To Hell I Walk

Grief was a lonely emotion, and if it wasn't, I couldn't tell you so. For months, covered in the devil's sweat, shivering like a kitten caught in the fridge, my father suffered. I remembered sitting at his bedside for hours, soon leaving his blanket with a salty stain, I ambled away to stare out a window. Then suddenly, I blinked, and he was gone. The world had decided for me that I did not need a father.

I think the world made a mistake.

So I moved towards the exit in this place of death. My feet trembling with every step. I was small, quiet and without haste. Around me, were many little people, running with books stacked to their noses. Each one trying to find purpose, creating their own little thunders, as the floors would shake under their waltz. My waltz was demented. Torn from left and shoved to right, without balance, without strength.

So you remember at times like these, the clichéd line, my father will be watching over me. At first a comfort, until you realize that his eyes are dead too. How can an angel look down on me through the dead eyes of a corpse?

"Miss, I'm sorry but there was nothing else to be done," A little man taunted softly in my ear, "your father didn't want to go on..." This Grey blurry figure. He was just a part of the room. Yet somehow HE dared to speak of MY father?

I hated this world now, I hated it!

"Yes he did." I snapped shortly, "he was a good man, he wanted to be with me," I paused and then ran from that horrid place.

At home I sat on a hard wooden chair surrounded be my father's things; the smell of furnished wood and the fading sense of his presence. I wondered, what would happen if I ended myself here? If I should take a knife and slash away at the seams of my soul, would the world protest? Would it cry out? Would it laugh? If I should take a knife and slash only a little, would my father be returned to me?

Knocks a-tapping at my door came thrice to surprise my empty soul. Came to surprise yet failed to make the numb feel. I was ignoring the call. My phone rang once, still I was ignoring the call. It would just be another someone, come to say a few meaningless lines and leave. None would hold my hand, a black hole, which would suck away unforgivably at those who touched it.

So days passed, and my name sneered at me, for my name was Faith and my heart was lost. Weeks passed, and my damp hands held fast to the wooden handle of my father's rocking chair. This was stability. This was a plank of wood, and this plank of wood, I cherished. It's yellowing gleam promised protection against the thunderous laughter of that thief known as the world.

The phone echoed again.

"Hello," croaked a voice, which did not sound like my own.

"Faith? Is that you?" A male voice cooed from the other side, from another world.

"Yes." I admitted to myself. I was then slightly troubled by the sound of my own voice; a thin thread, close to snapping.

"I've been trying to reach you," I could hear the rustling of paper work, "you don't know me, but I knew your father and we had a deal before he left. I have the contracts with me... I just need to see you," he sounded unsure. Unsure about whether or not it was okay to speak.

"Pardon?" My ears were not used to hearing sounds anymore. Weeks since the horrid day the last tone a silly nurse.

"Yes, I own half your house," he paused, "my name is Isaac Charmer, I know this is a little shocking for you. But I have nowhere to stay as of tomorrow and was wondering if that was a good time to come over?" I opened my eyes several times, but they would not see.

"Tomorrow?" My hand gripped to the side of my father's chair tightly as I sat on the very edge.

"Yes, if that's okay?" I noticed his voice was deep, but not croaky like mine. It was a sweet dark chocolate. Such sounds I had not heard for so long.

"Yes, tomorrow," I agreed. I would hear that sound again and that would be my last. Yes, there would be no sound again for me.

Torn and sleepless, that night I had nothing. No hand to hold. No-body to rest into. No sound to keep me sane. Standing, I walked over to the clock; how had it reached 6am? Then, down the stairs, I danced eerily, wasn't there something I had to do? My slippers tapped onto the steps and into my father's old workspace.

Here I found rope.

Tell me now, could a rope lead to hell? Perhaps I would merely knot the rope and leave? Surly a hook above my head would not lead to hell. Dangling before my face would point to hell, certainly, but not to drag me towards it. Then this hoop, a perfect circle inviting me in, promising me release.

Strange questions began to strut around my head. These questions surfaced onto my skin, like a rash in a red race. Acting like they had the answers, but would not dare tell someone like me.

Then I paused.

Then I walked away.

Next, a cold shower smothered my tender form. Small droplets upon my skin, my hands, my shoulders, my breasts, I was like a bright apple with a rotten core. Must wipe away apple, I told myself, I wouldn't want to lie.

Despite these thoughts, I place my favorite long blue dress around my shoulders and down my thighs. Then I moved.

I danced the stairway to hell with a slow demented rhythm. I was shaking, and the stairs were shaking with me in their laughter. My hands became damp, suddenly there was not enough air. I breathed in deeply, yet nothing would fill my lungs with breath. It became darker now as I stood upon the stool of death. My hands reached out, and like a necklace of brown, gold and silver I lifted this rope above my head. Like a halo, I told myself, as I pushed down upon my face.

To Hell I walk.

***

"Oh shit," thundering thumps and then hands upon my hips lifted me back to the stool from which I had just fell. Soon there was complete darkness. later, a soft wet cloth was dabbed upon my forehead. Warm helping hands hovered above me and then the sound of humming. The sweet hums of another floating around me.

"Your father gave me a key, lucky," spoke a familiar voice, "promise me you'll never do anything like that again." I was silent. What had I done to promise not to do? I felt the world's pieces coming back to me. Air. Breath. Smell. Aftershave.

"Promise me Faith." The voice insisted.

"Who are you?" I mumbled through a foggy of vision. Trying to focus on the figure before me. Trying to see through eyes that were as alive as they were dead.

"Isaac Charmer," He replied, "we spoke yesterday about your house." Isaac ran a hand through his hair charmingly.

"My house?" I frowned.

"Yes, the one you live in. Or rather, we live in." Hands helped me sit up, and I found myself in bed, under soft blankets I had never met.

"Where are my blankets?" I looked at him in a panic, which was shortly followed by anger. Who had told him to take my blankets? Those blankets were not his to take! He had no right to smear his fingers all over my sheets and impress his life upon them! They were mine. They were all I had left.

"They're in the laundry..." He glanced at my bedroom door and back at me, "these are my blankets here. Yours were dirty and"-

"They were my fathers." I looked tensely at the strange sheets smothering my body, "You shouldn't have taken them."

"I didn't take them," he looked at me just as crossly, "I just moved them."

"Fine. Why are you in my room- moving my blankets?" I crossed my arms accusingly but dared not to look into his eyes for the fear of intimidation.

"Because you fainted" he spoke defensively, "and I thought I'd put you back into bed." He seemed annoyed as he continued, "then when I saw the state of your bed, I decided to lend you my sheets." He stood up and waited for my reply, but I would not speak, I kept silent. "I'll be waiting outside."

***

I stood up and walked over to the mirror that held my reflection. A poor woman stared back at me. I made her look pretty again with lace and powder. A sad thing to think that one's heart couldn't wear clothes. That it too, could not be made to look anything but what it was. Broken.

Then I thought of the angry man outside. I moved to open my door and look at this stranger closely. "Tell me again why you are here," I spoke sharply through my teeth.

"I live here," he held up some documents, "your father asked me to live here with you after he..." I snatched the paper out of his hands and frowned deeply.

"This is impossible." I shook my head.

"It was his dieing wish." He looked at me seriously, "I sold my house yesterday for him."

"And why do you care about my father? How do you even know him?" I squinted suspiciously.

"I helped him when he was in the retirement home. And we... bonded." He spoke and I laughed at him.

"You bonded? You're a nurse." I thought back to the nurses who promised me they'd save my father, and then didn't. The little people, who must have thought only of themselves, as they walked around the dying flesh of my father's body. The dying eyes that could never watch over me. The glimmer of the blue and green haven, my father's vision, all dead. "I don't believe you." I stated firmly.

"Why? Because you think I'm a nurse?" he lifted his eyebrows, "I volunteered to work there. I'm really a dancer." I held the paper back out to him.

"You should leave now." I told him.

"I can't do that." He shook his head, "and unless you want to leave me homeless, then neither can you."

***

That night I cried for my father again. Hours pranced passed while I continued in this demented waltz of grief.

I needed a drink.

Shivering in my light blue nightie I tiptoed toward the kitchen so that I wouldn't wake the man next door. Shadows watched me from every corner, whispering that release was only a jump away-

"When was the last time you slept a whole night?" Isaac was sitting at my kitchen table with a glass of milk.

"Why are you up?" I demanded as if he wasn't allowed to be so.

"I could ask you the same thing," he smiled, "what are you thinking?" Isaac sat there looking dangerous with his dark hair and light complexion in the shadows- and he was in my way!

"I'm thirsty." I filled a glass of milk.

"You seem troubled," he sighed and looked away.

"Maybe I am troubled." I sat opposite him and looked into his eyes to see what he was thinking. I looked and froze. Green and blue flecks of light seared though the foggy clouds in my mind. I shook my head, thinking myself silly, and looked away.

"What's wrong?" he asked me carefully.

"Nothing," I lied. "We barely even know each other," I spoke with a harsh tone, then looked again, into the blissful composition of his gaze. I felt my stomach turn in confusion. Here sat a man, alive, staring into my soul. His eyes seemed to be pleading, asking me to seek the wistful rhythm of his own peaceful dance. If I dared abandon my own waltz to hell.

"You really are more beautiful than I imagined," Isaac spoke softly.

"What?" I dared ask him to repeat.

"I said"-

"I know what you said." silence.

Isaac moved his chair around so that he could look closer. He had come too close, in every sense of the word. I was meant to be away from the sounds. From the places where little people could touch my heart with their false promises. I was meant to be away.

"I'm going to watch over you." Isaac simpered. My eyes widened at his choice of words. Noting my shocked expression, he explained, "I just mean, after how I found you."

"Stop lying," I felt my eyes begin to water.

"Lying?" He raised his eyebrows.

"Yes, lying," I stood and walked over to the opposite wall. Creating some space, "No one is 'watching over' me! That's a lie!" I lent my full weight against that wall. Hoping it would collapse and swallow me. Taking me where I belonged; Far away from this man.

"Faith," he began to walk towards me as I began to slide towards the floor. Another desperate attempt to be swallowed by my surroundings, "I'm not lying."

Isaac sat down next to me. Meeting me where I was. Then I turned to look into the sincere eyes of this man. I felt my resolve crumble. I felt the pain seep from my core as release fell upon me. It was almost as if my soul was alight in grief, overflowing, a waterfall.

"I think I've drunken too much," I whispered, looking down at my toes and curling them tightly.

"You've been drinking milk," Isaac pointed out and then reached for my hand.

He reached for my hand. Touched me. I wasn't trying to be touched. I didn't want to be a part of this space again. Not contact. Not life.

I made a few vowel sounds, soft whimpering noises, and then shivers stroked my spine. His expression softened as he moved closer in on me, with an embrace like a coat of warm honey, over my soul. The laughing shadows that surrounded me were quietened by the gentle hum of this stranger.

Isaac took my hand and stood, pulling me up, holding my weight for me. He smiled encouragingly and started to sway back and forth. Just slightly. A little to the left, then a little to the right. Backing away from the wall, from the shadows, he continued to sway.

I looked up at him then and wondered if I had the strength to keep up with him. Was I prepared to go the distance?

"Step onto my feet," he spoke as if he had read my mind. So I did.

That's when my rhythm became entwined into his. My feet found time again as this man and I danced with a tender force. It was here, within this new dance of strength and grace, that I knew hell wasn't worth the walk. It wasn't worth the demented waltz, or the warped halo, for my father was watching over me. He had found me again in the presence of another. A man he had sought to watch over me for him.

It was here, in the arms of this stranger, where I discovered that I had made the mistake, and not the world. The world had nothing to do with death; death was beyond this world. And while some may have found themselves confused, seeking this walk to hell, they would never break free of their sorrows. They would only be freezing it in time. For the only way to leave sorrow, I see now, is to walk through life.

Or in my case, dance.