Unfair

"Don't cry."

The softness of her voice and the violence of the fit of coughing that followed so closely after her words just made me want to cry even more. She was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen, and the sight of her just lying there in the hospital bed was more than I could stand. What made it even worse was that I was the one who had killed her.

I hadn't even been legally drunk, but it was enough, and combined with the ice, it meant for disaster. I had barely even realized what was happening until it was too late. I walked away with a few bruises and she didn't walk away at all. The doctors hadn't even been sure if she would wake up from her coma, and while her parents were getting ready to fly back from half way around the world to be with her, I was all she had.

Her name is Anna. I had never met her before that terrible night when I ruined her life and future, but I knew from the first moment they let peek in through her window that I loved her. This wasn't just a love of guilt or confusion or drunkenness. I was quite sober by this point and the police had questioned me thoroughly enough to establish there was no fault as far as the law was concerned. Somehow, I saw this girl, and I knew that we could be something great together, if only I hadn't killed her.

She woke up before her parents arrived, a miracle the doctors said, but the beauty of that moment was not savored for long. They waited until mom and dad were there to give the devastating news: Anna was going to die. It would be a slow death and not too painful as far as such deaths go, but it was inevitable. There was too much internal damage, and nothing anyone could do to fix it.

I knew Anna's parents hated me, but for some reason, they still let me spend time with her. I apologized so many times I ran out of ways to say I was sorry, but Anna never blamed me. She just said, "I forgive you" and that was all. She even was willing to talk to me, which made my heart beat even faster and my own pain even greater. Perhaps what I had felt at first was just a passion, but as we talked long into the night, I discovered this girl was perfect.

I asked her at first what I could do, if there was anyone else she needed to contact or any last things she needed to take care of. No, there was no one who had not already been told, and the only task she needed to complete was the writing of her will. I could barely stand it when she said that, but she was the strong one, the one that told me not to be afraid. "I've led a good life," she said, even though she was only 23. "But I never really knew what I wanted to do with it anyway."

She was a music major. She had a beautiful singing voice, I was told, well, before I took that from her. And she could play the violin as well, or at least, used to play. She was never good enough to make a living on it, though, she confided. "Might end up being all for the best," she mused, and I begged her not to say that.

What made her say she led a good life was really all the volunteer work she had done. When her parents angrily told me about it all, it almost made me think that she couldn't die after all, for she must be an angel. I couldn't understand how fate could be so cruel to take such a wonderful person like this out of the world, but then I realized it wasn't fate who had done it, but me. I had made life unfair.

The days passed. Friends of Anna's came to visit her, to say goodbye, or to linger on until the end. A group of children she had led in a choir came, tears filling their eyes. She didn't tell them not to cry, she let them, but assured them she would be going to a better place. Yet, through all those who came and went or didn't went, I was there. Not often in the room. It was strange to most everyone that Anna would let me in there at all, but I stayed at the hospital. I used up all my vacation at work and a little extra besides. I had to be there. I had killed this girl, this girl I had now fallen in love with, and I had to be there until the end.

The coughing finally stopped and I saw there were tears in Anna's eyes instead of in my own. "I know I try to be brave," she said almost in a whisper. "But I'm scared, too. Deep down, I know it will be okay, I know I don't have to be afraid, but not so deep down, I'm terrified."

She reached her hand out and I took it, and then I blurted the most ridiculous and inappropriate thing I had ever said. "Marry me."

There was silence and then, "Andrew, I'll be gone in a few days. I can never give you anything."

I nodded. I knew that. I wasn't after anything. I wouldn't even get her beautiful violin or anything else she had owned. That would be too cruel and that was not what I was after. I loved this girl, and years from now, when the world was still mourning her passing, I wanted to be able to say that I had been married to her, if only for a day.

"I don't care," was all I said. "I love you, and it kills me that I did this to you."

She only smiled and squeezed my hand with a strength I could not have imagined she could possess. "I love you, too," she whispered. "No one else could ever understand it, but I do. And yes, even if it is the very last thing I do, I will marry you."

When we called the preacher, he thought he was coming to bring comfort, and was shocked and confused when informed we wanted him to bring us joy in Anna's final days, or perhaps even hours.

Her parents didn't want this to happen, I knew, but they could not argue. They wanted to do everything Anna wanted, no matter how crazy or foolish it might seem. Her true friends were much the same.

And so we were married. There was no great ceremony, no grand dinner or dancing or other wedding night festivities. There was just the paster, her parents, a few friends, Anna, and, inexplicably, me, right there in the middle of it all. I fed her jell-o in lieu of cake and even that she could barely manage. She couldn't really sign the marriage certificate either, but it was good enough for me, and the feeble kiss she was able to give me was the most wonderful touch I had ever felt.

I did stay with her all that night, until she fell asleep, and I was so weary myself, I could hardly keep my eyes open. I drifted off with my hand still touching hers.

When I woke up the next morning, I knew something was wrong. Anna wasn't dead, not yet, but she wasn't moving either. I had barely noticed this when a doctor and three nurses came rushing into the room. "What's going on?" I needed to know.

"You have to leave," one of the nurses said.

"But, that's my wife," I countered without even thinking about it.

Another of the nurses sneered. "We know all about that," she jeered.

It hurt more than any pain I had felt so far, and I realized that they didn't realize why I had done this. I wanted to explain, but I couldn't not to them, not...

"She's slipped into a coma again," the doctor told me in a much gentler voice than his assistants. "Please, you have to go. And tell her parents what's happening."

What's happening. I didn't even know what was happening. I loved this girl, but I had found her too late, I had found her after I had already killed her.

I told her parents who immediately turned away from me in anger and tears. And so the hours passed and I waited alone. And waited and waited and waited.

It was nearly midnight before I finally saw the doctor again coming too slowly towards the waiting room. Anna's parents jumped up and rushed at him and I stepped forward as well. The doctor looked like he was about to explode in tears and he looked at her parents and just said, "She's better."

Her mother started bawling while her husband soothed her. Seeing that they thought he was using a euphemism, the doctor quickly smiled and reached out to them, "No, no," he insisted. "She's alive and she's better. I don't know how it's possible, but she's healing, or at least enough that we can fix the rest. She's not going to die."

He turned and looked directly at me and gave me a look of triumph I had never seen on a doctor's face before. "Your wife is going to live."

My wife is going to live.

My wife... My wife... oh my...

Unusual

I don't know when I first realized that I was different from everyone else, but I remember a time when I didn't feel different, so I must not have been this way forever. I just don't know what to do about it. My parents would be disappointed if they knew the things I think about. My older sister already seems to suspect. I can tell from the way she looks at me. I'm not a fool. I'm just as smart as everyone else here. I just view things in a different light, or, like, in light at all. I wonder if there is anyone else in this place like me.

From a young age I was taught to conform, to be like everyone else. Normalcy was, well, normal. I should read the same books to others read, practice the same drills, adhere to the same philosophies. We are all after the same thing, after all: a world where we can survive and the unworthy are doomed to die.

My sister always seemed to revel in it all. She cherished the idea that she might have some control to make the whole world like our own piece of it. She wanted to bring our practices to the masses, if she could. Of course, it made no sense for everyone to know the things we did, for if they did, there would be little use for us in the end.

It's just strange, I mean, it's normal for everyone else, but for me, it's strange. I don't know why I don't feel drawn to death the way everyone else does, but somehow, for whatever reason, I see beauty in life. I try to hide my feelings as best as I can. I fear that if anyone ever knew what I was thinking, I would be turned away, and once I am turned away, I fear they may use the very things I've been learning about against me. I know the others aren't afraid to die, but I am. I'm not ready for that yet. I feel like there is something missing, something I'm missing, something we're all missing, and I want to discover what it is.

The enemy. So often, I wonder if the enemy has what I'm looking for. I know its blasphemous to even think it, to even contemplate that some part of what we do might be wrong. After all, we work for the greater good, for a higher good. We want a world of peace and happiness. It's just that to us, that peace and happiness is death and loneliness. But why do those words seem so bad to me? They are glory and great joy. That's what I've always been told. But somewhere along the way I stopped believing. Somewhere, I started to think that it was wrong.

It's the most natural thing in the world: death. And I've always been told that darkness is our friend. It makes so much sense in my mind, and yet my heart can't quite seem to believe it. Something is off, and I'm afraid to ask if anyone else has felt this way before. What if they haven't?

But why should I think I'm so special? Why should I think I'm so unique? I've always been average. Average at the mental assessments, average in the physical tests, average in every way. Maybe that's why I'm making up this alternate way of thinking about things, because I'm just not as good at this way as others. I'm not as good as my friends and I'm not as good as my sister. Sure, there are plenty who are worse than me. That's what average means after all. But those closest to me always seem to be better. Is it because I've started to view things differently, or have I started to view things differently because of it?

I wish there were someone I could talk to, but it's hard when you value loneliness and introversion. Sure, my friends are great, but sometimes I wish friends were someone you could actually talk to, and not just the group of people you choose to spar and mediate with. When my friends meditate, they look like they're getting something out of it. They seem truly lost in the darkness, like we all should be. Me, I just keep longing for the light. I wish it would stop.

Am I really so unusual? Am I really the only one of my kind who has ever felt this way? I wonder if anyone has ever gone over to the light side before, over to the enemy. I've never heard of such a thing, but of course, why would they tell me? Why should they tell me? Secrets are the key to success. We do what we're told, we trust in the darkness, and the power of death shall be ours. It's they way it is. It's the best way. Why does it feel so wrong to me?

I want to live, I don't want to die, and I don't want to kill anyone else either. I dread the day they send me out on my first mission. All the others seem so excited, especially my sister. She has her first mission next week. She can't wait to show what she can do, how her control over death is nearing completion. Me on the other hand, I'd rather not even know of this power. I'd rather be unaware than understand it all. I want to be like the ones she's going after, but I don't want to die.

I can't have it both ways. I hate it. I know the way things really are. That's part of being one of my people. I can't be both happy and free. I can't have both life and the power of death. If I am alive, I will be killed by those who have the power. If I have the power, I can hardly be alive. All those around me think death is life, but I think death is just death, and it's terrible. What is wrong with me?

Maybe someday before it is my time, it will all make sense. I hope it does. I hope I can be absorbed into the darkness like my sister, that I can take the joy in it that she does before the end. But at the same time, I don't want to be like that. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I see a better way, a way of happiness and peace in which the enemy does not have to die. But that is impossible. Our words can never persuade them. We have no choice but to kill. At least that's what my people have always told me.

I should not question. I should just accept what I am. I should be proud to know the truth when others in the world cannot. That's what they tell me, but it just feels wrong. I want friends I can talk to, not just prepare with. I want parents who love me. Love, now that's a strange word. I only know it because they tell us it is what makes the enemy weak. Of all the things we have ever studied in school, love seems to be the one thing I understand when my classmates do not, and the one thing I must be ashamed of understanding.

It just seems so wonderful, having someone who puts your needs above their own, and you wanting to do the same for them. Always looking out for someone else. If I had someone I could do that for, and know they were doing the same for me, I think I might be okay with death, but death by its very nature forbids such a thing.

I just want out of this life. I don't want the escape of death that everyone else so longs for. I want out of this life so that I can really live. I don't know how to explain what I mean, or if its even possible, but somehow, I know we're doing it all wrong. And there's no one I can talk to about it. No one here seems to have ever felt this way before.

Unless of course... Maybe, well, what if I'm not so unusual? What if others feel the exact same things I do, and are fighting so hard to hide it, just like me. They tell us conformity is true freedom, but I think freedom is freedom, and conformity is conformity. I want to think for myself and I want to enjoy my life, not the darkness and not the killing and dying. I want to feel truly free and happy. Maybe there are others like me, and if there are how can I find them? How can I find out whether or not I am really so unusual?

There's no more time to think about it now. I have to go spar with my friends. I hate it, but it's my duty, and if I don't show up, someone will know something is wrong and they will come after me. I hate our society. I hate perfection. I hate not being able to enjoy any of it and being told that I am enjoying it all. I hate being so unusual. Maybe I do want to be like our enemies. Maybe that is the only way. I envy our enemies. I want to be like them. Must that be so unusual?

Arrogant, ctd

"What an arrogant little prick."
"Yeah, no kidding."
Brittany sighed and shook her head. "What did Brady do now?" she asked.
Tiffany stared at her dumbfounded. "He has a girlfriend!"
Brittany almost laughed. "So what?" she asked.
Bridget just stared for a moment and then said, "No pretentious little brat like that has any right to a girlfriend."
"Yeah," Tiffany chimed in, "who does he think he is?"
"Well, who is she?" Brittany asked.
"I don't know," Bridge said. "Some nobody, I'm sure."
"Well isn't that good, that he would date a 'nobody'?"
"Oh my gosh, Britt, you don't get it at all!" Tiffany exclaimed. "Everything he does, he just does to get attention."
"You can't possibly know that," Brittany countered. And to herself though, "if that is his goal he sure is accomplishing it with you two."
...
"Well, he broke up with her," Bridget exclaimed.
"What an ass!" Tiffany chimed in.
"But I thought he was an ass for dating her to begin with," Brittany pointed out.
"Oh, Britt," Bridget sighed. This seemed to be her favorite exclamation lately. "Don't you see? Once he's dating her, he better keep dating her. He's just throwing her away like garbage."
"Like garbage," Tiffany agreed.
"He probably just wanted some 'experience' for some new song he's writing," Bridget pointed out.
"Yeah, probably," Tiffany agreed.
...
"OMG!" Tiffany exclaimed as she walked over to join the other two at lunch.
"What?!" Bridget asked, wide eyed.
"He's coming here!" Tiffany practically shouted.
Bridget stood as Tiffany sat. "No way!" she exclaimed.
Tiffany nodded, a frown on her face. "Uh huh," she confirmed. "And guess who wants to go see him."
Bridget and Brittany just looked at her, and Tiffany answered their blank stares with, "My kid sister!"
Brittany thought Bridget was going to shoot out the ceiling at that.
"And I have to go with her," Tiffany went on. "And if I have to go, so do the two of you!"
"What? No way!" Bridget protested.
Tiffany tossed the tickets on the table. "It's already done," she said. "If you have any compassion for me at all, you're going to sit through this hell right along with me."
Brittany picked up her ticket and looked at it. It looked like any other concert ticket.
...
When they arrived at the stadium where the concert was being held, Brittany was amazed at the number of young girls present. Most of them appeared to be about 12. "I assumed this guy was at least a real musician," she muttered.
"Well, you assumed wrong," Bridget told her, smirking at Tiffany, who was trying to restrain her kid sister, who was jumping up and down trying to see the empty stage better. "This is just the crowd he appeals to. He doesn't even try to do any serious work. He's a talentless slob."
Brittany didn't know what to expect of this concert, but she certainly didn't expect what actually happened.
Her first shock was seeing who walked onto the stage. At first, she thought it was just some lackey checking the equipment, but then the crowd of young girls went wild and a band walked in behind him. "He's just a kid," she whispered in surprise. In deed, he was likely no older than the youngest girl in the stadium, unless there happened to be a baby present, and even then he might not be much older. Tiffany would have guessed he was about 11, though if he looked young for his age, she supposed he could be as old as 14. He was ordinary looking, but cute in a childish way. She couldn't believe anyone that young had a girlfriend, or could be as malicious as her two friends seemed to think him to be. She looked over at them and they were just scowling, no surprised look on their faces at all. They clearly knew he was just a child and called him an ass anyway.
The second shock came when he opened his mouth. The lyrics were awful, truly portraying the attitude of a young child who thought he knew something about the world and didn't, but man could that boy sing. He was better than any child musician she had ever heard before. She didn't quite get why he was so popular though. Yes, he could sing, but he was singing to 12-year-olds. Maybe that was why he was so popular... these girls didn't care what he was saying. She wondered, though, if they appreciated the fact that he was good, or just that he was a celebrity. He became a celebrity by singing well, she was sure, but seemed to keep his celebrity by singing terrible songs and just looking good on stage, and even that second part he barely managed to do.
At the end of the show, Brittany could see some of her friends' dislike for this boy, but ultimately he was just a boy, and she felt they were being remarkably cruel. She noticed that the child was signing autographs so she went over to talk to him.

He seemed very surprised to see a grown woman walking up to him. He smirked a little. "Hey, gramma," he said.
She was appalled at that, but continued anyway. "You have a wonderful voice," she said.
He smirked and looked at his finger nails as if he were admiring them. "Thanks, lady," he said.
"But you clearly don't know anything about life," she added.
That seemed to catch him surprisingly off guard, as if no one had told him that before, and suddenly Brittany wondered where his parents were. He looked shocked for a moment and then shouted, "Security!"
"It's okay," Brittany quickly assured him, holding her hands up in surrender. "I'm going. I just hope you mature as an artist and a person."
Walking away, she realized she had been much more harsh than she intended, but at the same time, she wasn't sorry.
...
For weeks after that Bridget and Tiffany kept complaining about the kid and then, slowly, they stopped. Brittany forgot all about him, until 5 years later, she was driving in her car when she heard a song that reminded her of the boy's concert. She listened until the end, and then heard the DJ laugh about the mistake in playing that terrible song and how he wasn't even sure how it got into their records, while confirming that it was indeed a song by the child performer, from 4 years ago.
...
"What ever happened to that Brady kid?" Brittany asked at lunch that day.
Tiffany and Bridget stared at her like they had no idea what she was talking about.
"You know," Brittany prodded them, "that singer kid you two used to hate so much."
Slowly, the light seemed to dawn on them. "Oh yeah," Bridget exclaimed.
"What a prick," Tiffany added.
"Whatever happened to him?" Brittany asked.
Bridget shrugged. "I don't know and I don't care," she said.
"I guess he grew up," Tiffany said.
"Why don't you look it up," Bridget suggested with a smirk that seemed to say, "Why would you ever do that?"
Brittany just smiled. "Maybe I will," she said.
...
When she looked it up, what she found almost broke her heart. Just a few months after the concert at which she had seen him, apparently he had been found to be in possession of illegal drugs. He was only 12; he shouldn't have even known what it was he had, but apparently, he still knew how to use it. He was at first given just a slap on the wrist, but a few months after that, he was found driving a car in possession of more drugs. He was still only 12. He had also convinced some of his fans to give him their jewelry as "gifts", which essentially amounted to stealing in the eyes of most everyone. He ended up going to a "special school" for boys and had to drop his career entirely. This was where Brittany found that his father had died when he was 5 and his mother seemed to barely care about disciple at all, as long as he could make her money. But when he started costing her money, she left and no one seemed to know where she went.
The whole thing seemed to be just one tragedy after another, up until the part where he got out of his "special school" just a couple weeks ago, now talentless and forgotten.
"I guess he did grow up," Brittany muttered as she wiped a tear from her eye.
She thought about trying to find out more, maybe if she could write him a letter or something, but what would it matter? He wouldn't remember her and he wouldn't care about some random letter.
"I guess that's that," she said to herself, and she went back to work.
...
Brady sat alone in his room doing his homework while he listened to the radio. His heart almost skipped a beat when he heard one of his old songs come on. But at the end, the DJ laughed and said what a terrible mistake that kid had been. Brady frowned and looked back at his piece of paper. He remembered something from long ago... some woman who had told him he was good, but needed to grow up. Well, he sure had grown up now. He wondered if he was still any good at singing, but he doubted it. He wouldn't even join choir at his new school, but mostly because choir seemed to be for losers.
Brady sighed and went back to his algebra. He had had his 15 minutes of fame, he would probably never get it back again. He wasn't even sure he wanted it, considering what it had brought him.
Still the next morning in the shower, he found himself singing, not one of his own songs (which he knew now really were crap), but a song by a real performer. He smiled a little when he got out. "I could make it again," he thought. "But why would anyone even care." And so, that was that.

Arrogant

"He's such a prick."
"Yeah, no kidding, who does he think he is anyway?"
"Hey girls, what are you talking about?"
Brittany's two friends looked up at her with scowls as she approached with her lunch. Fortunately for her, the scowls were not directed at her.
"The next 'big thing'," Bridget said using air quotes and rolling her eyes.
"Have you heard about this guy Brady Rodgers?" Tiffany asked.
Brittany shook her head of straight, long blonde hair as she sat down and picked up her fork.
"He's oh so famous," Bridget exclaimed, leaning forward and batting her eyelashes in mock admiration, letting her red curls fall over her green eyes.
Brittany just shrugged and forked a piece of broccoli from her salad.
"He was on some reality show the half of the world without a brain watches," dark-haired Tiffany explained more helpfully. "Apparently he just launched his debut album and is breaking sales records for a new artist."
"He shouldn't even count as a new artist," Bridget protested as she picked at he French fries. "Technically, he's been performing for like six months now."
"Oh aren't you the fan," Tiffany teased as she took a bit of a raw carrot, and then in the midst of her chewing, "You been following him since day one, huh?"
"Eww, no, gross," Bridget insisted, perhaps a bit too quickly.
Brittany smiled just a little at that. "Oh come on," she said calmly, "he can't be that bad."
"Oh yes he is!" the other two insisted in unison.
...

A Bad Day

This morning I took a cold shower before eating my least favorite breakfast of apple cinnamon pop-tarts. I rode the bus to work and noticed a stain on my suit. When I was getting off the bus, the latch on my brief case broke and all my papers fell out. When I got to work, my boss called me into his office to tell me he could not give me a Christmas bonus this year. The computer program I needed to enter data wouldn't work, so I had to find another computer to use. I ate lunch alone in the cafeteria. I spilled milk on my pants and had to go into the bathroom to clean it up as best as I could. When I went back to work, people kept interrupting me. I had to work late to make up for the time I lost. I missed the bus I planned to take and had to walk an extra half mile to catch another one. When I got home, I noticed that a hinge on my door was coming loose. I had to look up what bus would take me to the store so I could buy a screwdriver so I could fix the hinge on my door. After I got back from the store, I reheated leftovers for dinner, and tried to watch TV, but the reception from my antenna was bad and I could barely see the picture. After I finished eating, I decided to read a rather dry book about succeeding in an office instead. I had no pets to feed, no wife to talk to, and no children to play with. I had no hot water, limited options for entertainment, and my fridge was not fully stocked. I went to bed under a pile of blankets because I don't turn my heater on above 60 degrees. I fell asleep thinking about how I would wake up the next day and do this all over again. There was a smile on my face.

Two months ago, I had no shower, or any water, at all. I did not know what I was going to eat for breakfast each day, or if I would be able to eat at all. I had no money to pay for bus fair, and no job I would take the bus to. I carried all my belongings in a backpack, and business papers were not among them. I had no income, yet alone thoughts of a Christmas bonus. I owned no computer and barely even knew how to use one. Lunch was the same as breakfast: uncertain. I did not have the option of sitting in a peaceful, quite corner of a heated cafeteria, enjoying my hot lunch. I had no suit to get stained or to spill milk on. I had no co-workers to stop by and ask me how I was doing and offer to help. I did not have the option to stay late at the office, finishing up work and enjoying the warmth of the building. I did not have money to pay for any bus ride home, all I could do was wander for miles and miles, or try to find a warm place to sleep for the night. Most nights, I could find dinner at a soup kitchen, but there was no door of my own to fix, no TV of my own to watch, and no books to read. My bed was a box spring mattress with one blanket the nights I slept at the shelter, and a park bench with a blanket of newspapers the nights I did not. Every night, I went to bed with a frown and a tear, dreading to wake up the next day and do it all over again. Every day back then was a bad day. Today, on the other hand, was a very, very good day.

All I Want

People run after so many things in life: love, career, fitness. Me, all I want is pancakes: light, buttery, fluffy, and covered in syrup. Most scoff at me when I tell them that my goal in life is to have pancakes for breakfast at least four days a week, but you try to make the effort to do that yourself and see who's scoffing then. For the past year, I have never once gone more than two days without eating pancakes.

Pancakes remind me of home, and of my mommy. She makes the best buttermilk pancakes. She would put real blueberries in them, too. I usually settle for blueberry syrup, which isn't nearly as good, but still gets the job done. Most days I do make the pancakes myself, just like my mommy taught me, but going to a breakfast place like Village Inn or Denny's is acceptable, as long as you go for breakfast time.

When I eat pancakes, I feel years younger. I don't care about boys or shopping. I just care about being happy, and pancakes make me happy. Other people tell me it's stupid. They tease me a lot. But I don't really care because I have my pancakes. Yum!

Maybe someday, I'll "grow up." Maybe I'll have a great job where I make a real difference in society and make lots of money. Maybe I'll find a nice boy and fall in love and raise a family of my own. One thing I know for sure: if I ever have a daughter, I will teach her how to make pancakes, and all my children will always have their stomachs full of light, fluffy, buttery goodness, covered in maple syrup. Sure, I'll teach them to read and write and do arithmetic, too, but above all, I want them to be as happy as I am right now, and for that, there's really only one thing they'll need: pancakes.

The Other Side

When I look at her, it breaks my heart, knowing how much I care for her and how little she cares for me. She appreciates me, I know. Well, maybe not me, but at at least all I have to give her. What makes me saddest of all was that she might have even grown to love me, had she not met the one she truly loves.

I am not a young man, but that doesn't mean I no longer have feelings. We speak very little of our past, but I was in love, truly in love, once upon a time. I know what it feels like and looks like and sounds like. What I have for her is different, and what she has for me is no where close. My first and only true love was taken from me two decades ago, but that's a tale for another time.

Oh, if only she could have us both! I know in my heart that they would be happy together, at least for a little while, but she did marry me for my money after all. Would she grow to despise him if he took all this away from her and gave her only his heart? Would it be so wrong if I kept her on like this and turned a blind eye to whatever affairs may come? Though it is not love we have for one another, it is still a kind of comfort, at least for me. Am I so selfish to not want to part with her?

And yet, somehow, deep inside, I do care for her and know she cannot be happy like this. Do I care enough to let her free? I'm lonely. She was a companion to me in my loneliness for a short while, and though her touch comforts me still, I know she feels distant and lost. Is the only way to not lose her entirely to give her up?

Surely I can find another like her. To me, she is not unique. To him, she is. I know what love is: a person who might seem ordinary to anyone else is extraordinary to you. That's the way they see one another. I can sense their passion, no matter how hard they try to hide it. I am not a fool, though they think me to be.

Am I just being selfish? If I know all this, why does it still pain me so to let her go? I should be glad to be rid of her, to let her go on her way, to the one who truly loves her, to have for myself another chance to find a love like the fleeting love I once felt. Why do I hesitate? Am I so self-serving?

I always thought myself a good man, a kind man, a noble man. I treat others fairly both in business and in my personal life. Perhaps I am just angry, angry that she said the vows without really meaning them. Well, she meant them at the time, but I have no doubt that she wishes now that she had never said them. And, now, knowing their hearts to be so pure, it is only I who have the power to let them be together.

Is that what this is about? Is it all about the power? Is it only my need to feel vital that is keeping them apart? I would like to think better of myself, but maybe it is so. I'd like to tell myself that I keep them apart for their own good, that no matter how much they love each other now, it will only lead to pain. I know that pain all too well, but death took my love from me and nothing else. I could never imagine leaving one I truly loved of my own free will.

If I could say I truly loved her, that could be my reason to holding on so dearly. But on the other hand, if I truly loved her, wouldn't I want her to be with the one who could truly make her happy?

All this talk of selfishness and love and pity and poverty is meaningless. All that really matters is that I do what I know to be right. And that is the problem; I do not know what to be right. I have never broken any vow that I can think of. Even if I break my vows to her out of regard for her own well-being, does that make it right?

I am a soul tormented. They see love, and I see it so clearly in them. Yet which is greater, the love they feel to one another, or the promise she and I made? If I were ready to depart this world, I would gladly free her of her bondage, but I am not ready. I am healthy and strong, no matter what others may think, and I know I have decades ahead of me still. Would she be willing to wait that long for him? Would he wait that long for her?

They could never have children if I make her wait like that. She would be far too old by the time they could wed. I can't think about that anyway. It is far too morbid for me to think of what might happen after I die. I need to focus on now, on my own life, and on hers. She is my wife, after all, I am to put her needs above my own. Does that mean breaking my vows for her sake? I do not know.

It would all be so simple if I weren't such an honorable man, or she weren't such an honorable lady, or he weren't so loyal. There would be no trouble if we did not care about causing trouble. But we all care too much, and that's the heart of it all.

Every night I pray that I might see a way to do what is right and best for us all, but I do not think it is possible. Perhaps the only way is for me to disappear. Perhaps not die, I still am not ready for that, but to appear to be dead. A trip from which I never return... how long would she wait for me before she would feel it was okay to move on. Would she wait forever? Would I be doing more harm than good?

I am tired of thinking about it. I am not as young as I used to be, and I need to go to bed. Maybe if I die tonight, it would be a blessing after all. I do not want it, but it would be better for her. Is this what a marriage not built on love is always like?