The Things We Do For Love

It was a cold November night when my beloved died. Her once soft skin, cold and pale. Her once vibrant smile, now a permanent thin line set by rigor mortis. It was hard to imagine the smile that would once play at her lips when she spoke softly, telling me how much she loved me. It had only been hours since her death, but as she lay on that cold metal examiner's table, I had already forgotten what her laugh sounded like. I brushed my hand against her cheek, as I reached for the white sheet pulled back to her collar bone. I gently placed it back over her head and nodded. The woman laying on the table had, indeed, been my wife. The medical examiner nodded, short and curt. Years of dealing with the dead and grieving had turned a once joyful man into a shell, run on coffee and antidepressants. He showed no remorse when escorting me from the room.

"Thank you. That will be all, Mrs. Thornwood," he said as he gently pushed me through the doorway.

I turned on my heel, "W-wait what about her funeral arrangements?" I stuttered out as the metal door was slammed in my face.

I glared at the door as if my gaze could surpass it and stab the medical examiner with all the force of a mourning woman. Realizing that he wasn't coming back, I turned and left the Morgue, pulling my woolen sweater shut and shielding my body from the cold of the outside. It had been an unusually cold Autumn in the city of New Orleans and the wind swept through the parking lot as if to push me away from my car and towards the bright city where my pain and mourning my wife could be easily forgotten after a drink or two. I hadn't touched a bottle of alcohol in almost 5 years, since I had met my wife, Rosalynn. But I suppose now she isn't here to police me on my life-draining habit.

I glanced at my silver Kia Soul then back towards the city, which couldn't have been more than 500 feet away. I bit my lip nervously, trying to will myself to forget about the sweet burn of alcohol and walk to my car. Just to get in and drive home, away from temptation. My feet began walking without me consciously realizing it. I was headed towards the edge of New Orleans' Bourbon Street; party central where people would gather to party and drink the nights away until sun broke the skyline, then drink some more.

Neon lights led me to a bar called Voodoo Mama Juju's. I shuffled through bodies of drunken bachelorette's and perverted old men oogling the girls in their skimpy dresses. I sat at the end of the bar, far away from everyone where I could indulge in my pity party. The bartender was an older man with chocolate skin wearing a cliché voodoo king outfit complete with shrunken heads hanging from his belt of bones.

"Anythin' I can get fur ya, mizz?" He asked, his New Orleans accent thick and barely understood except by people who were born and raised in the city.

I glanced at the shelves lining the wall behind the bar, lined with bottles of different liquors. My eyes caught a bottle of Bourbon and I pointed to it. "The whole bottle and a glass if you can," I said loud enough so the music of the bar wouldn't drown me out. The man raised an eyebrow as if he were going to protest, then decided against it and took the whole bottle down then set a small glass beside it. He uncorked the bottle and poured till the glass was half full. I looked at him and motioned for him to continue till the glass was all the way full. He left me to tend on other bar goers and I sat there for hours until the previously full bottle was empty and I was left light headed and sobbing uncontrollably.

The bartended reached a finger under my chin and pulled my head up so my gaze met his.

"Now what done happen' to make yer so sad, woman?" He asked.

I shook my head and pulled away. "None of your concern." I went to stand from my barstool and stumbled, landing flat on the floor. I laid there staring at the tacky brightly lit ceiling and wondered why it was her and not me who was hit by that car. Why it wasn't me laying in that cold room being opened up and examined.

The bartender came around the bar and knelt next to me. "Wha' if I say I coul' help yer?" He offered, helping me to a sitting position. I laughed and shook my head.

"I highly doubt you could bring someone back from the dead," I said as I laughed. I laughed and laughed until my cheeks hurt and my laughing turned to sobbing. The bartender patted my shoulder reassuringly.

"Somun ya love done died, huh? What would ya give to bring 'em back?" He asked, a mischevious glint in his eyes.

"Anything. My life, my soul, my entire being. I'd do anything for her," I said solemnly.

"Shake on it?" He asked, holding out his hand.

I shrugged and took his hand, shaking it, figuring it wouldn't hurt to indulge this odd man's request. He smirked and pulled me to my feet with a strength that should be far beyond that of an old man.

"It's a trade then," He said, his voice changing to dark and demonic.

Everything in the room began to spin and I felt I was spinning to. With a thud, I was back on the floor and everything turned to black.

I woke up in my apartment, sun shining through the curtains. I groaned and put my hand in front of my face, shielding my eyes from the sun and willing my throbbing headache to go away. I slowly sat up and stretched, hearing my back pop in multiple places. I groaned with pleasure and smiled, feeling better with my spine now in order. I got up and made my way to the kitchen, the smell of coffee leading my feet. My wife stood in the kitchen, her bright red hair cascading down her back and her blue eyes shining in the sun.

"Rough night?" She asked with a smile. She held out a cup of coffee to me. I graciously took it and took a swig right away.

"I had the weirdest dream, Rose. It was completely horrid. But I'm awake now and that's all that matters," I said with a smile. She beamed at me and kissed my cheek.

"Okay, weirdo. Go get ready for work. You're going to be late," she laughed and pushed me to the bathroom. I laughed with her and obliged, because I couldn't say no to her.

I closed the bathroom door and turned to the mirror above the bathroom sink. The man from the bar was there, his eyes a bright red and his teeth like fangs as he smiled at me. I screamed and went to open the bathroom door, to no avail. He reached his arm through the glass of the mirror and pulled me through, dragging my body and my soul to eternal hell.