One-One Sick
By Ellie Fulbrook, aged 15
The dimly lit room created a somewhat melancholic atmosphere; somehow perfect for the man attempting to express his inner emotions through yet another letter he knew would be thrown away. Not a sound in the room but the slight drip of the kitchen tap and the sudden whisper of wind that managed to creep its way into the house through the gap in the window. Candle wax pooled on the table, and in the flickering light, the silhouette could be seen emerging from the bedroom into the kitchen. His frustration blatant by his posture. Arms outstretched almost as though in silent prayer to the Gods; at a loss for what to do next.
Exasperated, he let out a sigh. He knew it was unhealthy, some might even call it an obsession but he could not let this go. It wasn’t so much her appearance that intrigued and drew him in, but more her manner. He’d met her only once or twice; but had been engrossed since day one. These poems were a way for him to vent and express the feelings he knew he could never say aloud. As he rose from the kitchen stool, he started to pace up and down the small corridor that led to the spare bedroom; where he worked.
As he reemerged at his desk, the strong smell of candle wax mixed with the musky wooden table helped to soothe the pounding in his head. He leant over his writing desk, quill in hand and let the words trapped in his mind spill onto the piece of paper before him. This time, he decided, it would be a letter. He would take his inspiration from Shakespeare’s sonnet 116; his favourite. There was something so dark and twisted about the poem that really appealed to him. Even when the lover leaves, you must carry on loving them with your whole heart. He’d stuck to his interpretation for the majority of his life.
“Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments; love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds
Or bends with the remover to remove”
As he wrote, he was overcome with acute nostalgia for his former life, one filled with love and joy. He knew this was a dangerous path on which to tread, but there was a sense of inevitability about the whole thing. He just couldn’t help himself. She was so similar to the last one - he was fondly reminded of her every time they were together. How he had loved her. Loved her with his whole being. And how that love had been wasted on her. She had thrown his love, his gift, his devotion, back in his face. He had begged her not to leave. Had told her that they should be together forever. In a sense, this was now true. This love, this perfect love was preserved forever in the shrine he had built for her around her body in the basement where it was still being stored.
The evening passed in a haze of misery. Nothing could comfort the man mourning the loss of his loved one. Her demise was of his own doing, but this didn’t prevent the love that still burned through his veins, even now, even after all these years. In the midst of his suffering and reminiscing, there was a knock at the door. He wasn’t in the right mindset to accept visitors, but the knocking continued and his curiosity drew him to open it.
And there she stood, her features perfectly symmetrical, he found himself staring into her eyes, those eyes that he could picture in his sleep, unable to shift his gaze. All of a sudden, something took hold of him. He wanted to preserve her beauty, similar to the way he had with the last one.
He clasped her warm hand in his and dragged her down into the basement. The fear in her eyes was palpable but he was too far gone to be drawn back to reality. Her scream was muffled by the voices in his head. He was back in familiar territory. This was the third or perhaps the fourth time. None, however, would compare to the first. The loss of innocence made the whole experience that much better.
The basement was as it had been left before; a slight musty smell lingering from all the years of dust that had built up. In the corner, her blood smeared on the walls: love is not love which alters when it alteration finds.