Dusty Old Bones

Plumes of dust flitted through the ghost of the man’s boot steps as he walked over the old hardwood floor. Carefully, he knelt down on arthritic knees, aching slightly from the strain. He ignored the pain, lifting up the floor boards to reveal a ghastly white skeletal face. Almost all of the meat from the bones have long rotted away, devoured by the hungry mouths of bacteria, rats, and insects. Some bits here and there still clung to her ribs and hips, but they too would soon be gone. Gingerly he lifted her skull from her improvised tomb and brought it to his face, gazing through the empty holes where one brilliant green eyes had looked back at him. As he he had done before, and will do again, he brought her decayed teeth to his lips in a gentle kiss. Cradling her in his arms, he stood back up and walked to an old wing backed chair covered in plastic. Resting himself, he produced a stainless steel flask of whiskey from the breast pocket of his Carhartt chore coat. The farm had failed years ago, the land so dry and empty that even now, a decade later, the bank had still found no one else to buy it. He came here about once a month, to share a quiet drink with his beloved wife. He always loved her dearly, and likewise he knew he would maintain that love until his own death.

Pouring a glass for himself, and a smaller one for his love, he sat still for some time before taking the first sip. The liquor burned his lips and left a dull, earthy taste in his throat. Where once he sat and drank fine scotch, next to the fire, his wife no doubt consumed in some old Agatha Christie novel beside him he now shamed himself with cheap bottom shelf swill. This was no Laphroaig single malt, no, some blended – vaguely whisky flavored grain liquor. Still, it got the job done all the same, he figured. He’d had to make a lot of life style changes since everything went under. He spends his days restocking shelves at the local grocery store, and every month he wonders if he will be on the street by the next.

A decade ago, they were the perfect picture of American mid-west success. Their children played with wooden swords and hand sewn dolls stuffed with corn husks. He had a few migrant workers who would help during the harvest seasons, and his wife made extra money on the side teaching the local children to play piano. One terrible year, the corn simply did not grow. They couldn’t understand why, they had done everything right – adequate fertilization, plenty of water, good seed – everything. But it didn’t grow. The next year, it didn’t grow again. When you live the life of a farmer, you’re only ever really one bad crop away from destruction, and his family had survived two. “Why don’t you look for work somewhere in town?” His beloved suggested. It made him furious. He doesn’t work for other people, other people for him. Why would she emasculate him like this? It wasn’t enough that his crops failed – no – she wanted his balls, too! Or at least, that’s what it felt like to him at the time. If he could go back and do it all over again, he would. He would go into town and get a job just like she asked – just like he would eventually do anyway.

The fighting went on for weeks as the accounts at last drained to nothing. The children had fallen ill – a case of the mumps that just wouldn’t leave the poor things. They suffered for some time before they finally died. He struck his wife for the first time ever, on the car ride home from the funeral. She suggested he find work again. Without thinking, he threw his arm back and cracked her across the face with the back of his hand, his knuckles bursting the blood vessels in her nose and causing blood to stream out of her, mixing with her tears. They were both silent the rest of the way, but he did feel bad. Not bad enough to apologize of course – he was a man after all, and men don’t apologize.

Not long after, he woke up early with the sun just rising outside of the bedroom window. He felt renewed – for the first time in months, he was actually in a good mood. With a sudden change of heart, he whispered, “You know, maybe I could go work at the hardware store or some-” but he was talking to no one. As he opened his eyes he realized his wife was no longer in bed with him. Unusual, he is normally the first one awake. Shambling down the stairs he saw her carrying a large duffel bag outside to her car. “What are you doing?” he asked – begged, really – as he already knew. “It’s over” she said. “Please don’t make this worse, Peter. I’m sorry.” Her eyes were sad and distraught, but he could see that she meant it. He pleaded with her not to do this, not to leave him. If she left, he would have absolutely nothing anymore. “We already lost everything, dear” she whispered. “It’s time to let go. It’s time to move on.” But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. This was the final straw, the final emasculation that she would make him suffer

It was like watching himself from afar – he could see his body moving but he was not really in control, as his rough hands closed into fists, which came crashing down on to the top of her head. “What the fuck are you doing!?” she screamed as he struck her again, this time hooking her jaw on the right side. She crumbled to the ground, unconscious. He kicked her face in bare feet, her teeth scraping his toes causing him pain. He shouted and became more enraged, stomping her neck with the full weight of his body. He felt her spine snap and knew immediately that she was dead.

As the memories flooded back to him, sitting in that old chair staring at her fractured skull. Her eye sockets glared at him with hatred as hot tears streamed down his face. He ruined everything, and there was no coming back from this. Finishing his glass, he dumped hers over her face, the alcohol staining her face and washing the dust away, pooling on to his worn out jeans. He brought her skull to his lips once more and kissed her for the last time. “I’m so sorry”, he whispered. The ghost of her face saying back to him, “I don’t forgive you”. Digging in his pocket, he pulled out his old Buck folding knife. He told her he would always love her, and then opened his wrist length wise up his left arm, then his right, and finally he cut into what he was pretty sure was his jugular vein, just under this right ear. As the acidic scent of iron filled his nostrils and the warm, wet blood streamed across his back and chest, he closed his eyes, and tried to remember when she was happy. His last thought was of her face, violent and full of hate, just before he struck her for the last time.