A few hours ago, I came to the realization that I must be dead, for I think I can no longer feel nor touch. I hope my wife’s okay. I've been roaming our house for a while now but I can't find her. Every minute that passed, the house looked different than it was before. A dozen people walked in and a few are in the living room. Could Jane have invited them?
Nobody cared to visit us then even before I got sick. They called us The Two Evil Wives of Murphy Street, so often that I have almost sewn it into my hankie. Jane resisted, of course.
Maybe our neighbors rejoiced my death. Maybe they told Jane that she was free. But I know she loves me. She could never believe them. Though I remember her letting go of my hand when our neighbors covered their children’s eyes with disgust. Hatred was flaming in their stares. I didn't care. She did, sometimes, but she loves me.
The wall wasn't here a second ago, but I end up walking through, as I've been used to our hallway being here. As I walk up into the living room, I see several people following a man around. The man keeps calling my upholstery antique. “I just got them two months ago, you zounderkite!” He won’t listen but eitherway, he should see Betty's furniture next door, she has the old one, and hideous too.
White? What were they thinking? These white walls are too dull, why did they bother covering my olive green finish? I can't believe Jane allowed them to do this. Where is Jane? I've been looking for her all day but I can never find her. She even hid our wedding pictures. She must have been ashamed. We weren't allowed to marry but we had a wedding anyways by the lake where Jane and I loved to fish. Oh no, not the flooring! The ugly chenille carpet covered a portion of my beautiful oak wooden floors. I don’t remember much of what happened. I wish my wife was here to tell me. Within a second, two middle-aged men entered my property. They're very loud. They keep talking to their wonky devices. "Get out!" I yelled. But I couldn’t. It was as if I was trapped in sleep paralysis, with every scream translated into a slight whisper. I can't get out. I need to find Jane.
In the blink of an eye, the house we both built with love and patience was unbearable to see. None of the lights were fully-functioning at this point, though at least three light bulbs still blinked their way through multiple flickers, trying to resist its death. The white walls were now covered with mold and bugs of all kinds crawled inside and out. The cobwebs covered half of the rotten ceiling. The chenille carpeting is now partially torn and what’s left of it is covered in mud and dirt. She’s gone. She was long gone. I just didn’t realize. I’ve been losing track of time. For every single blink, there was new furniture, new walls, new faces roaming around. But it’s been a while and there’s nobody.
Kenopsia. That's it. Jane loved that word. But now, there are no annoying children hopping out the backyard, no groups of people looking around. Just more of this house getting older and darker, and here I am. Betty once said that death was “heaven, for the lucky, with foods of all sorts, because God loves us. You two, however, will surely go to hell.” Death is neither. At least for me. It’s just cold, sad, dark, and lonely, looking into a world that shifted each time you blinked. A world you could never control, not one tiny bit. My existence is irrelevant. Nothing can save me now. If pain is what eliminates suffering then so be it. I am starting to think that maybe hell wouldn’t be so bad after all.
