Stained Soul: A Sequel to Stained Fabric

But it wasn’t so. She couldn’t come. She wouldn’t come if She were able to. She had escaped into life. Why would she come back to him who wallows in deadness? His loves were sinful and shallow, hers were pure and right. He was dirty. She was made perfect.

He strained the unhappiness out of his head and replaced it with the happiness she used to grant him with, though the wounds still bled deep inside of him. “Please, just let me die! I don’t want these people near, I don’t want friendship or love, or hate and bitterness. I just want numbness and the end of gravity.”

The unreal hollow voice above commanded boarding, but He didn’t want to anymore. He didn’t want anymore machines. Anymore unreal voices. All he wanted was to see her one more time and clarify the life that was a slave to hers. The voice kept calling, kept jeering. "SHE IS GONE! FORGET OR REMEMBER!"

Yes, it was her body in that plane, it was her wrinkled face, those were her perfumed clothes. They were all going to her subterranean home. But it wasn’t her. It wasn’t the lithe form that he held in his arms every night for 40 years. It wasn’t that face that smiled upon him sarcastically when he knew he made her laugh on the inside. It wasn’t the perfume of their love on a frosty fall day in the park. She had vanished.

He didn't want to remember her. He wanted to kiss her. He didn't want to forget her, he wanted to explore the world with her. He didn't want to leave her. He wanted to share her warmth in the chilliness of earth.

He swiftly rolled himself out, past security to the bus, still in the airport’s wheelchair. He rode to that park where they had spent their infrequent Sunday afternoons. Where they shared their loves and cares. Where they explained their failings.

He hobbled with his retractable cane to the rusty bench.

He sat down.

He looked at the infinitesimal letters that were their names carved into the winding wooden armrest.

He lay down and wept for an eternity.