I felt it even before I awoke. The gloominess arose slowly like the scent of cheap perfume on a woman; disturbing yet unavoidable. I refused to open my eyes. I feel it. I feel the sadness of a thousand deaths and I know I can’t hide in bed all day.
I open my eyes. The depression squeezes me; it smashes my heart as I get out of bed only to see a glimpse of happier times through a picture of us. We looked perfect. It was like a shot taken from a Hollywood movie. I had her in my arms with our faces cheek to cheek. We were just too perfect together. Nothing could ever bring us apart until that night…
My nostalgic trip down memory lane was cut short by a phone call. Mom called. She too sensed my depression. Well, with my attempted suicide a couple of years ago, Mom did not have to guess what kind of mood I woke up to today. Mom insisted I spend the day over at their place. The idea doesn’t sound half bad. A home cooked meal for a change. I assured her I was fine and will be coming after I finish doing my stuff.
As I stood in the bathroom I imagined how the bathroom used to smell. Rosewood, lemon grass and all other fancy scents she used to buy. I wept. I really couldn’t take it. I haven’t even brushed my teeth.
I walked out of the bathroom not even bothering to have the decency to cover myself in a towel. I had to find two of my best companions over these past eight years, Mr Jack Daniels and Mr Johnnie Walker.
I have to admit that they have brought me through all my hard times.
I turned on the television and flipped through the channels. I was hoping to watch some kind of lonely man comedy but all I got was talk shows. I hate them. Oprah’s show is such a drag for me to watch with all the mushiness radiating. I took another gulp of scotch and looked to the left. My guitar lay there ever so patiently and still tuned ever so perfectly. I picked it up and strummed E Minor, arguably the saddest chord in the repertoire.
As I hit the chord, grey pearls of my past burst in my mind, transforming my funeral themed room to a sunny day with an old oak tree in the middle, a picnic basket with food so much even gluttons cannot eat. I swear I heard her voice again. It was an angelic voice, which could make hell seem cheerful, even if it was just for one second. The best part about all this was she was there vivid and real, I can smell the white musk perfume that stole my heart.
The nostalgia was shredded by the reminder alarm from my mobile. It’s been ringing fervently this day every year for me to go to the graveyard. I have never done it. Somehow, I blame myself for what happened. The regret I have burns deep inside me till this very second. I have gone to the deepest depths just to see her again. I’ll say that the Spirit of the Coin game doesn’t work, neither does paying some shaman to contact her. I’ve even tried to sell my soul at some crossroads, like the Robert Johnson legend, but the devil never came.
