Conrad Julius Ecklie (conrad_ecklie) wrote,
Conrad Julius Ecklie

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Theatrical Muse: Week 200: Question 200

Name: Conrad Ecklie

CSI: Crime Scene Investigation

Word Count: 1200

Smörgåsbord! (Five prompts to choose from: Follow the link for the details.)

In her death, everything around him seemed so quiet, while a cacophony of whirling memories echoed around his head, intruded into his thoughts, his work, his life. Invisible and unnoticed, barely interrupting his normal way of being, they stayed there, silent, quiet, untouched and beyond arrest, trial, conviction and banishment for their crime of making him remember all the good things he had shared with her. He lay in his bed at night, once his house was cleared, and the case had been solved, and all the evidence had been locked away, and he breathed, and he slept, and he dreamed nightmares of horrible consequences, of real realities that had already come about to be true. The late night escapades of his mind rattled on in his head, the small talk his brain made was, after some time, all that was left, as the memories died down and the terror of recent death died away and succumbed to the years and decades that came, and went by.

At her funeral, after her funeral, in the days following, he was told many things, comforted many times, and, while he understood it all, the overwhelming numbness had come to greet him once more, and it changed him again, as it had all those years before. No one said some of the things he thought, but, he still knew he was right in thinking them, and assuming them as real facts. He didn’t have to sit with her in hospital, hold her hand, watch her die as she succumbed to the torture that had been enacted upon her. He didn’t have to her final moments alive, with her, comforting her as they waited for an ambulance. He found her, dead, and stupidly supposed her to be alive, and, he would forever realise the moment he realised she was no longer living. An invisible weight pressed against his lungs, and, if the house had been burning around him, he wouldn’t have left her side, because she was gone, and, at that moment, his world slowed to a halt, and he stopped caring about everything, all at once. He stopped caring, about everything, for just a few seconds, and, in those few seconds, before his mind re-established was needed to be kept alive and going, he could have died, and could have accepted death, so, completely. The thing was, her death was not quick and swift, it was been prolonged and torturous, filling the hours when he was away, working. She had been violated and murdered, and that was the worst kind of death, because he hadn’t been able to protect her, prevent her from being harmed. Nothing could fix all the moments with her he had lost, and could never, ever, have, with her by his side.

One night, after she died, a full moon rose in the air and he stared at it briefly, looking up at it for a split second as he walked to his car to retrieve a notebook and pen he had left in it. It seemed, almost impossible to his mind, so recently fractured and changed to its previous state of unemotional living, that anything, anything, could been so bright and so present. The moon wasn’t even a living being, and yet it had endured past all millennia before him, before his aunt, his parents, his wife. It could not be hurt, and, at night, it stood above all people, luminescent and invincible. Yet the people it hung over, were small, and tiny, and, so easily, killed. Crows could fly, and even they could not escape death, in flight, so what chance did human beings have, so tiny, and unimportant and attached to the ground through gravity and all things reasonable. He had no chance, his wife had, had no chance, but he was still alive. He would keep living until death took him, and, he, he lived no more.

Food is not something I desire constantly. I need food to ensure that my body keeps working. I prepare my dinner at night, so that it is tasty and appropriate in size, taste and ingredients for the person eating it, and the time of day that it is being eaten at. I was born in the years following the Second World War, but so many years after it ended to not eat much of what was eaten at that time. I have rarely been subjected to the act of eating offal, but it has still something I have done, on occasion. I have no qualms with most food, especially Greek food, which has made up, for most of my life, a large part of my diet, and still does in some way or another, to this day. I will not eat meat such as dog, or rat, but that is a thought and an ethical stance shared with many people from the Western culture that America provides for its residents. Generally, however, I am open to eating a wide variety of dishes, because I have been raised by my aunt to be an understanding person, and someone who is aware of cultural differences. Aside from this, some Greek food, itself, can be a bit odd, so the eating of peculiar food is not an act that has ever been completely lost on me. Basically, I am very happy to eat what is offered me, because I am a man fortunate enough to be able to have food on his plate on a regular, daily, basis. Some people, do not, and so, I have always tried to eat what I am given, for the simple fact that I need to eat to keep my body going. If I am required to eat something not of the usual norm, then that does not bother me a terrible amount.

He was worthy of her live, he knew it, and she was worthy of his, she knew it. They stood, hugged against each other, the contact of their bodies the best comfort in the world. They had been working hard, had come home, and suddenly realised that they had missed each other so much during the day, that even the tiniest of distances seemed, really, unbearable. They didn’t fail to love each other, they loved each other with their whole hearts, whole minds, whole spirits and beings. Nothing could stop their love, no, nothing could stop their love, not ever. When they parted, they went into the kitchen, always staying close together, touching or almost touching, and made toasted sandwiched. As the weather felled the world with a sense of cold, a sense of one season ending and the other springing into life, they ate, they watched television, they enjoyed each other’s company. They deserved everything about each other, and so much more. But he didn’t deserve her death, and she, alive, could never have deserved his continuous mourning over her absence. The only reality that was ever able to change how they saw each other, was indeed, death, and when it came in the form of murder and violation, her love was gone, and the only thing he felt he deserved was her everlasting memory, and his continuous regret. Nothing more.

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