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My eyes hurt from staring at the computer screen for too long. I felt like I was losing my eyesight and my brain was turning to mush. The human body is very careful though; it doesn’t spring surprises and always gives out ample warning signals. Signs like seeing shadows move from the corner of my eyes. Whether that was a signal of the mushiness of my brain or the strain on my eyesight, I couldn’t care less. All I wanted was to finish writing the book. The book had begun as a joke. Tricia had dared me to write a story for her; something no sane husband or writer would ever publish. I had picked up the gauntlet playfully and decided to write an erotic thriller, something very different from my usual writing style. I intended for it to be a short and simple story. It would be long enough to capture all the nuances of a tragic heroine and short enough to be very captivating for the reader but alas, the story took on a life of its own. It grew like wildfire and my sweat, time and imagination were like gasoline, feeding the thirsty inferno of words. It consumed my mind completely with its sensual storyline and like a fly in a spider’s web, I could not get away from it. I didn’t notice when my Tricia began to fade

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Tricia was my flower, my siren on a rocky shore. She was that smooth gleaming pebble sitting alone on pale beach sand, calling me to come pick it up. She was the song of a bird in flight, music to my ears. She was that single flame flickering in the dead of night, its playful flames seducing me over and over. She was the inspiration of many of my writings and without doubt, I owed her all of my literary successes. My Tricia was all that to me but I was not paying attention to her. The book had wrapped its soft, rose-scented limbs around my mind and I could not extricate myself. Each time, I put down my pen and turned to see Tricia’s hopeful gaze, an idea would pop in my head like a red hot log in the hearth and I would turn back to the book. As I typed the words frantically to capture my thoughts so as not to lose anyone, everything that was real would fade into a soft murmur at the back of my mind.

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On the day she died, I had shredded a chapter that did not turn out the way I wanted it to. I was pretty irritated and grumpy. I left my study and went in search of my angel, knowing she would lighten my mood with just a smile. I entered the living room she shared with her three cats and was surprised to see it empty, she wasn’t one to stay in bed for long. I walked up to our bedroom and she was there, her beautiful locks in sensual disarray all over the pillow, her face slack with sleep and her long lashes framing her high cheekbones. The morning sun peeped between the folds of the curtain that framed the window and the tiny slash of golden light sat on her lips as if it was on stage and set for it to speak. I studied her, admiring the beauty of her face, forgetting the book for a minute. It was then I noticed the grayish pallor of her dark skin. Next, I noticed the chapped look of her lips and then the fact that her chest was devoid of movement. It did not rise nor fall. I rushed to her and her body was cold. She was gone! My Tricia was gone!

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The seduction of the book fell off me like a curtain parting ways to let in the glory of the sun. I could suddenly see. I tried to weep but this pain had moved beyond tears before I could grasp that release. It twisted my heart and clogged my lungs. I begged for air and pleaded for tears to come, screaming to be granted any kind of release. I was still screaming when they came to take her away. The house turned its face from me and I fell into deep gloom. I avoided the study like a plague and I paced all the other rooms; the rooms where Tricia had been in the most. I pursued her scent wherever I could. I grasped at the echo of her laughter and the song of her voice each time I heard a sound. The cats grew feral and hungry and then one day, they also disowned me. I was alone in the house for years, drowning in my pain and wishing I had paid more attention to the one thing that meant the world to me. I wallowed in my torment without an iota of release nor closure because, in all of those lonely dark years, I was unable to shed a single tear. My heart was seared with so much guilt and pain that it seemed to have turned to stone.

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Then after 5 years, salvation came in form of Tricia’s big sister, Benita. She came and in a few weeks whipped the place about, forced me out of reclusion and made me read stories to her two children and two dogs. The dogs drooled on my trouser and carpet and the kids left cake crumbs all over the place. Ants soon took to traipsing the floor in impunity, looting cake crumbs right beneath our very noses. I tried to be normal but felt no spark of energy nor interest until Benita opened the door to the study. Suddenly, a bell went off in my brain and I moved without realizing it. The room was just as I had left it 5 years ago. The shredded pieces were still in the waste paper basket. My laptop still sat open and my pen still lay on a sheet of paper beside it. The hearth was cold and dust had settled like a veil over the entire space. Benita picked the sheaf of papers beside my laptop and began to read. After some minutes, she dropped it on the table and walked out of the room. I turned to follow her but then a word on the paper captured my attention. It was a verb that was not supposed to be where it was. It needed correction. I picked the pen and made the correction and then another paragraph caught my eye. I chuckled at the witty words and began to read.

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Later when Benita came back with more of her infernal cakes and the 2 dogs, I was writing feverishly. She set down the tray and left without a word. When I came to myself and stepped out of the study, it was already night time. She was there in the parlor knitting something ugly as usual. I began to feel the prickling of guilt and a need to explain myself.

“I’m so sorry Benita. That book needs to be completed. It took so much from me. I realize now that leaving it incomplete would be an unforgivable waste.”

She nodded, smiling and then stretched out a letter to me. She had picked it from the little basket that sat on the sofa beside her.

“She said to give this to you when you started writing again.”

I took the paper from her with shaking hands and mixed feelings of hope and guilt. It was a letter from Tricia. I read it hungrily, feasting my eyes on the words like a starving man. When I was done, my face was wet with tears, the first in 5 years. I did not try to stop it. I just sat on the rug and blubbered like a baby. Benita watched me with an understanding smile on her face, she knew I was finally getting the closure I needed. When I was done, I went back into the study, closed the door and continued to write and I have been writing since. I would finish this book even if it is the last thing I would ever do.

**The End.**

Cheers and thanks for reading!!**