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Last updateTue, 06 Aug 2013 2am

Monday, 28 February 2011 23:29


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In the emergency room, I spilled my heart while hers was about to stop. Bright lights like angels should arrive, but I knew my wife and god weren't on speaking terms.
Maybe it was for the better.
She told me, not my wife, the woman sitting next to me –  that it was vanity, vanity that made her wipe the blood away from the floor, she knew how much Veronica loved those floorboards.

Vanity that made her vacuum the apartment before the ambulance arrived, Vanity made her hide her eyeballs behind the eyelids, because they had gone separate ways, stuck at the far corner of each eye, she said:

"She looked really retarded."
My retarded soon-to-be dead wife.
"And I didn't want that for her."
I asked her:
"Why did you take her dress off, why did you put my sweater on her?"
She gathered some tears in her cupped hands.
"You might not look hot in a body bag, but you sure as hell can look fat."
"She was pregnant."
She looked up at me, bloodshot eyes, trembling lips, evil tucked away safe behind a bullshit facade.
I wanted to slap her around the ward, knockout punch her to the floor, tie her hair in a knot around my fist and drag her all along the fucking hospital floors screaming "This bitch ruined my life, and it's my fault."
I found her six months earlier, sad and abandoned – I was one of those things then, now I'm both...she was a yard sale bargain, picked up without any effort – she just found me attractive. She was a 15 minute drive from our house, she was easy, she was a way to shut things off.
"I didn't want it to be like this."
After pumping her belly up with seven shotgun shells, killing my unborn son and my betrayed wife, she tells me "she didn't want it to be like this." I closed my eyes, the minutes were dead and the hours endless.



When I opened them again everything came back together like a fresh polaroid, she was still crying and the doctors hadn't said a word.
"Why haven't you called the police?"
"Because she's not dead yet, and I want you in for murder, not attempt."
She took her eyes off of me, stared at the post-it noteboard on the wall in front of us.
Just slit her throat, all the way from ear to ear, push her face up against the surgery room window, smack her useless face into the glass and tell the doctors "I'm the reason both of them are dead"
People passed by, plastic soles made no noise, nurses talking until they spotted me and her, silent in our chairs – I wish we shared more than beds. Every half hour they would ask if we needed anything, a calm and collected old lady would swing by with coffee, I didn't want coffee.
"Why did you do it?"
"Because what you and I have is real... and beautiful."
We were as beautiful as a Las Vegas wedding. I wanted to blame her, put all the shame and blame and grief and judgment on her, clean myself, have her bite the bullet. But I was the reason my wife was in a coma and about to die. Because I spent Thursday nights fucking her, instead of planning my possibly wonderful future with the woman that I loved.
I stood at the window, watching her die behind the silver blinds, lips from burning red to bruised purple – I was just waiting for the dragged out noise of her heart shutting down and the pointless panicked attempt of throwing the defibrillator on her chest. A burning sensation behind my eyeballs, like they were made of coal, heating up. Tears would be held back, pressed out between shut eyelids, I would not cry – I brought this upon myself.
Countless times the past hour I thought about things she did for me, that I never appreciated. How she paid the bills, I made the money for them - but she sat down with that folder of files and organized all of it. Walked the dog twice the amount of times I ever did. Hid away a small stash of money in a jar, kept adding until we had enough money to do a romantic weekend in Italy. Her family was from Naples. She used to say “That's how far change from Starbucks will get you” then giggle and put the tip of her finger on my nose.
I sat in the chair again, pressing my palms so hard into my eye sockets. Smiling out of despair because there was nothing else I could do, smiling because of the memories.
I thought to myself: this was probably the worst night of my life, then I thought of all the nights that would come, all the nights of the rest of my life – and the previous thought faded quickly.
She was going to die... forever... gone.
Hasty feet came rushing down the aisle, it was past midnight and the steps echoed. A muscular man, tanned skin, nice hairline and a hand-made suit was catching his breath, throwing his head in different directions, as if he was looking for something.
He spoke his words like this was important, like he was at the end of the rope, desperation struck every letter.
“Nurse, NURSE!?”
We both looked at him, eyes fixed on his mouth.
“Excuse me...”
he turned to us.
“I'm looking for Veronica Cusano.”
She asked the question for me, the only good thing she did that night – I had never seen him before.
“Who are you?”
he hesitated for a second, like he was trying to make something up but didn't quite make it.
"...a... friend."
In the emergency room I felt my heart race while... I wanted hers to stop and... and I wanted his to break and shatter.
"Who the fuck are you?"

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Victor Bengtsson

Born in the south parts of Sweden this try-to-be author made a living at the age of 8 pretending he could speak english because he knew all of the other kids had no clue what english was. High School was the big step into realizing what he wanted to do "become the first ever Swedish author published in English." Later on he gained some attention for his Graduation-project "Look past it" and went on to write "Babylon was Overrated" Both of which were helpless attempts at trying to find his own personal writing style, and well... Here we are now.

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