that night. Always wandering with a brown bagged drink in his hand. Somehow, the man had wandered into this beautiful woman. She had smiled the same smile, and as he stared at her for what seemed like the first time he saw the fire in her eyes light up. She had taken his hand in his most desperate hour, she led him through the darkest places, the deepest and most troublesome times. But it was not the first time the man had met her, for he knowingly drank a lot over the years and forgot. Luckily he had her there to care for him. When they slept in bed together, during the latest hours of the night, she would listen to his fervent panting as the moonlight shined upon them. She would listen to the fervent panting turn into groans. She would listen to the groaning turn into a fitful scream of terror, a scream that pierced the peaceful calm stillness of the night. Then she would gently stroke his hand, the hand that was wrapped tightly around her throat, slowly choking her to death. She would ease him back into a fitful sleep by talking softly to him. She was helping him, she told herself. All he needed was someone in his life to save him. She was the one that would save him. Every night she gently traced his hand with her slender fingers as it gripped her throat. I’m helping him.. I am, I really am. She told herself this every night as a runaway tear streaked down her pale, moonlit cheek.

But every night the man choked a little more out of her. A little more of her resilience and love towards him and his haunting past. The struggle to try and help the man she loved grew harder and harder as the days dragged on. Finally, after countless nights, she stopped trying to remove his hands. She closed her eyes and let go of not only his hand but everything she saw dear in him. His life, his situation, it spread to her. An infection that she could not avoid. She knowingly infected herself, hoping love would be the cure. But it was not. As he gripped her throat in his nightmares, she did not bother trying to calm him. She let him slowly choke her to death; the sweaty, cold fingers tightening and tightening, with her hoping and praying he would finish the job. But he never did. He would wake up and cry like the pitiful man he was. She realized that was what he was- pitiful. He always would be. No matter how much she tried, or thought she could try, nothing would help the poor man. Now here she was, dragged down by something she could not handle. It was her own fault for getting into something that proved too much to bear on her tiny, frail shoulders. After the man finished mopping up his tears, he would plead for forgiveness and tell her how much he loved her. And she would automatically reply I love you too. The emotion and feelings gone from her voice, but the man did not notice. He was too far gone in his desperation and delusion from what was reality and what was not. He clung to her words of love, though. He clung to it tighter than his oh-so beloved’s throat, for that was all that he had in his sorry life.

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