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It was cold, once I woke up, it was very, very cold. It was a dungeon, without the medieval sense of the word. A prison, but without the gift of food, without light or reason. It felt like night time but I could see the sunlight dripping through the poorly boarded-up window. The room was empty, not without furniture, but void of the human touch for years.
The crack of a gunshot shattered the silence.
"Damnit," a man muttered, a younger man sighed,
"I hear you haven't hit a single target since--"
"Well, you win," the first man said, rashly and simply.
The youth knew the terrible shooter wouldn't discuss the story the townsfolk kept repeating. The elder claimed he had something to do and although the other knew it was a lie, he said it was also his time to depart. With a pat on the back the older man walked towards his house, leaving the youth to gallop to town alone.
I heard him walk inside the house and knock gently on the door to the room I was in. I tried to call out but I could emit no sounds and wasn't sure of what words to say. I heard the key slide into the lock, then the bolt drew back and without a word the door was opened.
A man stood there, handsome but worn down. He was tall, and looked stern, was tanned but looked sad. The sunlight wrapped around his broad chest and streamed into the room. He gazed at it all longingly: the dust on the dresser after years of silence, the unmade bed after years of emptiness, the busted pipe of the wood stove after years of cold. Almost as if afraid to disturb the stillness, he placed one foot inside the room. He glanced around: the candle not lit for so long, the wardrobe left closed for so long, the handmade blanket tossed aside so long ago, never to warm another body.
He walked in further, then stopped and looked at the photos on the dresser. He picked one up and brushed off the years of dust. It was a younger version f himself, clean and well-kept. It showed him happy and holding the hands of a woman in a long, white dress. I do. A voice carried across the wind and reminded him of that day. He took a deep breath and put the photo down, then rushed away as fast as he dared. He looked back, his hand on the door, just one more sad, yearning look. He looked straight towards me as he pushed the door closed and then the bolt was slid back into place.
His boots sounded heavy on the floor as he walked away. I heard him pop the cork of a bottle of wine. He fell back suddenly and the sound of him back hitting the wall and him taking multiple sips of wine straight from the bottle frightened me. Then I heard his voice, a voice so familiar to me,
"I missed my target that day. I missed the target but I hit the bullseye of my life. I lost the game, and I lost my love."
I stumbled and sat down, my heart felt crushed as I heard how sad, lonely and guilt-ridden he was. I glanced at the door astonished as the sound of a bottle crashing to the floor rang through this old house. It was followed by an angry scream that held years of pain. If only I could find my voice, the things I would tell him. I would tell him I love him, that I'll never leave until I'm at heaven's gates with him by my side, that my love for him cannot change in a moment of human mistake. No matter his imperfections he was always perfect to me.
I do. The haunting echo came again. I wrapped my long, white dress around me. It was cold, once I lay down, it was very, very cold.
But, it was home.