On the edge of their matrimonial bed, the sad man sat confused, out of place, as if waiting for help, except he never brought himself into calling for it. He tried hard to read the note she left behind for him. He was trying to develop the courage to hear her reasons for doing what she did. He stopped looking at the note to wipe the tears in his eyes. It has been close to an hour since he came into the scene of the incident in their bedroom, alone, except for the remains of his wife lying cold on the bed. The neatly dressed bed suggests she went quietly, without much struggle.
“There are different kinds of love they say. Happy love, sad love; family love, friendly love; love love….But what they didn’t say is all love hurts.”
He read the note, drawing deep breaths and had one of his hands covering his mouth. He wept not only for his loss but for what he’d done; for the forgiveness he didn’t get and for not knowing how he’s going to live with himself. What he had done was more than a silly mistake.
It was devastating how he never saw it coming. All the fatigues and headaches she claimed to have, whenever he asked why she seemed sad or “off”, were lies. He feared thinking her depressed. So he never used the word. The mood swings kept him further away from her. He hated himself for ever thinking she wouldn’t suspect a thing. How could she? Who could? Who would suspect such a thing? How she found out is still a mystery to him.
He thought about her daughter, his step daughter. How was she going to take the suicide of her mother and knowing she had a hand in it? He thought about how their families and friends will take it? How is he going to tell them? His mind was flooded with questions, every one darker than the former; his heart is racing. There is no excuse for such act. It is unimaginable how his poor wife felt– how long she endured in silence before finally ending it all.
His wife’s words were too much to bear. He felt only darkness inside of him. He paused from the reading, looked around their room. The white coverlet was still neat, not squeezed or dirty. It must have been recently spread. The room was tidy. Everything was deliberately left in its place. There was a bottle half filled, with what he suspected to be what she’d drank, on their rug.
The bottle seemed to be the solution to his pains and the profound misery he’ll live with for the rest of his life. Being guilty for the tragic end of a loved one is regrettably distressful. It is a dreadful torment. The self loathe was excruciating.
“There are different kinds of love they say. What they didn’t say is the best of them hurts the most” the note reads. “I hope you’re happy together.”