The Abyss of Melancholy

…What memories we would have shared, she said to him as he softly began to ponder. He thought about it again, what would they have shared. They would have shared plenty of laughs, they would have shared accomplishments, mostly hers but perhaps some random ones of his. They would have shared some playful annoyances, he would have disproved of her language, she would have snapped at his sometimes absent mindedness. He would have frowned at her shiny Lycra pants that she liked and she would have been annoyed at his indifference to her misplacing a hairbrush. Memories, he thought, plenty of happiness and sadness dispersed like confetti in an ice-cream sundae. He reread the email, it seemed too definitive, too final.

His mind started racing, should he reply. Should he reach out to her one more time. What would he say? Would he reach out at her with the same half assed approach that he did last time? He still rued that decision. Not for reaching out, but the manner in which the conversation went about.

“You and your family are scum..” he remembers her voice. It was the same voice that he heard countless times before and yet there was a detached iciness to it. It was like she had rehearsed this speech many times before. The words hit him like a ton of bricks. He realized that he was unprepared for the consequences of his actions. When he reached out to her, he thought foolishly that he was turning back time. He thought that he could regain what was lost. But his naïve approach failed to realize a simple fact, what is lost cannot be regained. A lot had changed in the past 4 months. He was not the same person as before. And evidently neither was she. In fact, between both of them, she had probably changed the most. His attempts to learn of her life after the separation had yielded little success. He knew that she was successful at work, but besides that there was little that he learned. Was she angry at him, or was she upset, was she hurt or was she bitter. The questions became too much for him to handle and he reached out. The same letter that he wrote every day, he finally hit send. And a few days later came her reply. When he first saw her name in his inbox, it felt like someone had punched him in the stomach. It took the wind out of him. Memories rushed back like the gushing waters of a dam. He heard her voice in his head, he saw her face smiling and he heard her laughter…he remembered her fragrance, it all seemed so real, like he could just step inside his mind and touch her again, he did that quite often...

And so he made that fateful call. But the person he spoke to was not the same person as before. The person before had been murdered, had been killed, he was the one who killed her, and now in her place, there was a new identity. One that appeared much stronger, and much more in command of her words and actions. He was perhaps unprepared, his life has been a constant struggle of unpreparedness. He stuttered, he said words of consoling but his mind kept defeating his lips.

“This will not work out” It said again and again as she took the opportunity to take out 4 months’ worth of frustration and anger on him.

“This will not work out” his lips read mimicking the voice sitting in his head. His heart suddenly felt empty. Like the life had been extinguished. He faintly recalls angry words spoken by someone on the other side. His mind began drifting, he was not soaring high up in the sky but drowning deep into an abyss of melancholy.

“I only wish the best for you” he remembers his lips saying. Followed by more words by the person on the other side.

<Click>

The line went dead. He stared at his phone. 4 months of imagining what how this conversation would go had not prepared him for this. It was too overwhelming. He felt like a tired traveler who could not move any further. He broke down. He began sobbing in a slow wail, quite akin to the random tears that continue to haunt him. He began sobbing in final realization that his loss was permanent. He had finally realized what he did, the damage that he caused was permanent and that realization killed him. He lashed out in anger at everything around him. He tore up cards that he saw in front. He threw away things that were useful but reminded him of her. He called the doctor and cancelled his appointment since he did not wish to speak to anyone. He was a log drifting on the lonely lake and there was no one who he would let come close. Never would he allow anyone to hurt him again.

<minutes pass, that turn into hours, that transform into days, that convulse into weeks>

He stares again at the email, reads it one more time, it has become a ritual for him. He briefly makes out the faint visage of his appearance in the reflection of his computer screen. The man in the mirror appears different. His hair is longer and there is visible facial hair on his chin and on his upper lip. His eyes are tired from obvious lack of sleep. His brow is furrowed and contorted in anger, or was it frustration, it was hard to tell. The dull throbbing in his head was now a heavy gallop. The sounds of the workers around him makes him wish to retreat into a quiet corner somewhere. The constant pierceing pain in his heart was something constant now, and he wore it like a pendant adorning his cursed and tainted soul. It was like a weed sprouted on a derelict garden, a weed that he nurtured with fresh sadness poured nightly by reminiscence. He was not of this world anymore, but merely a forgotten piece of furniture, one that occupies space, but exists without any purpose.

The transformation was now complete.