End of Eternity 3: Killing Eternity

Copyright 2015 Loretta Lost

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What love we’ve given, we’ll have forever. What love we fail to give, will be lost for all eternity.

-Leo Buscaglia

Chapter One

I don’t remember exactly how I ended up with my face plastered against a slab of concrete.

My shoulder is shaken roughly, and I groan in pain. Due to the tenderness of my breasts, it feels like I am being dragged across the surface of a cheese grater.

Forcing my eyelids to open halfway, I struggle to lift my hand and press it against my temple. My brain is pounding like a jackhammer, and the world is spinning. When I can finally attempt to focus, I realize that there is a suitcase lying a few feet away from me, and I stare at it in puzzlement. Where am I? I must have had a small stroke, seizure, brain aneurysm, or something of the sort.

Then I remember why.

My fingers fall to the ground. I lie there for a few more seconds, completely limp. I almost wish I had fallen a little more strategically, and cracked my head open on the concrete stairs. Then I wouldn’t have to feel any of this pain. Emotional, or otherwise. I guess I did come all this way for knowledge, but I didn’t expect an old woman’s words to be powerful enough to knock me to the ground.

Maybe I should have taken Owen up on his offer to come out here with me. I must still be quite weak if I can collapse so easily. This sort of thing has never happened to me before—but then again, I don’t think I’ve ever received news quite like this. I shouldn’t have stubbornly refused Owen’s help, but he’s been there so much for me lately and I wanted to stop being a burden. Still, I wish to God he were here right now.

My breasts hurt like a bitch.

The massive mounds are engorged to the point of exploding; swollen with sustenance for my daughter. My murdered daughter. Fathered by a murdered man. Perhaps Grayson being driven insane to the point where he took his own life was indirect or unintentional, but it makes no difference to me.

My husband is gone. I’ve lost everything. And it’s his fault.

Brad. That bastard.

I become suddenly aware that someone is speaking to me.

Are you okay, dear? a woman’s voice is saying with distress. Should I call an ambulance?

Taking a deep breath, I try to push myself a few inches off the ground. No, I say hoarsely. Water. I just need water.

Carmen, was it? the woman asks softly. Why don’t you come inside and lie down on the sofa? Here, let me help you.

I let her grasp my arm and pull me to my feet, and I dizzily lean against her. She guides me over to lie on a worn old couch, and I collapse inelegantly against the cushions. My suitcase, I murmur, looking to the front door with worry.

I’ll bring it for you, she tells me. Don’t you worry, dear. Just rest.

I let my head roll against the arm of the sofa. My heart is beating so loudly that I feel it might break my ribcage in half. Additionally, there is a strange pulsing feeling in my empty belly, and I press my hands over my stomach with confusion and anxiety. Brad did this, I mutter to myself, nearly choking on the words. He did this to me. He must have. I try to force understanding into my slow and disbelieving brain. I find a bit of nausea stirring in my gut as I try to process this information.

What is it, dear? Grayson’s mother asks as she moves to my side.

I shake my head, unable to respond coherently. He... did this.

Seeing my state of shock, she brings a cool glass of water to my lips. It takes me a moment before I am able to sip the liquid, and the refreshing sensation of it tumbling down my throat revives me a little. I am able to breathe a little slower and think a little more clearly as my headache begins to ease.

Are you talking about Brad? the woman asks. What did he do?

My baby, I tell her quietly. I lost my baby a few days ago.

The woman pauses before responding. Oh. I see. She places the clear glass of water down on the coffee table nervously; her wizened fingers are swollen with arthritis and shaking with emotion. Was it... Grayson’s child?

Yes, I hiss softly. Tears prick the back of my eyes, but they are nothing like the other tears I’ve shed; they are tears of anger. She was your granddaughter. But now she’s gone. It’s his fault, isn’t it?

Grayson’s mother stares at me apprehensively. You think that Brad might have...?

Yes. I feel bile rising in my throat. Grasping the back of the sofa, I push myself into a sitting position. After the story you just told me? About Helen. Grayson’s first love.

Maybe you’re jumping to conclusions, the old woman whispers fearfully. You have no proof that...

No, I whisper vehemently. There was something wrong with the whole situation. I know there was. I shouldn’t have lost my baby... Pausing, I have to take a few deep breaths to try to compose myself. He was there the whole time. I let him get so close to me.

I can feel a deep and heavy rage building slowly in my chest. It is only a small, black kernel of vitriol, but I can feel it threatening to spread and consume my whole body, inch by inch, like a cancer.

I will do nothing to slow its progress.

I know that I could try to let it go, like I have let go of everything that has ever bothered me in my entire life. The old Carmen would have tried to rise above this, but the new Carmen wants to sink below. Something has snapped in me, and I want to give in to the darkest parts of myself. I want to let them come out to play, and be the cruel, vindictive bitch that I’ve never allowed myself to be. Not once.

After all, I have failed at being able to create. I might as well destroy.

Let me make you a meal, dear, Grayson’s mother is saying as she rises to her feet. When was the last time you ate?

I don’t need food, I tell her sharply. I need to know why. Why did he do this to me? What the fuck is wrong with him?

The old woman lifts her shoulders in a shallow and empty gesture. I—I don’t know, dear. Brad didn’t really have anything against Helen. The poor girl was just standing in the way of his plans for Grayson, so he disposed of her and her child.

They were collateral damage, I muse, on his rise to the top.

Exactly. That man would never let anything stand in his way. Maybe your child was standing in the way of Brad’s plans for you?

What plans for me? I ask with a frown. Frenzied thoughts rush through my mind as my eyes dart around the room rapidly. What does he want from me?

I don’t know, Grayson’s mother says softly. You need to calm down, dear. It’s not good for your health to get all worked up again. Let’s get some food in you. Do you like pizza?

Something suddenly clicks in my brain. Brad lied to me. My daughter wouldn’t have been sick. I grab one of the small pillows on the couch and crush it within my hands. Grayson wasn’t a monster. If drug abuse and steroids led to his schizophrenia... then my daughter would have been fine. Brad said that she’d be born mentally ill, like her father. But all along, he knew the truth.

My son was never mentally ill, Grayson’s mother says defensively. Brad is the one who made him sick. Brad played with my boy like a puppeteer pulling on strings. He controlled his entire life.

And his death, I add numbly. Closing my eyes, I inhale slowly. Brad might enjoy controlling those around him, but he will never control me. I will see to it that he learns that. I don’t know how yet, but I’m going to find a way to make him regret that he ever messed with my life and my family.

I can’t believe this is happening, Grayson’s mother says quietly, and her voice breaks. I always dreamed that I’d see my son again someday. I thought that maybe when I was sick and dying, he would finally come to visit this old woman. I thought I’d get a chance to hold him one last time. I thought he’d kiss my forehead and say goodbye, and that his smile would be the last thing I saw before I left this world. How can my son be gone before me?

Hearing the sorrow in the woman’s voice reminds me of the reason I came here. I see that she has dragged my suitcase inside, and I grasp the arm of the sofa to help myself stand. A wave of dizziness hits me, but I ignore it as I walk toward the suitcase and fall to my knees. Unzipping the small carry-on luggage, I carefully retrieve the bubble-wrapped urn.

It occurs to me that this is the last time that I’m going to hold my husband.

I’m really going to lose him forever now.

As my hand tenderly caresses the curve of the container, I realize that I have never loved Grayson as much as I do in this moment. Tears touch my eyes again. Now, long after he has departed from this world, I have finally been able to learn who he truly was.

And he was beautiful.

It means everything to me that I have gotten a chance to understand the true motives behind everything he did. Despite what anyone else believed, I always knew that there was a good soul inside that man. I always knew that there was something pure and full of love inside him, even when he was distant and shut down.

It breaks my heart to think of how the world twisted him up.

Grayson could have been someone great. Of all the men I’ve ever met, there was something truly special about my husband; so special that I was willing to overlook his every flaw.

And now he’s gone.

All that’s left is a pile of ashes in a decorative urn that I now hold in my hands.

I bite my lip as I gently remove some more of the packing material. The urn is silver in color, and there is mother-of-pearl inlaid in slender rings around the canister. It’s a lovely design, but it’s cold and artificial to the touch. I would give anything to be able to touch Grayson’s warm skin instead of this inanimate flask. I would give anything to wrap my arms around his strong shoulders and cuddle against his neck, and feel the gentle prickle of his stubble. I would give anything to listen to his heartbeat and feel his chest rising with deep, invigorating breaths. I would give anything to hold his hand.

How could a man be