tagNon-EroticThe Disease Within

The Disease Within


I would like to thank Lady Christabel for another outstanding editing job.


He sat there, looking at the magazine in his hands. Should he, or shouldn't he?

Fighting the evil thoughts racing through his head. Should he, or shouldn't he?

Putting down the magazine, he leaned back and closed his eyes. Should he, or shouldn't he?

Trying his best to keep the evil thoughts at bay. Should he, or shouldn't he?

Picking the magazine up yet again, he slid it home. Should he, or shouldn't he?

Ring. Damn, there goes the phone. Why must someone call when he was in this state? Getting up from his chair, he padded barefoot into the hall, while the evil continued to pass through his sweat-drenched body.

"Hello." No one. Just a deadly silence. "Hello."

'Damn,' he thought as he slammed down the receiver. Right when he was about to end the pain, something distracted him. The evil still raced through him.

Returning to his chair, he reached for the object holding the magazine; but it wasn't there. Looking around in a panic, he tried to remember where he had laid it. He began sweating profusely. Shit, shit, shit, where was it? Running into the hall, he saw it lying on the table by the phone with the magazine beside it. He didn't remember carrying it with him to answer the phone and he was sure he slid home the magazine. The evil thoughts continued racing through his body. He had to end it today; the pain was too much to bear.

Once again returning to the chair, he slid home the magazine once again. Sitting back, he listened to Bach's "Violin Concerto No. 1 in A minor" and he tried to will away the pain and evil. However, even listening to the soft violins in the background, the pain was still tremendous. Why, of all days, did it hit so strong and stay with him as it had? Some days, pain was but a fleeting glance, and yet other days, it stayed for a few hours; but this day was the worst.

Should he, or shouldn't he?

He couldn't stand it. Should he, or shouldn't he?

The slide came back, locking the hammer in the rearward position. Should he, or shouldn't he?

The pain had to be stopped. Should he, or shouldn't he?

Ring, Ring.

This time it was the doorbell. Damn it. Who the hell was it now? He didn't want to be disturbed, so he stayed in his chair. Hopefully, whoever would leave.

Ring, Ring.

They were still there, shit. Getting up yet again, he walked to the door. Sweat still poured from his body. Turning the locks, he jerked open the door.

"What …" stopping abruptly in mid-sentence. There was no one.

Opening the screen door and stepping onto the stone threshold, he looked up and down the street. It was completely deserted. Swearing under his breath, he slammed the door, locked it again, and returned to his chair. When he reached toward the table beside his chair, his hand stopped in mid-air. It was gone. Jumping to his feet, he looked nervously around the room. He placed it on the table when the doorbell rang. He knew it was there, but now it is gone. Shaking nervously, he eagerly retraced his steps.

Nowhere along the path from his chair to the door did he find it. Damn, damn, damn. Where was it? Back and forth, he went - chair to door, door to chair. It was simply not there. He was now drenched in his own sweat. Standing by his chair, slowly turning to look through out the room, he could not find it. Rushing into the hall, he looked by the phone, still nothing. Where the hell did he put it? Going back to his chair, he over turned it to see if it may have fallen.

He began searching each room separately. Nothing, nothing, nothing. The last room he entered was the bedroom. Looking on top of the dressers, they were void of anything except necessities. Next were the drawers, and the regular place he kept it. Still nothing. After stepping from the walk-in closet, he stopped dead in his tracks.

The bed was unmade and rumpled. There on his recently deceased wife's side was that which he hunted.

The .45 automatic lay there, the magazine removed, and the one round meant for him that night rested atop of a piece of paper. Slowly, he walked to the side of the bed, and then sank to his knees as a silent tear trailed down his cheek. The paper was one he had buried with his wife just that morning. He put the paper in her hands, as they lay crossed over her heart; on it, a poem he found from an unknown author.

I Miss You

I miss you in the morning, dear,
When all the world is new;
I know the day can bring no joy
Because it brings not you.
I miss the well-loved voice of you,
Your tender smile for me,
The charm of you, the joy of your
Unfailing sympathy.

The world is full of folks, it's true,
But there was only one of you.

I miss you at the noontide, dear;
The crowded city street
Seems but a desert now, I walk
In solitude complete.
I miss your hand beside my own
The light touch of your hand,
The quick gleam in the eyes of you
So sure to understand.

The world is full of folks, it's true,
But there was only one of you.

I miss you in the evening, dear,
When daylight fades away;
I miss the sheltering arms of you
To rest me from the day,
I try to think I see you yet
There where the firelight gleams -
Weary at last, I sleep, and still
I miss you in my dreams

The world is full of folks, it's true,
But there was only one of you.

Picking up the magazine, he slid it home in the .45 one last time, this time empty. Walking into the closet, he locked it away, never to bring it out again. Folding the paper, he placed it in his wallet, and then went to clean the mess knowing his wife was once again with him.

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