Hello there I am irrelevant.

So if you haven’t read my part 1 gothic horror please, you can if you would like here is the link. Gothic horror part 1.

However part 1 isn’t actually part 1 like you wouldn’t understand this one, but that was the kind of original version that I wrote a year ago. A year has passed and I decided to write another one. This one has the same general idea but just in different context.

I don’t want to write too much because it has come to my attention that that might be a slight issue. I just wanted to say, critique is welcomed or any advice or anything (I know I sound like an overly confident, arrogant person because like anyone would bother reading this).

I have wanted to post this for a while so please enjoy! But you don’t have to, I am not forcing you.

Till death do us part. That’s what we vowed when we got married. It’s strange that two people so in love with each other would vow that taking your last breath on earth is enough to part them. I suppose I will carry that mystery until the fateful day we really part our separate ways.

Night falls over our house.

I lay with him on our sofa. The two of us sinking and sinking into it. Just as everyday we sink deeper and deeper into the abyss of our love. I hold him. It’s strange. He has been getting lighter and lighter. As thin as air until I can barely even feel his weight.

He must be working out.

We talk. For hours and hours on end we do nothing but leap in and out of our minds, explore the labyrinth we have crafted together. He holds a torch which sets ablaze the edges of his face. He tells me he loves me. I say it back. However, I am never really sure if love is what I feel. The emotions that build up inside of me when I am near him are too overwhelming, too completely mind consuming to be summed up into such a simple four letter word.

It has been four hours. Both of us have heavy eyelids, but two people with such light souls could not be dragged down by mere tiredness. After contemplating for quite sometime, we decide to go up and sleep. He hops off the coach and puts the torch down on the table, then, with a great swoop, he pulls me up and cradles me like the baby I am when I’m with him. Up and up the stairs we go. His firm hands grasping the banister on every step. It’s strange. He has been getting quieter and quieter. As quiet as a thought until I can barely even hear his steps.

He must be getting stronger.

We whisper through the black. Our words absorbed by the darkness and quietly tucked away in the pockets of the night. And finally quiet. Not a deafening silence but one that blankets us like a duvet and hushes us to a deep slumber.

Morning’s touch pulls me from my nocturnal siesta. I roll over and lay my hand on him. He is soft and warm and then I realise it is not him. It’s strange. He has been getting more and more absent. Leaving so early every morning.

He must be at work.

I slip off the bed and wrap my silk night dress over my body. As I make my way to the door, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The contrast between my dark eyelids and my beaming eyes makes me giggle. But as I step closer to the mirror I notice other things. My face is pale, my lips dry and white and my hair is a tangled mess. Like the big clump of seaweed we found on the beach last week. It was strange. Everyone gave me pitiful looks as we walked down the beach talking.

They must have been jealous.

I step onto the corridor floorboard which groans unpleasantly. I reach the stairs and a wave of cold shoots through me. That’s strange. The banister is cloaked by a layer of dust unmarked by handprints.

The house must be really dirty.

Down the steps I go. Each step I find it harder and harder to breathe, as if fear has its cold hands wrapped around my throat and is squeezing tighter and tighter. It’s a disturbing feeling. Suddenly doubting everything I know to be true. I clench my fists until my skin screams in agony. Or does it? How do I know that the pain I’m feeling is even real? Is it but a forgery that my mind has drafted to keep me sane. No. This is real. It has to be because if I give in, if I, for a second, allow myself the thought, then how will I ever learn to trust again?

So I push that thought away. It is easy. I suppose I have had practice, though right now, I can’t conjure up the memory of a single time I did so. That’s strange. The torch that he had used last night, the one that set his face ablaze, isn’t there.

He must have taken it to work.

But no. I step closer. In its place is a match. Closer still. A used match. It is like I blanked out for a minute. Because I have no idea what I am doing when I open my eyes and watch my hands as I dial numbers on the telephone. I recognize the pattern. I know who I am calling. I know who is going to be behind the door as I open it.

“Hello. Thanks for coming.” My voice sounds foreign. I wouldn’t even know it was me talking if it wasn’t for the fact that I had been practicing what I would say only moments before her arrival.

“Of course. Look, you’re my best friend and I am here for you.” Something is off. Something in her eyes. Pity? Sorrow? The way she holds my hand is like the way one would pet a stray dog. Caution, with a touch of sympathy.

“What is it? Where is he?”

“You know. You know where he is.”

“No. No I don’t.” Even as I said those words, I knew it wasn’t true. Somewhere, deep down in me, I knew.

She opens and closes her mouth for a second. Then, quietly, she says,

“Your husband has been dead for three years…”

I hope you enjoyed that. Perhaps you might have.

But…What do I Know?