The Final

My darling sat by his reading table banging away at his typewriter day and night. He was on a deadline, or at least that's what he told himself. A Styrofoam filled with coffee sat not too far from his right elbow; a pencil rested at the nook of his left ear, and a cigarette dangled from his lips while his hands remained busy stomping on those keys like an accountant tallying his records.

He seemed not to notice my presence even though I was there with him all through, from beginning to the bitter end. I remained steadfast with him, even when he chose to ignore me whenever I called out to him to take a break. Sometimes I tried some means of distracting him, of getting his attention. I opened the connecting door to the living room and searched through his records for something loud and aggravating to the ears. I would play it on the vinyl player and crank up the volume. At first he acted impervious to it, then in a fit of stoic anger he would get up and slam the door to his library close and turn the lock. He would remain in there till the late hours of the night before coming out and lighting a candle to take upstairs to his bedroom. Sometimes I lay in his bed waiting for him. Other times I stayed in the guest bedroom down the hall from his, preferring to leave him alone till morning.

Morning would arrive and it would be the same thing all over again: me coming down the stairs just as the first cock crowed and meeting him there in the kitchen fixing himself a sandwich while a kettle steamed on the stove.

"Morning," said I to him.

"Morning to you," he mumbled with a mouth full of bread.

"How's the work coming along?"

"Fine."

"Think you'll be done by the end of the fall?"

"Don't know. We'll see."

And that's just about all he would say to me. Done with his sandwich, he would make himself his coffee then leave me to myself and go into his library. The electricity was never steady. Some days we didn't have any at all, and those days were worse for me as I couldn't watch anything on the telly. All I'd be left with is either taking a nap, reading a book, going to sit outside or take a walk into town while he remained in his library banging away at his machine.

He wasn't always a taciturn fellow though he was a secretive one. Some days you never knew what to expect of him. One time while I was in town buying items at the market to make dinner with, I heard someone mention he was at the tavern drinking palm wine. This I needed to see for myself. He seldom ventured into the town and the few times he did, the last place you'd expect him to be at was the tavern where old men sat under the eaves exchanging tobacco smoke and yammering about how dire life was while watching urchins play in the street. They were all in the tavern seated in a circle around him, all ears listened to whatever he was saying while the bartender discharged beers from his counter. I watched him spill jokes and yarn with the tavern's occupants before hurrying for him. He'd locked his library, just as I'd expected, as if he knew I was going to want to take a peek at whatever it was he was writing that he just didn't seem to want to share with me.

I was in the kitchen making a stew and the sun was starting to go down when he returned. I asked how his day had been and he muttered his typical fine then went and unlocked his library door and stepped inside.

Once we used to be lovers. When that part of our life ended I was least aware of it, except I woke up one morning and realised he seldom touched me anymore. A long time ago he composed sonnets in my name, and always he welcomed me with a tray of breakfast and a kiss in the morning. I can't remember the last time he did any of such to me. Too many times I've tried getting back some measure of feeling into him. Once I'd even jumped on him at night, but he'd knocked me off from the bed and turned on his other side facing the wall and slept off. Could it be he'd caught a rare form of cold? I'd gone into town to see the doctor about this, but he couldn't offer any better explanations.

It was around that time he'd begun writing his book, or whatever it is. Four months have passed since then and he'd remained like he was with no change at all.

I could have left him. Nights and days have gone past when I didn't seriously think about packing up a bag and leaving him to be alone with his newfound self. It felt so easy a thing to do ... but I couldn't. In the end, when I'd really had it up to my neck with the bastard, I couldn't make myself open that door and step out into a new life. I still loved him, and I know he loved me too. He was just going through some sort of rough patch and figured ignoring me was the least way he could handle it. At least that was what I told myself; there wasn't anyone else around whom I could shoot the breeze with to know if I was the one who truly needed to go see a doctor and not him.

There were occasions when he remembered I was there with him. Some mornings I woke up to the scent of a cup of tea on the cabinet by my side of the bed. One night while in bed I felt him nuzzling my ear. It felt ticklish and really what I wanted to do was turn over and pulled his face down to mine. Except I didn't do that; I wanted to see where he was going. A minute later he stopped and returned to his side of the bed and that was just about the end of it.

Still I remained with him. The days came and went just like the night.

Then one morning the inevitable happened: he finished his book.

I was upstairs in the bathroom doing the laundry when he hollered my name. First thought that came to my head was that he'd injured himself, so I dropped the soap and scuttled out of the bathroom and rushed downstairs. He was waiting for me in his library, like I expected he would be anywhere else, with a look of happiness on his face.

"I've finished the book!" he cried out at the same time waved his fists in the air with his manuscript in one of them. "I've finally finished it bloody book!"

"Congrats, darling," said I. "So, what next?"

I probably shouldn't have said that. The moment I did, the happiness on his face instantly went away, replaced by the sad look of a man who couldn't contemplate the future anymore. He stood there by the doorway of his library staring at me, but not really seeing me. His features contemplative as he looked at the manuscript papers in his hand.

"I don't know ... I didn't think. I guess it's the end."

I was about calling out to him, asking what he meant by that when he took a step back into the room and closed the door before I could. I came and tried the handle but it was locked. I got angry and slapped my palm repeatedly on the door and yelled for him to come and unlock it. Then I heard a gun go off and I jumped away from the door and screamed. The sound came from inside his library, and there was no way I could get inside.

I went out of the house and tried climbing to the room's window. I yelled out his name when I saw his body lying on the floor with a pool of blood flowing from a hole in his head; his manuscript papers lay scattered about him. I fell off the window and ran like a mad woman towards the town, screaming for help at the top of my lungs.

His death was instantaneous, the doctor declared after examining him. For weeks and weeks I wept, unable to be consoled. His funeral came and went and I managed everything, shook hands and exchanged hugs with his friends and family, and when people from the town came to pay their respects, I stood with his mom accepting their condolences.

A month had passed since he died, and the rains have begun showering. I've closed up his library, never wanting to set foot in there ever again. Maybe someday when I'm strong enough to really let go of him, I will put the house up for sale. For now it is my refuge; my only sanctuary. It is the only thing I have that keeps the memory of him alive in my head.

I kept his finished manuscript with me. I have never read it, and I don't think I ever intend to. Nor do I intend showing it to anyone at all. So it will remain until the ink on it fades away. With time I know it will.