My Girlfriend was thirty years old when the date of our wedding came, I was twenty seven. We had been planning to get married in secret for over two years, she even bought a dress. However I knew that it would never happen.
You see her parents were overbearing and wanted her to get married to a successful man, that I was not. Instead I was a struggling writer who earned commissions on an online website, living in near poverty. However she didn’t care about that, she just wanted to be with me.
I always knew that if we got married, I would have to take care of both of us, since we would be eloping. Meaning that I would have to give up my dream of being a successful author and get a real, soul draining job. So while I kept telling her I would marry her, and I truly wanted to, I knew at the end I wouldn’t go through with it.
A few days before we planned to run away together I came clean to her, I wanted to be with her, but I didn’t want to marry her right now. I couldn’t give up my dreams for her.
That was the end of it, I let go of her in that moment and unknowingly sealed her fate. A few months later she got married to some rich guy. Some kind of banker I think. I went on with life, getting over her like people do any relationship.
My girlfriend was thirty six years old when she ended her life. I had published two very mildly successful novels by that point. I only heard about her death through the papers. “New Haven Bankers Wife commits suicide”. They didn’t even mention her or how she ended her life, just her husband and his success.
I watched from a distance as she had a funeral fit for a queen, paraded Scottish music and a casket made of high quality materials. I cried that night more than I had ever cried before. Holding the pictures of the two of us when we were dating, that I kept hidden in a drawer. As time passed, again I slowly forgot about her.
My girlfriend would have been thirty nine years old when she returned to me. I was a successful author at this point with one of my books reaching the best sellers list and selling millions of copies. That night I lay in my mansion with nothing but success and no one to share it with. I cried again and said her name, and there she was.
Standing in front of me, looking at me with the soft eyes she always did. However this time her skin was bruised and had scars that looked like they were healed over. She sat on my bed and told me the story of what happened to her.
She married him, however she had always been in love with me. He didn’t give her the good life the papers claimed he did. Instead he was violent, abusive and always cheated. Eventually she couldn’t take it anymore and cut her wrists. Not slit, but instead meticulously carving my name into them.
We spoke all night and she explained how she could never find peace, before she left when the sun rose. Being the exaggerative writer I was, I assumed it was because her husband was still alive. So I spent the next year meticulously planning how I would kill him.
My girlfriend would have been forty years old when I was ready to murder her ex husband. I had my gun ready and was just waiting for him to leave the office. However she appeared to me again, telling me this wasn’t the way. That everyone would receive their dues in time. She calmed me down and than disappeared again.
A year later, on a book tour, I found myself in a old small church in South Africa. There I made my way to the alter and stood there waiting, I knew she would come.
She eventually arrived, in the same dress she bought so many years ago. We said our vows, and promised to be together, in life and death. We sat in the empty church all night talking to each other, and when the sun rose she left me. Having finally been able to find peace. I never saw her again but I know she’s waiting for me wherever she is.
My wife would have been fifty two years old when her ex husband died. Some business deal with the international mafia gone wrong. They tortured him for hours before he escaped them. However knowing he would be hunted for the rest of his life, he decided to slit his wrists, in the same house my wife did.