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Description

Dark, hooded eyes cast themselves downwards to a blank sheet of paper laying on a scratched, wooden desk in the corner of a cobweb-decorated room. The office was crowded with yellowing papers covered in dust. There was no sign of life except that of small, spider footprints on the wall, and the large imprints of name brand shoes leading to the doorway. A man sat at the desk, his shaggy hair in his face though he did nothing to remove it. His sole intent was on the piece of paper
It was a normal looking, 8.5 x 11 inch piece of paper, white in colour and slightly crinkled in the bottom right corner. Thin, sky-blue lines were stretched horizontally, each 0.7 centimetres apart. It was impeccably clean; so clean it appeared to have been sterilized to intensify the cluttered room. Though dirt lay everywhere, there was none on the paper. The pure, normalness of the paper was almost appalling against the rest of its bleak and messy surroundings.
The man was not particularly interesting in any way, sitting on a simple wooden chair at the desk. He was staring at the offending piece of paper with a nothingness in his face, as if he had been there for far too long. Bristles framed his cracked lips, obvious he hadn't shaved in quite a while. His rough hand held a silver pen that seemed too delicate for his stature. It was poised at the top of the page, ready to write.
True to his appearance, he had been in the chair for a long time. It had been exactly 73 hours, 14 minutes and 58 seconds since he'd sat down to write what was on his mind, and the clock was still ticking. The only reason for would move for was to relieve necessary bodily functions, and if remembered, to eat a small meal. Once finished his business, the unkempt, dark-haired man would return to his statue-like pose of staring at the white paper. Should the phone ring, blaring loudly right next to him, he did not hear it. Nor could he hear any knocking at his door, insistent to speak to him of important matters. The only thing he ever heard were the demons inside his head.
During the day the war waged in his mind was less intense, as if the nearly non-existent sun chased off most of his enemies. They hid in the shadows, their nasty, glowing eyes staring out from the dark in wait for their time of power; the night. They feared the brightness of day and the white. It was in the dark, when black prevailed that they attacked with a ferociousness none could stand up against. The man would neither shiver nor murmur a word during this, his thoughts only concentrating on keeping them at bay and the white paper. His sanctuary.
As night fell, shapes incomprehensible to anyone but him slithered out, jewel-flecked eyes glinting maliciously, gleefully. Their words wormed their way through the man's defensive barriers, whispering his worst fears and memories, reminding him of times he'd rather forget. Gulping anxiously, he closed his eyes and tried to block the demons out.
Cries of pain and sorrow, coupled with the screams of his failure to everything he ever tried to accomplish pounded in his skull. He could hear their pleas for mercy and the freedom from the damnation they faced time and time again, the awfulness of it never leaving his mind. And every one of them was his fault; each cry was from someone staring into the depths of his gun's barrel. He didn't have to do it. Though employed to do so, he never had to kill them. He watched in his mind's eye the countless people he'd murdered falling to the ground while blood gushed out of their heads. What had their assassination done to improve the world he lived in? They had never done anything to him. Why had it never affected him before? Another salty tear escaped the safety of his tired eye.
Suddenly, the man shifted and put his pen on the white paper, though he wrote nothing. His blank expression had turned to that of a determination and a slight hint of anger. The demons roared in a frenzied protest. He couldn't banish them. He couldn't do anything. He was useless, forever damned to drown in his misery. Savagely they attacked the barriers of his new found will, breaking the frail wall and feeding wood to the fire of his fears. He'd let her down. He'd let them all down. No matter what he did, what he struggled for, they still died. He had failed, letting them go with their blood on his hands.
Desperately, he clung onto his sanity, trying to push away the oncoming siege. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and an odd gasping noise gurgled out of his throat. Hands shuddered and the pen jerked across the white paper, destroying it's purity and leaving a jagged line of blue splattered ink. With the spell of tranquil perfection destroyed, the man fell from his chair and to the floor, body wracked with violent spasms. A cloud of dust and dirt billowed upwards and out, disrupted by the writhing man on the ground.
Finally he stopped struggling, strained wheezing noises coming from his throat, obviously due to the airborne dust. Still trembling discreetly, he coughed and slowly sat up, knees hugged to his chest. Seconds ticked by, slower and slower as he gathered himself. The demons laughed in his face and his terror as he stared forwards.
"I am but a memory," was murmured, the first words spoken in day through his cracked lips. Dark eyes flickered towards the underside of his writing desk. "I can't get rid of them, I never will. Too long have I been numb to it all; my time is now, sentenced to hear their cries for all eternity. I am guilty of their deaths and..." He took a shuddering breaths and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "My love. My fiery little goddess. Your death."
Feeling drained and worn out, the dark-haired man stood up gingerly. He had bruised his leg while scuffling on the ground, and had a few cuts along his arms. His nose was bleeding, but none of that mattered. No longer did he feel the coldness of being alone, nor the constant guilt, nor a determination to end his suffering. The demons couldn't touch him, nothing could. He had a firm resolution twisted within his soul, and the gentle acceptance of it kept them at bay. He sat down in his chair and picked up his pen.
And he wrote.

Dear Diiedre,
How are you doing down in Hell? I think I'm safe to assume that you didn't end up in Heaven after the life you lead, and all the influence I put on you. Don't give it any thought though; I'll be meeting you down there sometime or another. There's no way I could reach Heaven, even if I spent the rest of my life doing community service. I've committed too many sins, killed too many people. I really wish I hadn't. Their lives would have been worth so much more than mine has. I keep hearing their screams in my head.
Anyways, I don't think I can just do the small talk, not right now. There's so much I didn't tell you, so much I can't tell you. I'm sorry I killed you. Argh, no, scratch that. I didn't mean to hit you... No that's not right. Damnit, why can't I say this? Let's try from the beginning...
It's been six years since you've died, twelve since I met you. It's been twelve years since my life changed, as cheesy as it sounds. Were you here, you'd probably slap me for being a sentimental old fool, but you're not so I can get away with it. I find I can get away with a lot now that you're no longer around. Makes me realise how tightly you had me wrapped around your finger, and I wish I could laugh about it. Really, if I weren't so fucking depressed over you, I'd probably be laughing.
I think that out of my life, my biggest regret is not laughing more. You always did and I loved every minute of it. Makes me wonder if you ever liked it when I laughed. Most likely not, since I have a terrible laugh, quite unlike you. You were great all the way around.
Actually, my biggest regret, understandably, is killing you. I swear it was a mistake, but it was the worst mistake of my life. I miss you so much. I really do. I was trying to save you from that creep trying to knife your back. It was so fast I hardly had time to aim, so I hit you instead. I hate him. But probably not as much as I hate me.
Please bear with my ramblings. I haven't told anyone (not that it matters), and the only I ever really wanted to tell was you. Seeing how I wanted to talk about your death though, I don't see how that's possible except for in the form of deception. Pretending I'm writing a letter to someone who'll actually read this.
I am so sorry for murdering you. I feel so guilty over it... Like I shouldn't even live anymore. Trust me, sometimes I think it's not worth being here anymore. No one needs me, and the one person I need is dead. Dead and laughing at me from Hell. It would be so easy to just shoot myself in the head - I always have a gun on me, you know that - and be with you again. But I'm a coward, and I just can't bring myself to do it. Surprised? Yeah, I'm not the tough guy I claim to be... I'm actually deathly (oh, bad pun) afraid of death. It's a journey I'm scared to make, even if it means meeting you at the end.
(Oh great, the paper is getting wet. You would be so disappointed in me. I'm crying.)
I don't think I can continue this much longer. I miss you so much, and though I never told you, I think I love you. Your fiery hair, your perfect lips, your eyes... Oh I miss you... Diiedre, come back...

Breaking off as his hand started to shake too much, the man turned away from the paper and howled in despair. "My love!" He cried, wounds fresh as they were the day he shot the one woman he loved. All those years passing by while he worked mechanically, never really thinking, he had feared to cry for her, feared for the pain to be too great for him to handle. Despite his work to stop remembering, she was back with full force and he felt his chest lying on the floor, heart beating openly.

I don't think you'll ever comprehend the extent of how much I wish you were here... But I miss you. Life has stopped now that you're gone.
Love, Irroe.