02-A Story-The Truth about Ruth

This is a story I wrote near the beginning:

                        The Truth about Ruth


       "What happened to Ruth?," my friend asked me.  What could I tell

     him?  The truth?  Would he even believe it or would he think that

     I killed her?  Should I have searched until I found her body so

     that there would have been no evidence of foul play?  But who was

     to say whether it was a staged "accident" or a real one.

       I decided to tell the truth and put myself at his mercy and let

     him be the judge.  I found myself telling the same story I had

     told the police so many times that I felt like a broken record

     stuck in the same groove.  The same story I had retold so many

     times that I told it with no emotion, no tears, no remorse.

     That should not happen.  It took the humanity out of it.  It

     made it seem like I didn't feel or care about it and I unequivocally

     did and still do.  The hapless story unfolded, a drama in monotone.  

     Then towards the end I heard myself saying:

       ...after being lost in the mountains for hours and hours Ruth

     and I trudged wearily and warily along the path across the face

     of the cliff which was narrow and treacherous.  Far below us

     churned a mountain rapids as if heated to the boiling point and

     frothing out of control between the jagged rocks.  Suddenly Ruth

     slipped and fell screaming into the abyss.  She went out of sight

     almost immediately and I knew she was dead.  No way could she

     have survived that long cold plunge.  I was stunned but seethed

     with an inner rage that this was all so senseless and quite possibly 

     just as useless.  It happened so fast, one minute she was

     there, so vital and alive, the next she was gone.  My Ruth was

     gone.  There was nothing I could do except feel guilt and shame.

     What could I have done differently that would change the outcome

     of this tragedy?  I didn't, I couldn't have lifted a hand to save

     her.  The scene would replay in my mind over and over, yet, nothing

     would change.  It would follow me the rest of my life.  SHE WAS

     GONE!  The love of my life.  Ruth, my Ruth.  After, what could have

     been a moment but seemed an eternity in which the roaring river

     could not drown out the scream in my ears and with the weight of the

     loss bearing down on me heavily I turned and pressed on Ruthlessly.

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All rights and permissions are reserved by the Author, David Alan Binder and may not be reproduced except with permission.



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