Sleepe After Toyle (standard:drama, 872 words)
Author: James C. Bernthal	Added: Mar 17 2004	Views/Reads: 4042/2252	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Told from the perspective of a murdered man. It's a bit strange, really. I am experimenting genres - Please leave feedback!

SLEEPE AFTER TOYLE 

Sleepe after toyle, Port after stormie sees, Ease after warre, Death
after life... Does greatly please. (Edmund Spenser) 

******************************************** 

I got married on Tuesday.  I got divorced on Wednesday.  I died on
Thursday. 

I first met Emma on the Monday.  We fell in love; we married the next
day, pulling necessary witnesses off the streets.  We had a row, 
skipped the honeymoon.  We were divorced the next day. 

I went to my house the day after our divorce, and found Emma.  She wore
a tyrannical smile, and was playing with the front door keys. 

I asked what she was doing here.   She smiled.  I told her to leave. 
She indicated behind me.  I swirled round.  She laughed.  I said, 
“There's nothing there.”  She produced a revolver.  I stepped back.  
She pulled the trigger... 

As I fell to the floor, I lost any feeling in my feet first of all. 
Then, pain, as if I was being ripped apart from the soul.  I think I 
gasped “Emma”, as I grabbed the air a few feet in front of me, and lay 
down on the dingy grey carpet. 

********************************************* 

I am standing up.  It is the same dingy grey carpet, but not my lounge
any more.  I am in a wide room.  I have never seen this room before.  I 
am alone. 

But no...  Someone is with me.  No one I can see.  But someone is with
me.  They are walking beside me.  I am scared.  I am walking around the 
room, trying to loose this person.  They will not go.  I want to go 
away.  But there are no doors, no windows. 

I have to escape... 

I am pounding on the walls.  But they are not walls, I am not pounding
on them, I can't reach them – or anything.  The person is speaking, but 
there is no sound. 

Do you want to go back...? 

Yes!  I have to go back.  I'm not ready for this.  I'm too young...  I
am screaming until my lungs are exhausted:   “I WANT TO GO BACK!   I 
HAVE TO GO BACK!” 

I feel a curious sensation.  I am going back.  Red mist surrounds me,
dark colours engulf me. 

I am back.  I am in my house.  Although the person has gone, a figure is
standing in a laconic position.  I despise this person.  I wish this 
person dead.  I want this person to die. 

I want...  Myself... to die... 

The figure is me.  I am happy to have my revolver.  The feel of the
handle is reassuring.  I indicate behind myself, watch myself turn 
around.  I hold the firearm to myself with menacing nervousness.  I 
squeeze the trigger.  To watch myself fall to the floor in a flimsy 
fashion is a refreshing relief.  I can harm myself no more. 

I look down at the body, unsympathetically.  I snarl.  I don't know why
I snarl.  I don't want to snarl, but I have to. 

But now there is a dead body on my hands.  The agony on the pained
facial features makes me laugh, momentarily forgetting the problem 
faced by disposal.  I break open the floorboards.  It takes me three 
hours of toil.  I place my corpse underneath the boards.  I hide it.  I 
place the carpet over it.  That dingy grey carpet. 

It seemed typical of me to cause more trouble in death than in life,


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