The Sorrows of a Lonely Man

By Anna Kauffman

The Sorrows of a Lonely Man

The iron gate squeaked as he opened it to stand before the tall house which was

attempting to climb into the sky and disappear—much like the owner of it wanted to. He did not

want to go into the house but that was where he lived—or rather dwelled. To live in a place

meant that one enjoyed being there—to have the need to tell others that one dwelled there. It was

his house but not his home and it had not been for the longest time. The house was big for three

and only bigger for one. Long had the only two beautiful lights in his life—his late wife and

daughter—been snuffed out, one shortly after the other.

John Brigham was a lonely man in a lonely house where the only companions were one

another. But even as a companion, the unwant and dislike for it was evident in the manner of

which it was kept.

Slowly walking up the steps, he opened the door—it was not locked, for if one did try to

steal anything, they would leave empty handed. There was nothing in the house to take, nothing

more than the wax candles he used to light the one room in which he stayed, or the lone chair

that he sat in, thinking about nothing but everything

He had cast away all the things that had once given him an ounce of joy, though that

paled in comparison to even a sliver of Rebecca’s smile—his daughter that could brighten

anyone’s darkest hours—or a glance from Elizabeth—his dear wife that had died from the

devastation of losing Rebecca.

He entered the house—the dark cold place it was—trudging slowly to his chair which sat

upright in the middle of the room in the shadow of the wide window that was placed to face the

forest near the house; it had been his late wife’s favorite place to look out due to the view of trees

being showered with the white light that was cast about when the moon was bright.

As he sat down, he looked out this very window, as he did every day, trying to see what

she saw, and what he too had once seen. The sun was nearly gone, as it was most days when he

returned to his place of rest—or unrest if one would like to think of it in that light. That was the

same light that he, himself, thought of it and the same light in which he saw the forest—not the

beautiful place that was so peaceful to his Elizabeth.

It was due to her love for the trees and the nature that was in that forest that she was

placed in the ground of it, forever to be lying there with her daughter at her side. When the

deathly illness had befallen Rebecca, Elizabeth was the one who had chosen the resting place

unknowingly following her there after a few short months.

Throughout those dreadfully short months, Elizabeth was not herself. As if it had

happened overnight, she turned a pale color—one that could and would easily be compared to

the color of the linens on their bed; white. She withdrew herself from talking to those whom she

normally met in town. She ate less, using the excuse of having no appetite, as grief would make

you lose.

And grief made the man lose greater things than just the simple want of an appetite.

Elizabeth had soon worked herself so weak that she could not sit up in bed, much less attempt to

stand. If she had wanted to sit up, she would have had to be helped due to her having little

strength in her arm, not that there was much to be had. Her bones were almost to be seen through

her arm—her skin seeming to grasp them with all of its might—and the poor woman looked as if

she could have been knocked over with the slightest of wind but that could not nor would it ever

be known if that theory held true due to her never stepping outside again. With every passing

day, she grew weaker—although he tried to get her to eat more than a few spoonfuls of

soup—and then he wore nothing but black—the color of grief itself. If one happened to see him

out to buy the flowers he always bought for his wife and daughter, with ease could they make the

comparison between him and a shadow—both forever wearing black.

The clock struck nine—a sound that vibrated through the house, making the walls quake

and the closed doors shake—abruptly waking him from his melancholy trance, reminding him of

the hour. He stood slowly, gripping the flowers that he had never let go of and advanced to the

door; it was time once more.

The sounds of his footsteps were clearly heard through the night as there were barely any

other sounds. Barely any sounds other than the cacophony of rustling leaves, the rapidly

heighting hissing of the wind, the scratching of the branches—all getting louder and louder the

nearer and nearer that he got to the forest—and yet he could hear the steady footsteps of himself.

There was no wind—not that he could see or feel. The night was still and yet the rustling grew

louder as did the scratching and hissing; an unexplainable storm.

The man walked on, as if not daunted by the tall trees with their skinny arms which

seemed to point almost like they were making accusations towards him, as if not perturbed by

the long shadows cast by them from the moon—like a net to capture all the sinners—but he was.

His eyes remained fixed to his destination but his mind wandered—nay; it did not wander—more

so, it paced and marched like a galloping horse without a rider: anxious and wary.

Closer and closer he came to the stones—the stones that bore their names—and louder

and louder did the noise become until it became nearly unbearable—enough to drive one mad.

The storm suddenly silenced with a hush and his eyes were drawn immediately to the large

figure looming over the graves. His mind halted in its incessant rambling, striking fear into the

man’s lonely heart—a fear so great that he had to stop because his limbs felt frozen and his joints

stiff.

It was not the figure alone that was enough to strike the fear in him but rather the air

around it—muddy with gloom and sorrow and regret which only strengthened the tight grasp that

fear had on the man for if that was only what the shadow had clinging onto it—and so strong that

it could be felt from a length away—what did its owner have?

He called out to the figure, asking of its business with the graves that it so greedily stood

over but it did not respond.

Still he persisted and again he called out to the figure, asking the same thing of

it—having drawn slightly closer than before. He watched as the figure turned slowly towards

him.

With a cry, the man stumbled back, fear taking over every sense of his body and the

storm of noise crashing into his ears like the waves of a violent sea. The wind screamed and the

branches clawed. The rustling was no more and in its place were leaves thrashing about.

DEATH!

The figure—no—the reaper of souls was a vile creature. The moonlight dared not touch

him or risk the snuffing out of itself too. It was this that made his cloak, which swirled about as if

it did not know the rules or confines of the human world and was less of a garment than it was

air—a darkened cloud that kept whether he actually touched the ground or not a secret—so dark;

as if it was taking away rather than giving, much like its wearer.

The face of this cruel taker of hearts—taker of the very thing that gave one life—was

shrouded in the darkness of this cloak, a darkness that screamed in anguish and pain but the

hand—Oh the hand!—could be seen. The hand—pale, long, and thin enough to display each

bone that there was—held the cruelly sharpened blade of Death’s most powerful weapon: the

scythe. It glinted red in the moonlight—the only thing near him that did—as if it was flaunting

the blood it had spilled all those years ago.

DEATH!

The same Death that had pressed his scythe carefully to the man’s daughter’s heart and

sliced at his sweet Elizabeth’s had come for his own.

Louder and louder his heart beat, as if it was attempting to break down the door of his

chest and escape in hopes of not being taken by Death.

Death slowly advanced towards him, forcing him to crawl back for his life—he had fallen

somewhere between the meeting but could not remember when. With each advancement, he

grew more and more certain that Death was not of this earth nor had ever with the grace of which

he walked—or floated—though knowing this fact would not stop the sorrowful screams of the

dead that were stitched into his cloak nor would it halt the insufferable jeering of the trees, who

pointed their spindly fingers at him, their leaves shaking with laughter.

Faster and faster did he crawl away but faster and faster did Death come until he had no

more to go—backed up on the very stones he had come there for. As Death drew closer, the

shadow of despair and guilt came howling at him; once it came close enough, he could see the

face of his beautiful wife and then that of his daughter and then—

DEATH!

Oh! The face of Death was kept hidden—hidden in the depths of his torturous hood—for

a reason, and a reason that the man found out. The face of Death was ghastly—one of a truly

horrific creature. Death’s face had nothing distinct about it and yet, everything about it was

distinct. It was an ashy color—a sickly color—like one who had only an inch of life left in them.

How ironic—Death having even an inch of life! Yes, there was something almost humane about

his face but only faintly so—he was more ghoul than anything else. He had no eyes but rather

holes in place of them—holes that had neither an opening nor a closing to them; they just were.

Death had no nose—only the faintest remains of one that suggested that he might have had one

once. And his mouth—the most terrifying thing about him all!—was nothing more than a ragged

opening—an unappealing tear in the face.

Oh! Death was so close!

As he stared at Death’s facial features—or lack thereof—he had the sensation of falling.

A sensation of being free of all: worries, cares, and consequences.The feeling of falling was short

lived though, almost as if he had imagined it. His eyes pricked with tears—fearful tears that

refused to fall.

Death stretched out his hand as if he wanted to touch the man who cowered in front of

him, backed against the stones that marked the times when he did the same to two others. Rather

than doing this, he stopped short of the man’s face. Rather than touching him and putting an end

to it all, he merely pointed.

As the man sat there—sitting up not by choice but due to fear freezing him in place like

an unwilling statue—his chest hurt. Hurt like someone set a boulder suddenly on his chest,

slowly depleting his lungs of air. It soon became more difficult to breathe, the air tasting like

iron.

All sound was now muffled like hearing it from underwater or through a barrier. Still,

Death’s finger pointed at him, silently killing him. It was as if the scythe was just a prop—a

toy—that Death carried around for show; the real weapon was Death himself.

Death leaned in and the man’s vision darkened, clouded by Death’s air. As the man’s

vision began to tunnel and he gasped for air—any air at all—he heard the hiss of Death breathing

in, the rip for a mouth opening wider.

Then Death said one sentence, his voice gravelly like he hadn’t used it in ages: “John

Brigham was no more.”