Delilah

To the Bitter End

I wrung my handkerchief with my twisting hands as I stared with subtle horror at my surrounds. Besides a hospital, a funeral parlour was the worst place I could think to be in. It was the place where all the dead people go. 

Sitting before the dead always filled me with a sense of foreboding, with the way my hair would raise on the back of my neck and feel the chill despite the warmth emitting from the heater, it spurred on the twisting of my hands and the destruction of my handkerchief. My eyes returned to the box where my dead husband lay, a good man, a handsome man, a man of many talents and admirable qualities, he shouldn't have died, it shouldn't have been him.

I could remember finding him in a pool of his own blood, I screamed, cried and fainted, all before I could call the police. I woke up, blood on my skin and clothes, I panicked more and made the mistake of glancing into his cold, lifeless eyes that spoke of untold horror.

The police came, questioned, but found nothing of consequence. They declared the crime scene had been tainted, by none other than me and the paramedics, and was therefore unreliable. The outcome plunged the quiet neighbourhood into an unsettling world of fear and trepidation, but no one was more fearful than I. Death was ugly, and it happened in my own home! A dead man, husband or not, lay in my very own kitchen!

I had faced too many miserable deaths. My mother tripped and fell down the stairs and my father, only a year later, hit his head and drowned in the backyard pool. Since then, I only left the house when necessary, the world was just too dangerous. My husband and I, on my insistence, bought a house with very little stairs or steps and certainly no pools. I was always careful and yet, I couldn't escape death. It felt like my neck was stuck under a guillotine, being taunted with the lowering and raising of the blade threatening to sever my head from my shoulders.

Just like every other night, I woke in a cold sweat, my lungs screaming for air, my hands would clutch my neck trying to stop the phantom pain of it being clawed by cold, rigid hands. A yelp escaped my lips as I stared, wide eyed, into the dark shadowy room, every nook and cranny looked as though arms were extending out, reaching for me to wrap around my limbs and drag me into the dark depths of death. My heart pounded in my ears breaking the deafening silence, and slowly, ever so slowly, my trembling hands turned on the lamp by my bedside in fear I would incite their wrath by moving too fast. The light instantly bathed the room in yellow light, chasing away the shadows and revealing nothing to fear, but I couldn't be at ease, not with the cold feeling of death at my back, just waiting to slash his sickle through my body and take me into the abyss.

Not even a week after the death of my husband a thunderous scream shook the walls of the house. Despite my instincts, I scrambled to the source only to find the horrific sight of my son kneeling over his sister, trying desperately to find a heartbeat from her still warm body. I was paralysed, trembling, I couldn't do anything, even my mind was vibrating with fear while I stared at my daughter, my dearest girl, but I couldn't do a thing, my body wouldn't let me, my son spoke words to me but I couldn't hear anything but ringing, until one sound registered in my mind. Screaming, but who?

'Get it out, get it out, get it out!' My numb lips moved without permission, but I couldn't stop, wouldn't stop, there was a dead body in my house!

In the same dress, at the same funeral parlour, I sat, wringing my hands, my eyes bounced around the room waiting for the killer to jump out and take me. I've barely slept, showered or functioned correctly and by the looks on everyone's faces, I looked like it too, but I couldn't be concerned about their prying glances, of course not, someone, something was coming to kill me. At that thought the wringing of my hands intensified causing red marks on the dry skin.

My son looked at me every so often, I could see it from the corner of my eye, he would often shift uncomfortably and leave my company quickly.

'What is wrong with you?' I asked and held his hand.

'Nothing,' his eyes shifted away before they looked back at me again, 'why?'

'Are you sick? You're behaving strangely.'

'No, no, just, you know, with Dad and Elle..." He pulled his hand away, cleared his throat and stood up from the kitchen table. After a long glance at me, he walked out, leaving his plate of dinner behind. He was strange, I couldn't wash away the discomfort at his recent behaviour. I gritted my teeth, balled my fists and listened to his retreating footsteps, watching his black hoodie fade into the darkness. My suspicions were growing, my body was trembling, and I couldn't think of anything else.

Is he him? Is he coming to get me? I'm done for!

I could feel my days were numbered, I could feel it in my bones, not even the police could save me! A distressed cry was released from my lips and my hands clutched at my knotted hair. I didn't know what to do or if there was anything I could do.

Another week passed and a neighbour was brutally murdered. Even the crime scene investigators couldn't shield the neighbourhood from the gory sight of the mutilated woman next door in her own doorway. What puzzled most was that no one heard or saw a thing, there were little to no clues. People began moving away, but I was stuck, we didn't have the funds to leave, not until the insurance company finished processing. I had no choice but to stay in this valley of death! It was maddening! Horrifying!

Paranoia was a constant and my son's strange and suspicious behaviour increased. He was always silent and brooding, and when he looked at me, a cold chill went down my back. I couldn't be in the same room as him, my body would stiffen as if preparing to run in case he decided to attack and do what he did to my husband and daughter. No, that couldn't happen, I wouldn't end up like those people, I refused to be handed over to the clutches of the reaper!

Of course, of course, my only option suddenly became clear, it was the only way! The only way so the shadows wouldn't pull me to their darkest depths, the only way for me to survive. I had to become what I feared, I had to!

My resolute fingers reached out and gripped the handle, from the kitchen I walked to the white wooden door and successfully pushed it open. This time the shadows in the dark room didn't reach for me to pull me down, they watched on curiously, perhaps to see what would happen, what I would do. Maybe this way they would fear me as much as I feared them. With that thought a smile stretched my lips and my eyes landed on my target.

Yes, this was what I had to do, it was for the best, the pain and torment had to end. I needed it to stop and this was the only way I could see the light instead of the diabolical shadows of death. I looked at the face I had birthed, he reminded me of my husband, just as my arms seemed to soften as they held the knife above my head the shadows began their torment and without a second thought the knife was plunged into his chest over and over. He woke, a short scream followed, but he quickly lost consciousness before his breathing followed.

My mind grew foggy and blackness seeped into my vision, the shadows were laughing at me as I passed out next to my dying son.

I awoke to sunlight hitting my skin and an unhappy groan left my lips. My body was sore from my awkward position. I opened my eyes and screamed at the sight in front of me.