Creative Writing

Scarlett Crimson

We were young and dumb. Yes, sounds a bit cliché but we were immature. I’m not trying to hint that being mature means you don’t make mistakes, but it is the best excuse for what we did.

Yes, I love you and yes we had fun. When we were married I couldn’t see anyone else. We often spoke about that being a good thing, possibly the sweetest thing ever but I have realised now it is that reason why I can no longer be around for you. I couldn’t see any other woman before, so I didn’t have the chance to strengthen my fidelity, I had no interests because I saw nothing to be interested in. It’s been four years and I’ve felt that way up until you had that accident. You have been in this coma for three weeks, and they don’t know if you’re going to make it. Since I’ve accepted that it’s like scales have been lifted from my eyes.

I see everything now, I see the beauty of the world, I see women and men but not in the same light anymore. I see couples doing things together and enjoying one another’s company. Then I go home to an empty house, and sit in the dark with a bottle of wine and three pictures of you. I flick through them over and over and over, as though I was going through a whole album.

It is the one I took, when you first got off the plane to come and see me for the summer, with your scarf wrapped around your head and clipped under your chin, your lips as red as blood, your shades as black as night and as round as a full moon. You are not smiling in the picture but I remember how you couldn’t stop grinning as you realised who was behind the camera.

The other one is when you were sat at the morgue, when we went to bury our three week old baby girl. The picture looks almost black and white, but that’s odd because it was taken in colour. The last one was taken on the final night of our wedding, when our families were leaving, yours to Ohio and mine to London. Oh dear, how you cried about their departure. You fought with me that night, actually you fought with me most of that week. I didn’t make them go, nor did I make you marry me. You decided it all and that’s what happened.

I don’t know why it had to be those three pictures, every single night. Tonight though, I thought it important that you know. I met someone. I only met her yesterday, but she’s still here. She sat with me last night, while I flicked through your pictures and finished my bottle of wine; she had her own.

We quit our jobs in the morning, and hired a pair of Barclays bikes and cycled around the Hyde Park. Then we went back to the costume shop and played dress up games. Then ran all the way back to the park and we watched the sun set. Today I got to be young and dumb. I declared you dead and remarried, sort of. She’s my wife; she’s called Scarlett Crimson now. I am going to bring her in to see you soon. She’s going to love you.

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