Sidey’s Weekend Theme: Hiding Something

January-04-2012-21-43-17-HidingWolfMore can be found on SidevieW’s blog! 🙂 My contribution as follows:

He’s still laying in bed, nursing his guilt; above all, cradling regret as reminder to why he feels like dying. A burden is bearing down to crush his heart, ever so slowly, ever so cruelly. He is holding a book to his chest. Her diary.

“I love you. You know that, don’t you?” she asked. 
“Yes, honey, I do know,” he replied, perplexed.
There was some silence as keystrokes filled its space. 
“Just making sure,” she said with a smile.
“Good.” He was smiling. 
 

He screamed at her – his face reddened, contorted into something grotesque. He screamed at himself. Sometimes he disgraced himself by wetting his pants in sheer frustration and hurt. However, fear made him so. Fear made him . . . different from the person he was.

“Looking at that photo makes me smile,” he said to her.
“That dress made me look fat,” she stated.
“You looked like the evening star, truth be told,” he countered.
“Perhaps.” She wasn’t smiling.  
 

He’s laying still, staring at the ceiling, still cradling the holiest book he will ever read. Tears ran down his cheeks as silence steals its host. His eyes are glazed. He sees nothing. Nothing other than her, framed by endless memories. Not as vivid as what’s inside the diary.

“I wrote you a letter,” she said.
“Yeah? Are you going to give it to me?” he asked, watching her.
“No,” she said, and ran off, diary in hand.
 

He finally feels like opening the diary. It took him five months to build up the courage, and another five to contemplate whether that newfound courage had merit or not. It had some, he realizes. He sits up, his back propped against a headboard he converted into a memorial collage of his wife. That way, he never have to leave her side. Or she his. His dreams were filled with her laughter. He did not want it any other way.

It required so much strength to open the letter that fell out the day he reached for her sacred diary. The day after the funeral, that was. She had once told him about this letter she wrote for him and never gave it. He had been curious ever since and always tried to steal her diary away from her, certain she hid said letter in there. She never parted from her diary, though. She became more difficult in the end. He loved her so. He still loved her. He can’t picture a life spent without her. Yet, the letter was all he got.

 
To the love of my existence,
 
First of all, I love you with all my heart. Or what’s left of it. That’s a bad joke. Remember the time . . .  

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