(A work in progress. Magical realism.)

I believed that when Evelyn died my heart would freeze over, ceasing even its mechanical, biological function. I remember my breath stopping, and that final trail of white vapor rising from my open mouth, while standing on the frigid Potomac riverside. I couldn’t feel my pulse, or hear a beat. My future closed in around me to extinguish before my eyes. The minutia of everything sensory was instantly time-stamped: the paint-cracked, ice-covered railing clenched in both hands: the smell and taste of pure ionic air, the muted traffic sounds absorbed by the freshly fallen snow, and the wide bands of slowly drifting icy currents just inches from my feet.

My life would not, could not, go on without her. My only thought was to follow her, then and there, as fast as possible, so I wouldn’t lose sight of her behind death’s veil.

But that frozen moment pulled away, receding from my grasp, a lucid memory that I could play over and over, like now, but never be able to act upon. I remember the humiliation I felt as I stepped back from the railing. All my senses sprung into action at once, ignited like a great gasoline bomb, encompassing me totally in its asphyxiating shroud. The sudden flow of tears weakened my knees and brought me down into the snow. I had finally cried. The tears came from desperation, agony, and shame. I was crying for myself because I couldn’t follow her.

Now, how lame is that?

And now, ten years later, my opportunity for redemption is at hand, and I should be rejoicing the forthcoming reunion with the truest love of my life. If they could only see the subtle smile lighten my face, it would haunt them every day after until they surrender their own souls to heaven or hell.

My heart shouldn’t be trying to jump from my chest. My sweat shouldn’t be flowing in noxious vapors that even I can smell now. Surely my legs have given way by now, so I should be thankful for the binding ropes across my chest. The noon day sun roasts my skin through my wet clothes, but the burlap hood over my head actually cools my face as the slight breeze and my breath gently waft it around. Crystals of light pierce through the weave, at turns, blinding me in brilliant white, or giving me a momentary glimpse of the six men opposite me with rifles raised.

I think about a little laugh that would suddenly escape my lips, and have them all wondering who this madman really is that could find levity in the face of death, but it lasts only second and was, after all, only a thought. I am much too scared to even move.

The images filtering through the billowing hood create their own verisimilitude. The rifles appear to be pointing at the ground now, as a large powerful shape moves toward me and blocks out the light. I can feel the man’s breath at the side of my face, through my hood, before he speaks. I can smell his breakfast of eggs and coffee. I have fifteen seconds to live, and now I’m hungry.