The Silent Room

Love's golden arrow at her should have fled,
And not Deaths ebon dart to strike her dead
~William Shakespeare

The room was silent. Not one of the watchers said a word. No one moved.

It was about three o’clock in the morning, and the only light visible seeped in through an open window. The cold of winter crept in with the moon’s pale, feeble light, and a slight breeze brushed against the deep red curtains hanging over the glass.

The room was empty, except for a single bookshelf against the back wall, and a desk sitting in the centre of it. Papers littered the desk, and books had fallen off onto the wood-lined floor. Water lay drenching some of the papers, and its broken glass was scattered around the desktop.

But in the dark of the night, one could see dark stains splashed over the floorboards. An inestimable stench hung over the room like a burial shroud. It was not a normal odor, drawn in through the nostrils and sense of smell, but rather an intense feeling of unease and disquiet. The stench of death.

Lying over the dark stains was a body. The stains seemed to emanate from a dark hole in its head. A gun lay, still smoking, in an open hand.

As a single, silent tear made it’s way down one woman’s face, her husband moved over to the table. Only two people were in the room besides them.

The man’s steps were all that could be heard in the still night air, but they were desperately loud, fighting the cold, quiet darkness.

His hands moved over a note on his son’s desk, and he picked it up. He stood in silence, reading for a few short minutes, though they seemed like hours. When he had finished he dropped the note, and he turned away and screamed. The agony he felt came through in that one single moment. In that instant, a million thoughts flashed through his mind, every one of them incriminating. There was so much he felt he could have, should have, done. So much he felt he should have said, and so much lifeless Jack needed to hear.

As he screamed, the dam holding back his wife’s tears broke, and she fell to the ground sobbing as though she’d been slain. Their other two children rushed to comfort her, though they did not understand.


Dear Mother, Father, Damien, Catie

You never knew because I didn’t tell you. I never told you, because I was afraid. And now it is too late. Too late, because by the time you’ve read this I will have disposed of God’s only mistake. Me. Yes, me, the only thing that God ever made poorly.

I just want to thank all of you who tried to help. Even though it didn’t work, you tried your hardest and I respect that. Tell Rebbecca it was all just a dream. Maybe she’ll realize how much she misses me now I’m truly gone.

In closing, I love you all, so, so much. Sorry about the mess.

Yours truly,
Jack Bennet


***

I guess the bottom line is this: Think twice before you do something you won't live to regret. If you need help, get it. Don't try and fight on your own, because you'll lose. And the loss will be felt by your friends and family, those who love you.

You have a father in heaven. And He loves you. I don't know who you are or what your story is, but I want you to know that if you've been running from Him until now: Just throw yourself into His arms. He will hold you up and sustain you, and He will never let you go.

I love you.

The Raven

The raven looked on in silence from his dead tree, unsure what to make of the dark spectacle below him. The rain poured endlessly off the church's roof, splashing and dancing in the mud-bathed graveyard outside it. The clouds were hanging low that night, hugging a certain young woman in their cold embrace. She knelt in front of a newly-placed headstone, freshly engraved with her lover's name. It had not been in place long enough for time to have its effect on the dark, rugged beauty of the simple masonry. 'Sam Devonshire: Beloved friend, brother, uncle and son. R. I. P.'

A single cold tear trickled down the woman's face, but the sad raven could not tell it apart from the rain. Unashamed of mud, and unafraid of wet, the woman could do nothing but kneel. And every time she thought of her now dead lover, a fresh portion of her heart died within her breast. The raven cast his eye on the pistol that lay in the womans hand, and he gave a squawk.

The woman picked it up, and looked at it almost longingly. She raised it up, and held it against the side of her head. She pulled back the hammer, and rested her fingers against the trigger.

There was a loud 'bang' that shattered the steady monotony of the rain. There was a scream, a squawk, a flash of blackness, and a puff of smoke. The sextan gave a start, surprised by the unexpected gunshot. He looked out of a small window in his office, and saw the young woman fall to the ground, and the gun flew out of her lifeless hand.

He grabbed his coat off the back of his chair, and ran outside, calling the preacher as he did so. He splashed through the mud and the rain to where the woman lay, and he knelt at her side. He felt her pulse, and saw that it was going strongly. The woman opened her eyes, and looked into his. The sexton noticed a profuse lack of blood, and he closed his eyes in relief.

***

The woman did not know why she had survived her own suicide, and the sexton and the preacher put it down to God's grace. But five years later, the woman and her new husband visited the church to see the place where God had decided to spare her life, and save her from herself in her darkest hour.

As they walked under the raven's dead tree, they heard a squawk, and looked up. The same raven flew down from his perch, and winged around the couple a few times. He finally came to rest on the woman's shoulder, and almost lovingly caressed her neck with his beak.

In that moment, she knew that the Lord had sent the raven. The raven had knocked the pistol from her hand at just the right moment.