Death Is Not My Enemy — The Broken

By Matthew Schmidt

Scratch marks blemish the walls and floor that surround her. Garments carpet the room, and  furniture is toppled. Some would call it insanity, but she calls it desperation. 

The woman herself is weak, no longer appearing strong enough to have caused the mess  surrounding her. She has not eaten for days and has not left the confines of the room for even longer. Her  torn dress reveals a prominent collarbone and ribcage, almost begging to burst through the tight skin. She  is sweating and shaking. She cries, and she screams. 

Save me. 

She glances at the door. It is not locked; in fact, it was once wide open, closed only by a pitying  passerby wishing to confine her wallowing to the interior. But her salvation does not lie beyond her self made cell. She calls out to beings that no one has ever seen: gods she lost faith in when her son’s life was  cut short by the man who claimed to love her. She scratches at the scars he had given her, not unlike the  marks she had left on the room. Not unlike the marks she had left on his back as she fought for her  innocence. 

But he was stronger. It was little consolation that her son had been the product of his wicked act. 

He was cunning, and she had let him manipulate her. He had pulled her close, wiping blood from  her lip. Shared kisses tasted of salt as tears ran down her cheek. The bleeding and bruises had almost felt  like love. She sometimes wishes she could return. Anything would be better than this desperate solitude. 

No. 

There is only one escape from this torment. She cries out to every god whose name she knows,  begging for release, for death. This time, a voice answers. 

“It is time.” 

The woman stills and glances desperately around her broken residence. The messenger is  nowhere to be seen. Still, she answers. 

“What took you so long?” 

“There was once a hope that remained for you,” the voice answers, “but you ignored its call.” Her eyes continue to dart around the room, unable to place the source of the voice. “I have been begging, praying, for ages!” she cries. 

“Rejoice now, then,” replies the voice. “It is over.” 

The woman does not smile until the room disappears from around her, fading into darkness. I am free.

By Matthew Schmidt