It was no sooner that I had sit down to my cup of coffee that the incessant whimpers had begun anew. It bore into my head as I tilted the lip of the whiskey bottle into the mug in front of me. The sound shrilled deeper inside my ears tonight, and I tilted the alcoholic elixir up once more. The coffee always seemed to help qualm the situations of the day, and the alcohol served as a numbing device to the reactions I would allow upon my surroundings while in retrospect. Yet, I find it a somber night when the concoction gave me no sense of easiness, and, upon occasion, insisted that I deal with my pervasions.

I sat with the half-empty mug as the piercing of the light sobs echoed through the dark corridors of my home and through my head, and looked back in agitation and sorrow upon the last few days. I had found no serenity in my bed since the event had taken place, and my life outside of the aging walls of my abode had felt the effects, as well. I mused that somebody at my workplace or the diner would find out the heinous act and point a finger of justice in my direction. The dirty confines of a jail’s cell, I thought, would be a grim version of peace away from this forsaken place. And I would quickly kill the notion, realizing that the sounds of the house would follow me wherever I should try to hide. But my physical signs of strain were showing, and questions would soon begin to arise.

Rebecca was a beautiful young lady, freshly uninhibited by her parents’ will and household, that would serve me coffee as I stepped into the diner each afternoon. My rounds as the small town’s postman were on foot, and I would be weary by the time I had arrived at the small corner shop. She had the most soothing eyes of aqua, the shades of light green and churning blue waves rippled through my very soul when she would sit with me and talk. We had conversed for months prior of our hardships, and had taken a sense of reliability upon each other for strength through our troubling times. She worked as a server for the diner as the sun encompassed the day, and at night she took classes at the local college as a veterinarian technician. She would soothe my troubled heart with every long smile and hearty laugh as we’d joke of moments from our pasts, and then she would tilt her head to the side with a sigh and her hand would find my shoulder. I’d watch her go back to work, tying her long raven hair back into a bun and my day would be complete.

I was of a mind to ask her for dinner upon several occasions , and had always stifled the question because of the tightening hand of my fear of rejection. I was nearly thirty years her senior, and I would torment myself daily with the notion that I would always be a friend, and nothing more. A simple piece of her daily routine that came and went, a plate to lay her troubles upon for a moment before going about her business. It had begun to plague my every thought as the days ticked by. I would even find myself running the risks of losing my job as I stood amongst her house longer and longer each day, hindering the timing of my mail routes. It had gotten to the point that I would stop at her doorstep and, realizing that she would be at work, I would sit on the front porch swing of her small house and play the possibilities of perspectives through my head for an hour or more before stripping myself from the property and rushing through the rest of my routes.

It had been a beautiful day that morning, and we were in the final stretch of Spring, when I once again found myself upon her porch steps. I had closed my eyes for a moment, relishing in the thoughts of her and I standing in the open doorway and watching the days go by, her soft black hair flowing about my shoulders as we embraced the days that sought to wring us of our deserved happiness. Every day, my mind had found itself wandering into the typical flights of fancy in the same pattern. And every night, I found my slumber held the same whimsy. In my daily fantasies, we would be married at a small church outside of town and watch our children grow up together, our smiles striking down the oppositions of doubters and the petty race of daily life. I had stood for the better part of an hour before I was roused by the groaning metal of her storm door. She had called off work that day due to a sickness, and she looked quite rough. Her usually warm smile held a cold thin line and her vivid bright eyes were sunken with the dark circles of sleeplessness that surrounded them. Her soft pale skin had taken on a funeral pallor and she stood before me with a resounding befuddlement. She had become aware of my presence since my arrival, and watched in confusion as I stood upon her porch with my eyes closed tightly and an elongated smile upon my face.

It was in the heat of the moment that my heart had found sympathy for her well being, and, without consenting my better judgment, inquired if I could come inside and help aid her torment. The way I had worded the question was impromptu, and not well thought out. It was an ejaculation of the brain that blatantly contained my need to be in her presence, and perhaps my obsession with the fair girl. Her reaction had given me her answer as, with a defensive keening of her eyes, she stepped back inside of the threshold of the house and locked the door. I leapt for the handle as my mind flustered, and I cursed myself for the strength of my inquiry. She quickly slammed the thick wooden door upon the storm door in defense and screamed, frightened from my quick darting towards her entranceway. I had quickly fallen to my knees in the realization of the dilemma, and my heart fought to burst from my chest. I pounded upon the screen door until the small wrought iron partition had broken my skin and begged her forgiveness. The lump welling inside of my throat began to choke my words as pleaded for entrance into her home, and she bellowed from the other end of the house that she had called the police and that I should leave her dwelling, and that I should never return to her residence or the diner, with our without mail, lest she would seek a restraining order upon me. Hesitantly, and with the tears of realization engulfing me, I strode away and left the rest of the route’s mail fallen amongst the gate of her house.

I had just gotten off the phone with my superior from work and had been given the order that I was suspended without pay for the next week for leaving my satchel of mail there when I cracked the top of the bottle. Alcohol had always been a comforter for me and, even though it always sent me into the fits of delirium, I had always taken my angst towards the world out upon the various objects within my abode. So much so, that upon the striking of the broken faced clock of my living room that resounded the oncoming hour of midnight, I found myself with nothing left to relieve my aggression of the day upon. The alcohol filled my mind with hazed visions from the event that morning, and I raged at myself for not only my unwise actions and words, but for leaving the poor girl alone to suffer. I damned myself for giving in so easily and accepting her utter disregards without question. I stared at my broken visage through the shards of my bathroom mirror and my sight churned my own stomach. My dark brown hair was a mess and the dark lines of worry marked my face with age. I was a sickening example of humanity, and not even I would have myself. I held no respite for the girl for not accepting my advances on a lover’s level, but I still found myself weeping for her well-being. It struck me amongst the mockery and confusion in the groggy confines of my head that something must be done for the lady, and that perhaps she was merely showing the annoyance of her sickness when I had found her earlier in the morning. Yes, she simply must have been in a wicked state of sickness and she had not meant the words she said to me, or slamming the door in my face. It was only right that I try again to help care for her, and I was sure that if I was able to show her my compassion that I could win her heart.

Still in my drunken stupor, I fled from my house and into the night with the singular intention of aiding the poor girl. I had come upon her house without interference and proceeded to gather my swirling thoughts as I approached steps of her porch. The bag of mail was gone and I assumed another postal carrier had been called to retrieve it, and I could barely make out the remnants of my bludgeoning from earlier still upon the twisted screen door. There were no lights from within the home as I proceeded to stumble around the perimeter, hoping to catch a glimpse of her slender form in one of the rooms. Yet she was nowhere to be found. I had made several trips around the area when I heard a car approaching the house. I ducked behind the bushes that trailed along the length of the structure and bit my lip as I swayed in a crouching position precariously, my head still spinning from my drinking binge earlier. In my haze and with the sheet of night fogging my vision, I could barely make the girl entwined with a man in the car as it rolled to a stop along the sidewalk. They embraced for a moment, before parting with a kiss as the girl slid from the passenger door and he sped off. She was still visibly sick as she dragged her feet through the opened chain link fence and made her way onto the porch with slow steps. My senses were overcome with rage as I crouched, and my fist grasped the base of one of the bushes. I was becoming dizzy and my breath became short and heavy as I strained against the roots sunk deep into the ground, tearing the plant from it’s base and I trembled in the dark. I remember the sound of her keys as the jealousy swept me into a state of chaos and I sprung from my hiding place and flung myself onto the side of the porch. I pounced her quickly and my hands fell to her throat, stifling her open mouth of the scream. Deep inside my head I fought the need to destroy, to break the closest object in my alcoholic rage. But there were no chairs within reach, no plates to fling to the walls and shatter, no mirror nearby to dispatch of with trembling fists. There was no inanimate object to unleash the pain of my heart and the vortex of my head upon tonight, only the trembling and frail body which lay now in my grasp upon her porch. I grew dizzy as I lost total control of my reasoning.

I awoke early in the morning before the sun rose, the weight of bloodshot eyes heavy in my face. My lips were dry and the salty taste of my dried tears lingered upon them. I looked around to find myself amongst the back yard of my home. My shirt had been ripped across the arms and my face and arms stung of scratches that had broken the skin. I sat up and looked about me, trying to replay the events which led me to my present state and began to sob as I remembered attacking the poor girl. The flower bed behind me had been disturbed and the soil was fresh and loosely packed, and I dared not disturb it once more to bear witness of it’s contents.

I trudged around to the front of my house, the soreness still throbbing in my arms and back as I followed the fresh trench of trampled grass from the flower bed. It was devoid of the early morning dew, and was shoulder width deep. The unmistakable prints left by boots alternated between either side of the winding solid path. The path led into the alley beyond my property, the route I used to follow every morning to Rebecca’s house before drifting into my daydreams upon her porch. My heart sank as I reached down and picked up the small, petite shoe that lay in the track mark along the edge of the sidewalk. I didn’t have to convince myself of whom it had belonged to. I was shocked as a sound penetrated the darkness. It came from all around me, down the alley before me and from the house behind me. It was from all directions at once, and I raced back towards my house. Surely, I had come to my senses before doing Rebecca any harm and had brought her home with me to tend to her sickness and the wounds I unintentionally inflicted upon her.

I called to her as I burst through my door, and still the pathetic whimpering permeated the area. In a panic, I threw open the bathroom door, as she perhaps was taking a bath to ease the ache of her body. Yet, I was met with emptiness. I raced to the back of my house through the empty kitchen. The soft cries were coming from my bed! I had brought her into the house and laid her upon the bed so that she may rest off my attack. But no, the bed stood alone with my sheets made and untouched from the morning before. I was maddened as the whimpering echoed inside my ears and I called her name again, screaming it louder this time to drown out the sobs that came from every doorway, every corner of my house. I called to her time and again as I dragged myself to the living room and lay upon the floor, matching her sobs in a defeated heap.

There is no question now as I sit here, days later, to what I have done. I have not shown up for work or left the house since that night, and I’m sure speculations will be aroused and somebody will be coming to check on me soon. And then they’ll know, they’ll find out. And perhaps they, too, will hear her ghostly mournful cries. Within my chaotic rampage, I had strangled the life from the girl’s body and disposed of her body in a fit of panic underneath the flower bed in the back yard. I still cannot recall doing so, but the evidence is unquestionable. And so I sit here, now, defeated. Either I rot the rest of my days away confined to a cell for my heinous crime with her ever insistent cries torturing me forevermore, or I meet her with my own hand of justice upon the other side of being and face the wrath of judgment. I opt now for the later and empty the container of pills into my mouth. Rebecca is still in the background, urging me forwards and I tilt the bottle of liquor to my lips, emptying it.

I can hear her cries becoming weaker in my head as the pills begin taking effect. My fingertips are growing more numb now and I find it hard to move my eyes and keep the sight of my surroundings in focus. I have passed my own judgment and I await the Great Trial with open arms. But a car has pulled into my drive with the markings of the local police upon it. Surely, fate would not let me be stopped and allowed the torturous cries of fallen Rebecca the rest of my days. I must find a way to ensure my solitude, and quickly, or risk the terrible horrors of her whimpering forevermore. Again in my drunken stupor, I clamber out the back door to the yard behind the house. My eyes catch glimpse of the uprooted flowers of the bed as I make my way to the side of the house for the storage cellar doors. I thrust them open as the car’s doors slam in the driveway, and Rebecca’s cries have turned into muffled yelps. Surely, she is now calling from beyond the grave with the urgency of a thousand revenging angels now! My body has begun to give way to the drugs flowing through me, and I find myself, fallen, at the bottom of the steps underneath my house inside the cellar.

My God! Her cries are overpowering now! Please, I beg the release of this torture! And in the haze, even now as death finally releases me of the horror of my earthen body, I can finally see her. Rebecca, bound and strapped at hand and foot laying in the corner of the cellar. Her mouth is bound with the scraps of my torn shirt, tied around her lovely mess of black hair and she cries. Still, she cries. Oh, Rebecca! Forgive me, as even now you are as beautiful in ghostly visage as you were when I yearned for you in life. Yet, her image is not luminescent or translucent as I would have expected a ghost to show, but rather quite lifelike and kicking up dust with her bound feet. I can hear the police descending the steps now. I find that they may be phantoms as well, for even as I close my eyes for the last time in this earthly existence, I can see one unbinding poor Rebecca’s body, and her cries fill my ears one last time as they strip her mouth of the fabric. A loud, shrill cry of relief, that I am afraid will haunt me even worse in death than the muffled sobs did in the last days of my life.

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