The Pits

by michaelcahill

What Happened? Contest Winner

"Just pick up the pieces…"

"Life goes on… "

"Time heals all wounds… "

Is it any wonder that I chose to lock my front door and live alone? With friends like those, who needs enemies? You see, even I can't come up with more than a hackneyed cliché to counter act the malaise of my existence. My existence. Do I exist? Well I suppose the philosophical realists would have me drowning in a half-empty glass of water trying to figure that one out.

She left this plane of existence… no… she moved on in her journey… no… the fabulous adventure continued. Passed away? Kicked the bucket, croaked, cacked off, expired… dammit! And I had plenty of change in my pocket. I killed her with my own slovenly, lazy failure to feed a parking meter.

At nineteen years of age, my beautiful wife died. They called it an accidental overdose. One sip of vodka and apple pucker too many. Or, perhaps one milligram over the limit of what her body could tolerate of valium. Should I continue to debate the stupidity of it? Well, no I shouldn't. Of course, I can't stop. My anger at every one of the people involved hasn't abated. The pharmacist. The various doctors. Her buddies. Mr. Smirnoff and even Mr. Pucker if there is one.

I'm the most angry at her. Stupid bitch. How do you kill yourself at such a young age in such a stupid and ignorant way? You partied yourself to death. Why did you bother taking me off the scrap heap of existence? I was perfectly content. A forty-one year old failure on autopilot sailing towards my eventual death. I was numb and not feeling a thing. You had to poke around and light me up. You had to find some kind of value in me. You had to bring me back to life.

Well, thank you very much. Now, I'm completely alive and feeling every painful moment of your loss. I can't shut it off and return to my blissful nothingness. You thrilled me to life and here I sit, alone with no desire to seek another soul.

So keep your clichés. Keep your lousy comforting words to yourself. I can't stop feeling this grief. I'll let you know when I do. I understand that you want to be the one that got through to me. How wonderful that would be for you. "Oh yes, I spoke with him. He's better now. I pulled him up by his bootstraps."

Yeah, well isn't that nice. You say I've been spared the heartache of growing old while she was still young. Idiot! I'm already old. Forty-one/nineteen versus sixty-one/thirty-nine, it doesn't ever sound particularly good, does it? Well, none of you understood when she was alive. You all thought I should go to hell then. Now, you offer comfort. Isn't that rich? What happened to me robbing the cradle? Hypocrites.

It would be nice if this had a point or conclusion to it. My young and beautiful wife partied herself to death. Nothing comforts me. That's the story. That's life. It ain't a bowl of cherries.

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Writing Prompt
Write a story that starts with: "Just pick up the pieces..."