Letters to a Mistress

Death and Obsession



She moved, silently, up the back steps of the building. Hands shaking from the cold, from the adrenaline that flowed though every vein. She knew the consequences of what she was about to do. But her mind stood still, empty, focused on the validity of the task. It was fine. It was OK to end this life. As it would never ever bother her again. She knew, that it had to be done. It all had to end her suffering, no matter if the end mean her own.

The stairs were steep, to many to count, although she tried just to keep her mind off of what was to occur. The darkness of the hallway kept her focused on every move. She did not know how long before she got there, light would discover her and kept her less focused. Over and over in her head she thought, “This is right!” I am right!” “I am just! Because she stole from me!” And all, all that was around her, was completely unfamiliar.

At the final step she came to a long hallway, riddled with boxes and brooms. Her body froze as she could see in the shadows what they were but could was not sure if she could continue. The hall looked so long and narrow, the fear of being discovered quickened her breath. Her hands started to shake again, as she stood silently at the edge of the stairs. She placed the right hand in her pocket to keep it steady, and the left at her chest, grasping at the buttons on her jacket. The end was closer, closer to the peace she needed. Closer to the exaggeration, despair and loathing. Closer to all that would make things equal and over. And so, trying to steady herself, she clutched what was in her pocket, tighter and tighter, like a piece of her life she did not want to lose.

All that was around her meant nothing. She did not want to lose him. Not to another. “It all must be mine”, she thought. “Obsession is relentless, but not me. No, not me.” “It’s her! It’s her!” she repeated over and over. And as her mind began to wander, she saw the images of his face. How happy he looked when he came home. How much at ease he was when after a long night of “working”. She knew what pleased him, she knew who pleased him. Her body filled with rage as she remembered the night she picked up the phone and listened to the conversation. “I will be there soon”, he said. “All of this will be over soon and I will be back”. She saw it so vividly, as she stood there. She looked in the darkness and found the door. “He will be there, sleeping”, she thought, and envisioned how they would look in the dark silence of the bedroom. “He will be there, and I cannot have this!” She clutched again what was in her pocket, now filled with sweat from her nervousness. She walked slowly down the hall, every step shaky, unsure, and reluctant. But still she moved on.

The door was unlocked. “A stupid mistake” she thought. And still she continued in. The apartment was dark, all except for the bathroom light, dim and flickering. The cats were running around the living room, play fighting, chasing their toys. She thought of Mandela, her only friend that would wake her in the morning licking her face, begging to be fed. “I have not even him to keep me company”, she thought. And tears rolled down her cheeks as she stood watching the cats happy and playing in the dark.

The pain of reservation overwhelmed her while she stood in front of the bedroom door. Her steps closer became uneasy and sluggish, her feet heavy. She stopped her toes from touching the base of the 2 pocket doors, realizing that any noise would wake them. She wanted to see them sleeping. She wanted to see if it were true. And she would only know if she saw him lying there.

She knew how he slept when he was happy. She spent so many nights awake watching him, looking at his closed eyes, knowing when he was content. She knew if he were there sleeping, she could see it in his closed eyes if it were real. “I must not wake them” “I have to see it for myself”. She eased herself through the slightly opened doors and took her shoes off to keep the floors from creaking. As she walked closer to the bed, the glare through the windows of the streetlights blinded her for a few seconds, and she almost tripped. She saw her lying there, quiet and serene. Lying across him. Lips close to his. The anger and rage Niama had felt for months took over her. Violent shakes made their way down her arms and to her fingertips. She clutched her pocket with the full force of her rage and pulled the gun out of her pocket. She stood there, for what seemed to her for hours, just standing over them, both hands clutching the piece. The tears blocked her vision, the streetlights made her eyes glassy. The combination angered her even more, and as she took a deep breath, she squeezed the trigger, again and again. Until the gun was empty.

The effects of the shots were everywhere. So little blood, so much of the blankets and pillows destroyed. She heard the cats run for their lives from the noise. She stood there, afraid to touch the bodies. Afraid to see what she had done. She stood there, frozen, unable to move, unable to run from her mistake. In the ceiling, she heard footsteps, even that could not move her feet. She wanted to see, she wanted to see their faces, how they looked after it was all over. The light from the street grew stronger. She could see their faces now. Uninterrupted sleep. Still quiet, still in somber, even though dead. She pulled the sheets away from the bodies and began to choke, seeing clearly what she had done. He was not there. But she was. It was not him, it was another. All that she knew suddenly became a delusion. An obsession. All that she believed came forward, and all that she had done became realized. Unreal. The 2 bodies were no longer there, just empty images in her mind. Behind her stood them both. Side by side just looking at her. She dropped to her knees in front of the bed and said nothing. Everyone was silent, except for her sobbing. She wiped her face and pulled the knife out of her pocket. And as they both screamed “NO!” she stabbed herself in the neck and slit her throat. The blood, streamed toward their feet.