It's been two years since you left me, sweetheart.

Two years since the leukemia stole you away from me. All the promises we had made, to grow old together, to see the world, all gone. Now I'm sitting in bed, tired all the time. Everyone asks me if something's wrong, and I tell them "Of course something's wrong!" Most of them have stopped asking. Stopped calling around altogether.

I sit now, staring at the pictures of our wedding day. You were so beautiful, so unaware of what was to happen to you. A mystery lurking inside, as your own body betrayed you. I stare at the pictures and I weep for you. I know the grief will subside for me, and life will bloom once more. But for you, your emptiness and unfulfillment will last a lifetime. How pitiable death can be.


Today I went to the library, to get a book or two on death and grief. I didn't feel like coping by myself - maybe reading about it would detach myself from you. Instead, I found myself reading a book on voodoo and reanimation. About the ancient curses of the mummies of Egypt, the afterlife, mediums, seances, anything that gave me hope of seeing you again.

I can cope later.


You watch over me from the mantle as I pore through books, ancient books, grimoires full of mischief and witchcraft. Some of them promise they can bring you back to me. They say the most necessary ingredient is a believing spirit. As if I can will you back to me.

Tonight, I will try one of the spells.


By your graveside I sit. It is nearing midnight, the witching hour is at hand. I have gathered the materials, memorized the incantation. Soon you'll be returned to me, my love. Death shalt die!

I hear the church bells ringing. I am reciting the spell - I know it by heart, I learned it for you, to see your sweet smiling face, my lost angel - and pouring the mix on your grave. Come back to me! I'm here, I'm waiting for you! I need you!

Yes, you are alive again! The ground beneath me moves, rise to me! Come to me!

Oh no. Oh, God, no.

Your face, your beautiful face, what has happened to you? You've come back, but your body. Oh, God, what have I done? You're not my love! Why are you screaming at me? It's me, don't you remember me? Oh, my love, why, why, why did I do this? When they see what I've done - no that can't happen -

I must kill you again.

I'm strangling you (no, not you!) now, taking away the life I gave you. If only to stop you from screaming, put you out of your misery, what I have brought you into, my blushing bride, my sweetheart, my angel - !


I'm home again now. The books will go into the fire - I'll pay the fines. Everything is as it was. I buried you for the second time. There's too much shock - I wonder if the grief will return.

For the briefest moment, when I held you in my arms, before I killed you, I thought of our wedding night, when you had been so frightened of the experience, so new to the mysteries of love. And in the dark, you hadn't made a sound, but you were so alive then, you were a different person.

I look now at the pictures on the mantle, and it is still true. You're pretty when you're quiet.

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