Cursed

It has been almost fifteen years since she passed away, but I still hear her cheery voice echoing in my ears. Her haunting voice reminds me of the good old days, when we were hopelessly in love. I remember the sweet, flowery kisses she bestowed upon me. She always started from my forehead, her delicate lips tracing my prominent, innumerable creases. She would then gently move down to my nose and then teasing my thirsty lips, ignoring them, she would move to my cheeks. At this point, infatuated by her seductive fragrance, hungry for a taste of her sensual lips, I would reach for them, like a starved wild animal. She accepted them kindly, imparting her luscious nectar, satisfying my appetite. She would then move away. Her hazel eyes sparkled in excitement with her lips curled in a smile. ‘Incorrigible’, she would call me. Oh Ramona! What happened to us? Why, oh, why, did I kill you?

We were happy together, forging unforgettable memories, clowning around the world making it jealous of our love and luck, laughing as we did so. The more I think about it, the more certain I am that a sadistic abhorrer of true love, envious of our fortune, of our passion and devotion to each other, cursed us. Our dreams of spending our lives together, in each other’s embrace, embosomed by the love we shared, were short-lived. 

Change is the only certainty in life. As the son of a poor, unemployed drunkard, I had never lived in a house with more than a room, which I inherited after my indolent father’s death. After marriage, Ramona moved in with me, forsaking her wealth and her comforts, all in a hope to lead a life with the love of her life. I couldn’t be happier but in my heart I feared I might not be able to provide for her. I might not be able to keep her happy.

When the opportunity to move to a grand estate in the outskirts of the country came knocking, I did not think twice. Her great grand uncle had bequeathed it to her favourite, simpleminded niece who had married below her stature. I didn’t care. She could now live in a house commensurating with her personality. I felt a little relieved, slightly unburdened. At least, she did not have to live like a pauper, though she was staying with one.

Things started to look up. My garage started to do well. I was well and truly bringing home the big bucks. Ramona’s covetous friends returned and although she did not agree, they made her happy. Her mother and her sisters had forgotten all about their deleterious altercations and were once again amicable with one another. The shift to the baronial house had been for the good. Or so I thought. 

A year passed and Ramona was pregnant with our first child. The glow on her face was bedazzling. The thought that I could be happier than I already was seemed ridiculous and yet with the anticipated arrival of our child, I experienced the emotions of euphoria which I never had experienced before. I was thankful to the lord almighty for my darling wife. I was filled with gratitude for our blessed child. For a fleeting moment, our joy knew no bounds. Friends and family congratulated us, sharing in our blissfulness, I promised myself and to Ramona that I would be a great father, the best of the lot and our child would want for nothing, ever.

On a day like any other, I returned home carrying a bouquet of freshly plucked orchids, an insignificant gift in return for all the delights my wife had given me. She was nowhere to be found. I called for her and then searched for her. My anxiety increased, as I completed my uneventful search, combing through every empty room. I shouted her name a few times, hoping she would answer, but in vain. I stepped outside the house, into the verdant, magnanimous gardens of the estate. There she was. She was facing the expansive woods, away from the house. Wiping the sweat away from my face, drastically relieved, I walked over to her. She was sitting with her legs spread out to her sides, slightly bent at the knees. She would have surely heard me approach but she didn’t turn. The relief of finding her turned into apprehension. I walked a bit faster, then ran trying to reach her as quickly as I could. I was held in my tracks, a few feet away from her. She was bleeding. A consistent stream of red maligned her otherwise untainted, white gown and formed a small puddle next to where she was sitting. I feared the worst. 

I stepped across her and sat down on the ground facing her. She was sobbing silently. Her hair was in shambles. Tears glazed her face, shining in the moonlight. She did not react on seeing me. Her eyes were aimless, her thoughts were somewhere else. She had placed one of her hands on her bleeding stomach and clutched the end of her gown with the other. I shook her gently. Her eyes focussed on me. A moment later, she burst out crying, rivers of tears flowing down her beautiful face. She covered her face with her hands and rested her head on my chest. I let her cry. I teared up. I knew what had happened. All my joys had been snatched away from me. I was foolish to think that a person with my luck could ever be fortunate. But for a brief period, I genuinely thought I could lead a happy life.

‘How did it happen?’ I asked, not sure if I wanted to know.

She stayed silent. I had not expected an answer. She inhaled deeply, bringing her sobbing to a pause, looked up into my eyes and with a determined face, spoke. ‘The demon took away our child.’ Her voice was as low as a murmur. She choked while speaking, causing her to swallow hard.

I held her tighter. She was obviously recovering from her loss. This was not the time, nor the place. We stayed there for a while. Once her exhaustion had put her to sleep, I carried her inside. I changed her bloody clothes, cleaned her and laid her on the bed. I walked back outside and fell down to my knees. With no one to judge or witness, I let out my grief. I howled in the dark of the night, like a wolf mourning, letting the world know of my loss. No one heard me. I slapped myself, banged my head on the ground. My tears didn’t cease. I stayed out there cursing my God, my fate, that had tainted my loving wife.

Time is supposed to heal all wounds. But for us, time didn’t exist anymore. We were never able to emerge from the caliginous depths of our grief. Our near and dear ones tried their best to help us overcome our afflictions, but soon, one after the other, they gave up sensing no improvement. We were left alone. My once cheerful wife never smiled anymore. She was living in a haze, numb to her surroundings. She stopped acknowledging my presence in my house, calling sometimes for her dead baby. I prayed religiously for her recovery, to the God responsible for these torments, promising everything I had in return.

On that fateful evening, I returned from the church to find Ramona sitting on a lounge chair cradling a doll. She was humming cadently. She saw me and smiled for the first time in months. Her smile stretched from ear to ear. 

‘Look honey,’ she said, ‘our child has been returned to us. Look. Look.’ Ramona stood up and walked towards me, displaying the doll.

I did not know how to react. Months had passed by, but Ramona had shown no signs of healing. Her mental state had degraded further. I could not allow her to break further. I could not lose her.

‘It’s a doll, darling. It is only a doll. Our child is dead.’ I said, clutching her shoulders, shaking her, trying to bring her out of this maddening daze.

She looked at me thoughtfully. She stood attentively as if listening to someone. 

‘No!’ she shouted suddenly. ‘I will not kill him. He is my everything.’ Ramona wasn’t speaking to me. Was there someone else in the room with us?

‘No! No! No!’ she kept repeating. She had started to cry. I stood still in a state of utter incomprehension and confusion.

Ramona turned away from me and made her way to the kitchen, constantly bobbing her head. I followed.

Upon reaching the kitchen, she placed the doll on the black granite slab and pulled out a chef’s knife from the stand. She held the knife with her thumb resting on its hilt. Turning back towards me, without any warning, she attacked me, driving the tip of the knife towards my face. At the last moment, I dodged the attack, falling backwards. I was on the floor, with my hands raised in defence. Ramona attacked again, this time slicing the skin from the side of my palm. Blood gushed out hastily, blemishing the tidy white floor. I crawled backwards, wincing in pain. Ramona jumped forward, holding the knife with both her hands, aiming at the top of my head. I kicked at her blindly. My leg made contact and I saw Ramona being hauled back with the force of my hit, crashing against the corner of the preparation slab. She fell.

I did not waste any time. I got up hurriedly and sat on top of my wife, impeding her efforts to recover from the hit. I held her hands and tried to pull the knife away. She held onto it with an iron grip. I met her eyes and failed to recognise any essence of her. This was not Ramona. She had taken advantage of my distraction and was forcing the knife into my stomach. With a loud gasp, I let loose my grip and the knife came towards me unhindered. At the exact same moment, I jumped backwards and the knife plunged itself in my wife’s stomach. She gave a blasting shriek. Unconsciously, setting aside any remorse, I pulled the knife out of my wife's stomach and burrowed it in her face.

The eyes that I had failed to recognise looked at me in shock. This time, I recognised her. She was not in pain. They were expressing gratitude. Her eyes displayed her affection and her gratefulness. Staring deep into my eyes, my wife breathed her last.

It has been fifteen years since that day and every single night, I grieve for the loss of my beautiful wife and our child. I spend my nights lying next to my wife’s grave cherishing our unfulfilled dreams, praying to the deaf God to return my soul to me.