Soft and Slow

It was well past Midnight, and the hour had come for the good to fall into a restless slumber. Silence stretched in a thin anticipation, and the room, lit only by a small flickering candle, knew what was to come and could not stop it; for in the coldest hour of the night, the good awake was ready to be devoured by the wicked.

Evie sat awake on the edge of her bed, clutching a knife in her trembling hands. Tom stood across the room, observing a painting on the wall, nursing the last remnants of a cigarette. The air smelt of honey and smoke, “Are you going to ignore me forever?” she asked, her voice breaking the silence.

Tom replied, keeping his back to her. “You don’t know what you're asking of me, Evie.”

She stood and crossed the room to him, touching his sweater-clad shoulder. “Yes, I do, Tom. Do you think I would ask if I hadn’t thought it through?”

“Yes, I do,” he said, looking at her, “But what you're asking is delusional. Do you even hear yourself?”

“Yes, I hear myself; in fact, I think I’m thinking clearly for the first time in a while now. This is how I want it to be; I want you to finish it.”

“Finish what?” he snapped, “Whatever you think our relationship is, I don’t agree. We are not Romeo and Juliet, Evie. This,” he gestured between them, “isn't some Shakespearean relationship that you die for, this is broken and confused and it's—”

“It's ours,” she interrupted, her voice soft with exasperation, “it's messy, yes, but it's not confused, at least not for me. What we have is special, Tom! It's unique to you and me. That has to mean something to you. This has to mean something to you.”

Evie could feel his muscles become taut under her hand. “What you’re asking me to take…I can’t kill you, Evie.”

“Don’t think of it like that; just think of it as one last thing. Just do this last thing for me.” Her voice was steady and loud now, and she spoke with a confidence that did not become her. “You’ve already taken so much, Tom; what makes this so different?”

“What have I taken?” he looked at her again with an incredulous expression

“You've taken everything, Tom, my heart, my soul, my youth. I may have given it, but you still took it. Please let me give you this.”

“No,” he replied immediately, his voice harsh and stern.

“Yes! You take, I give. That is the relationship we have. This is no different.”

“It’s incredibly different! It’s not something we could just… undo!... I mean, do you even hear what you're saying? I won’t do it, Evie, I just won’t.”

“You already are,” her voice barely above a whisper. “You've been killing me for years, Tom, just not physically. With every stolen moment, every broken promise, every time you pulled me close, only to push me away again, it killed me bit by bit. This would just make it final, real, and clean. I don’t want to live like this anymore, please,” she looked up at him with big doe eyes shining with tears and resolve.

He flinched. “That's not fair.”

“It's the truth,” she said, “and you know it,” her voice stern. Silence fell between them, Evie waiting for him to respond, her breath bated. She could see the turmoil in his eyes, the wheels turning in his head.

“Evie,” he finally replied, breaking the silence, “you don’t need to die, and you don't need me to kill you either. What you need is help.”

“I do need this,” she replied, taking his hands in hers and making him face her fully. “This path is the only thing that makes sense to me. It's the only thing that feels real. Don’t you understand? This is how it should end. I'll go in your arms, knowing I mattered to you.”

He closed his eyes and sighed, squeezing her hands. “You matter, Evie; you’ve always mattered. That's why I can't do this.”

“Yes, you can!” she exclaimed, hands still clasped together as she led him over to the bed where the knife sat still and calm, the cool metal mocking the heated energy in the air. “You’ve already killed me on the inside; just think of this as finishing the job.”

“That's something I don’t understand; how have I killed you?”

“Every time you let me stay when you should’ve sent me away. Every time you held me when you didn’t mean it. You’ve taken so much from me, Tom. This is just one more thing. One last thing.”

“And then what? What happens when you're gone?”

“You’ll remember me, and that will be enough.”

“For you, maybe! But what about me? What will I have left?”

“You have yourself!” she said, her voice cracking then falling down to a whisper, “That's all you’ve ever needed; you don’t need me, Tom, you never have.”

“Is this really what you want from me? You truly want this to happen?” he asked, taking the knife from her hand and testing its weight in his trembling hands.

“Yes,” she said, stepping closer to him. “Please, Tom,” she whispered, “if you don’t kill me, I will.”

“Tell me how to do it,” he said, his eyes now teary, his spirit resigned; if he was truly going to do this, he would do it right.

“Take the knife.” She took his hand in hers and guided him to her chest. “Plunge it right here, hard and quick. Make sure we're on the bed, so I don’t fall to the floor. Then, if you could just hold me in your arms, make me feel loved,”

“Ok,” he replied softly, and then he did just that. Plunged the knife into her chest and held her till her last breath, and when she was gone, he muttered three words he should have said to her in life: “I love you.”