Nos Da Cariad

He walked up the gravel path, knowing full well what was going to happen; he had walked this path thousands of times before, and would walk it thousands more before he died. He crunched up the path, eyes focused on the wooden door, but at the same time hovered outside his body, watching in expectant horror of what was about to come. He reached the door, and watched himself reach the door, and pulled out a small set of keys. He placed one in the lock, twisted and pushed the door open. He stepped inside the house and the watcher was suddenly pulled into his body. He had no control over what he was doing anymore, he never had, he just cowered inside his skin and waited for what was to come.1

His body stalked towards the kitchen. He prayed that tonight, he would do something different, like he prayed every night, but it was no use, it was never any use. He slid open a draw in the kitchen and withdrew a long-bladed carver’s knife. The light glinted off the blade with a hungry light. Inwardly he screamed, “Not again, please, please, not again!” but of course, his body took no heed.2

It crept up the stairs and silently pushed open one of the doors. He felt his arm move to conceal the knife behind his back. He sat down on the bed next to the sleeping form of a woman. He brushed a stray lock of hair away from her face and kissed her lightly on the lips. Inwardly, he was gibbering and screaming, pleading madly with his body, “don’t make me do it again, not again, not again!” but his body calmly said, “goodnight, my love. Nos da, Cariad.” His free arm pushed down her far shoulder lightly and he placed the cold steel of the knife against her throat. With one swift movement, he drew it across the white porcelain of her neck. Blood gushed from the wound, spilling across the bedsheets and across his own clothing. Her eyes opened and she struggled, but most of her life had already leaked away and he was able to keep her on the bed with his free hand easily. He watched her, his inner voice screaming, weeping and gibbering at the site of his wife, lying on the bed, life slowly rushing out of her body. As the last embers of consciousness faded out of her eyes, he suddenly regained control of his body. Sobs tore themselves out of his throat as he clutched her still body to his chest, “not again,” he whispered, “not again, not again,” his voice rose to a wild crescendo as he held her lifeless body.3

He ripped himself back to consciousness, the chains on his wrists and ankles biting into them as he strained to break free. Crazed sobs racked his whole body as he surveyed his room with wild eyes. He would try not to sleep, but in the end he would, and the dream would haunt his sleeping hours until he finally stopped his struggle with life and gave in to the cold, tender caress of death’s touch. He would walk the gravel path thousands of times more before he died…4