Happily, Ever After

Once upon a time. That classic opening for these romantic, soppy fairy tale types. The Cinderella’s and the Snow White’s. Fairy god mothers, princes, princesses, and glass slippers. Love at first sight amongst all the other cliches. A jealous stepfamily and an evil witch. This story has none of that. This is a story about a man who lost everything twice, about a wife who died, and then died again with a soft farewell. He was a musician, one of the best. Rocks would weep to him, and the trees would grow at the sound of his voice. His wife was the same, a match made in heaven one might say, but I promise, neither heaven nor hell had anything to do with it. Superstition never had any hold over either of them.

They were the type of couple who would walk over the cracks in the pavement with no fear of being eaten by crocodiles. They followed no religion; they thought their own ideas better. They worshipped each other before anyone else, like they were the most powerful gods, being utterly devoted to one another. The purest form of love imaginable, and comparable to the love a priest would have for their god. Through their short-lived marriage, they would stay up late, staring at the stars, pointing out the big dipper, amongst other constellations, drinking the most expensive champagne they could afford and falling deeper and deeper in love. As time slowly moved on during their year of marriage, their love grew and grew. They became the best of friends and the closest of partners. Until the day where the tumour sunk itself into her spine and became something which would change both of their lives forever.

“She is somewhere better,” they repeated. Her family, her friends. But if she were somewhere better then why was he still here, he desired to join her, or to be together again. “How could they even think that. She is gone and everyone is already trying to move on,” he thought solemnly, the night after the funeral. This night would be one he would remember.

“Pray to me, and I will return your precious wife to you,” whispered a voice inside his head. His mind leapt at the thought of being with her again. Thinking about if this was a psychological symptom of the cruel mourning or a cure, for both him and his much-adored wife. He tossed and turned that night, restless and questioning logic, that which had always come so naturally to him.

That morning he plucked the strings of his old, golden harp, one they had been passed down through the generations, passing the time and easing his mind. He sat in his living room in which had once shared with his beloved wife. Their house was nothing extravagant, remaining small and cosy, just for the two of them, yet he swam in the vast ocean of fond memories of his late wife. It would never be home again, not without her, just a house. All of a sudden, the voice of the previous night came rushing back to him. The irrational idea of being able to retrieve her, bring her back so they could live out the rest of their days together, until they were taken by old age. With speed, he stood up leaving his harp where he sat, and dropped to his knees, begging to understand how he could once again be with his beloved. The voice once again returned, almost as if it was waiting for him. “You must travel where those who are dead must go. Not heaven, but hell. I will send a guide with you, if Lucifer accepts, you will be able to bring her back.”

“And if he doesn’t accept?” he muttered in return, even though the question mattered as little as can be.

“Then if fate forbids it, you will never return yourself” The voice said with a potent certainty.

There was very little doubt in his mind, and only one decision to be made. She made him feel whole. She made him feel completed. Without her, part of him was missing. The songs he wrote for her, the memories they had together would all not be for nothing. He rose from his seat, the quickest he had done since her passing, and begged for direction and instruction. There was a soft knock on the door outside, like a feather striking the door with all the force it had. He rushed to door and opened it to find darkness. Not the sharpness of the night sky nor the faint glow of the moon, but a foggy grey darkness in which the very air seemed to groan in aches and pains. Ash drifted through the air like dark grey snowflakes and upon hitting the ground, would disappear. In this dull, monotone corridor there was nothing but doors for what seemed like miles and miles with a washed out gold and silver locks on them, which varied in size, and some were smothered in chains and scratch marks. He stepped back, hesitating before remembering this was the only way forward. As he turned back, the door he had entered from was gone. He would be forced to face the long, dark alley of hell which lay before him.

His chest became tight, and arms numb, past the point of exhaustion. One foot in front of the other like clockwork. His faced burned up yet his spine shivered like he was in some sort of twisted fever dream. He abruptly stopped, collapsing his hands down onto his knees, leaning over, staring into the cracked, grey, concrete ground. As he rose back up, his mind coming back to the present, a great white globe hovered before him. “Help me,” he muttered with his disjointed words, sounding like a man on his death bed. It said nothing but floated slowly along the eternal alley, like he was living in some horror movie. He dragged himself onwards, his wife not even on his mind anymore, just the agony of his loneliness and the silence of this eerie alley in the bowls of the earth. The light stopped what seemed like an eternity away and shone even brighter than before. One step after another. Step. Rest. Step. Rest.

The further he got, the louder the alley became. Full of screaming, wailing, howling, coming from behind each door a similar, yet wildly different cry sounded within. The light drew nearer. If he could reach the light, it would be his protection, his salvation. The path began to feel familiar, as if he was going round in circles, yet the slanted and straight path had no room for error. No word, of English or any other language could be made out from the cries. Hundreds at once, besieging his mind, singing his ears, making his eyes water and glow red as if staring directly into a fire, with no ability to look any other way. By the time he got within a few steps of the light it vanished. He looked to his left, and then to his right. A door lay before him, with a small padlock on. Through the endless howling, he heard one which sounded familiar. His wife. He seemed to have forgotten everything about her within the last hour, despite her being the reason for him being here. He picked up a shovel, bashing its hilt against the padlock. Again, and again and again. He began to feel a tightening around one of his legs, looking down to see some ancient serpent, writhing around his leg. He fell backwards away from the door, collapsing to the ground.

His eyes lay shut for some time, but as he opened them again, he was no longer in the alley. He looked up from the ground to see golden chandeliers and red flames. He sat up, seeing a banquet dinner, with all types of meats, cheeses, fruits, and any delight he could dream of. At one end of the table, stood a man. At least 7 feet tall, lean, and broad. He wore a deep red three-piece suit, with a black tie and white shirt, with two horns, one on each side of his head. He spoke eloquently, “This was not a good first introduction,” not looking at the man on the ground, but straight forward as if he were in front of him. As he sat up, he was immediately placed at the other end of the table, now staring straight at the wonder of a man in front of him. “Who are you?” he asked, stumbling over his words.

“I am Lucifer, the Devil some may say,” he replied, before gracefully sitting down. “I have been told you have been sent here, because you have a question for me.” Lucifer lent back, staring at him, awaiting a reply, taking pleasure in his fear.

“My wife’s death was untimely. Then to see her in a place such as this,” he began to grow more confident, “She does not deserve to be here. She deserves to be with me, in the real world,” he stated. The horned man looked him up and down across the table. Suddenly, a small burst of white smoke appeared, around him. “She is now behind you. You may leave with her, but if you turn to look at her, she will be taken again.” Lucifer cackled, mocking him as he disappeared, yet his voice still boomed in the very essence of the room. His wife, now behind him, placed her hand on his shoulder.

It felt thin. Too thin. The light reappeared in a doorway in the corner of the room. He stood up, placing his hand on his shoulder, on top of where his wife’s hand was and walked. “Off,” boomed the Lucifer. Looking through the doorway, it was the same dark alley, yet with a light at the end, and a hill much larger. The same cries and shrieks came from both sides of the alley as they stepped out of the room. They could no longer even here their own footsteps, yet he could not look back. He marched on, one foot in front of the other, forgetting the extent of his exhaustion and starvation. His breathing remained tight, yet it did not bother him. He drew closer and closer to the light at the end of the alley. He began to panic; he could not hear her behind him. He was being eaten up by his own anxiety, yet he kept marching on for the both of them. When he reached the top of the alley, he looked into the light to see his living room, the very one he had sat in that morning. The cries were only a distant, a shallow background noise. He heard the heavy breathing of his wife behind him but stared straight at the wall ahead of him with unwavering will.

But what if this was some sort of trick? What if she was some sort of undead creature? What if it wasn’t even her at all? His thoughts got the better of him, whether it was his anxiety, curiosity, or power of love for her, he turned. The second he did he watched her shrivelled corpse be pulled back into the darkness and before he knew it he was sitting by his golden harp, with a single tear streaming down his face.

He had lost her again, for a second time. Left to his own devices, he had failed. There was no one to blame but himself, and his heart sunk from the thoughts of his loneliness which he would have to endure for the rest of his long life, and he lived... ever after.