Something woke me, some sound that was loud enough to wake me but not to startle me, and which was gone by the time I reached awareness. My hand felt around and didn’t find Sarah, but the bed was still warm on her side. She was probably in the bathroom. I sat on the side of the bed, unworried, clearing the cobwebs. Then I needed to pee, and I made it halfway to the bathroom before I saw a hand and wrist on the floor. I ran the last few steps to the door and saw her stretched out on her side, eyes closed, one arm above her head, like she was sleeping. But of course she was not sleeping. I grabbed her hand, shook her, said her name over and over again But I couldn’t find a pulse, so I sat dumbly on the floor for a long time, holding her hand and stroking her hair, as if to wake her gently. Maybe it was an aneurysm, or her broken heart just gave up.

My hands were already in bad shape, but I had to bury her. The old gardening gloves I unearthed in the shed were dried out and filthy, and they made my hands hurt worse than wearing nothing at all. I rummaged through the chest of drawers in the bedroom, found an old t-shirt, and tore it into strips which I wrapped around my fingers and palm. I felt like a caricature of a mummy from an old horror film, or like a gulag prisoner. Now I had become a prisoner of a terrible, barely recognizable reality that I still could not let go of. The digging was even slower this time, since I had to stop every few minutes to adjust my makeshift bandages. In the Kolyma Tales there is a story of prisoners burying the bodies of their fellow inmates in the rock-hard, frozen Siberian tundra, and digging them up later to find them perfectly preserved. I knew that this ground would not be so kind to my friends, and images of worms and maggots and the smell of rot invaded my thoughts.

That night’s silence was resounding, and it was nearly dawn before sleep finally claimed me. I dreamed that Sarah and I were on a lovely beach vacation, spending a few days away from the crowded city, and Daniel grilled oysters and salmon and we stayed up drinking wine and listening to Billie Holiday by the wood-burning stove, and when we turned in Sarah and I made love, a little too noisily, and as we feel asleep we laughed that Daniel surely knew exactly what was going on but he wouldn’t care, and everything seemed perfectly natural and peaceful, and life was swell and we still had a lot of good years ahead of us, and tomorrow we’d take a walk on the beach and watch people with their kids and their dogs running in the surf, and we’d go into town and have some pints at the local shanty tavern and share a laugh about the failed attempt to have quiet sex, and everything would be grand. 

The dream was all the more convincing since the setting was so familiar and immediate, and I woke still thinking I was on vacation. The dream world lingered for a few seconds before the brutal reality of what had happened over the last three days and three weeks, and in that moment of experiencing the pain all over again, I knew I couldn’t stay there anymore, not even for a few minutes. The memories of my friends, and of a world irretrievably lost, would haunt me like a predator patiently stalking its hapless prey.

Before departing, I cobbled together four small crosses with pieces of kindling and twine, and stood them upright but not quite straight in the piles of stones that marked the resting places. Without hesitation, I left the guns behind. There were no more violent acts left in my tattered heart, and now I was resigned to whatever fate would come upon me. 

Feeling perversely unburdened, I set off into the gloaming, not knowing where the winds would carry me, not caring that my roads were so few and my mistakes so many. On autopilot, I walked out to the beach and wandered around, not making any decisions.

Then, in a moment, everything became clear in my mind. I headed north, towards the point, and now there was resolve in my quick footsteps…

By the time I reached the viewing area , the arrival of darkness was nearly complete. The wind whipped up, just as it had that night a couple of weeks before, tousling my hair and stroking my face. Determined not to let the purpose go out of me, I didn’t waste any time. I found a spot perhaps a dozen paces from the low stone wall, crouched down and tied my shoes one last time. I rose up, drew a final breath deep into my chest, and pushed off with all my strength. I closed in on the wall at a full sprint, and like an Olympic gymnast, I hit my mark perfectly, stepping onto the wide flat stone, pushing up and out with all my strength, stretching my arms wide, and sailing into oblivion.

TO BE CONTINUED…