Though he expected it, Murphy can't help but exhale in disbelief. "Carol?"
She looks no different than he remembers, though it's weird seeing her wearing that hospital gown. However, her hair is the same length, her eyes are the same, narrow shapes. She even wears the same look of anger and revulsion. It's no different than the way she has always looked at him, ever since Charlie died.
Heartbroken by that very look, Murphy still approaches her the only way he knows how to. He lifts his hand, gets a better look at her face. Hoping that maybe, maybe there will be some traces of the wife he once knew, the woman he'd fallen in love and had a son with, somewhere in there.
Part of him has always wanted this, has been waiting for this moment. He imagined what it must be like, to seize the opportunity of a second chance. A chance for change, and renewal. Sometimes, it's all he can ever think about. What their lives would be like if she had forgiven him back then, if she could ever find it in her to love him as much as he still loved her. How he was willing to sacrifice everything he had left in order to bring her (and his own demons) the peace of mind, knowing that their son's killer was no longer alive. It's what she wanted, wasn't it?
So why isn't she happy for him?
"Carol..." Murphy repeats her name again like a mantra. What should he feel right now? Relief? Dread? "I'm sor--"
But he was wrong, he's always been wrong. All that's left is the same distaste, her hatred written all over when she rolls her cheek away from his touch. Murphy stops in the doorway. She's backed herself into the hallway wall. Even then, her eyes might as well be darting needles with all the fierceness of a mountain lion.
"What did I tell you about asking me for forgiveness?" Carol snaps. On top of all that is similar, she even sounds the same, except for one thing. Her voices are piled on top of each other. Emotions of sadness and anguish, happiness and relief, anger and ire, all is rolled into one speech. Her spite vibrates in the blood coursing through Murphy's veins, when his wife sneers at him in disdain. "How dare you try to touch me, Murphy. How dare you come here! DON'T LOOK AT ME--"
Murphy went to make his first mistake, and that was trying to close the distance between him and Carol. Immediately, she whips her palm across his face. Once he was looking at Carol's seething despair -- now he is staring at the wall. His brows furrow then. He notices that the paint is old and chipping away. It was never like that before.
"What did you think was going to happen, Murphy? That I would accept you, take you back? Happy ending?! What's wrong with you--" More and more, Carol's rage evolves into something else. She begins swinging her fists at him, pounding his chest. It hurts a lot more than it should, though not because of anything that can physically assault him. "DID YOU FORGET? HE'S GONE BECAUSE OF YOU -- OUR SON IS GONE. YOU'VE DESTROYED MY LIFE, MURPHY, AND I CAN'T JUST...! I CAN'T!"
As Carol screams, smoke seeps from the wall paint. Only it does not smell like burning wood. No, it smells like flesh. Skin and bone and hair. A horrible smell. There's a moment in which he remembers what it's like. Standing on the shore, watching the officers fishing the canvas sack from the bottom of the lake. He's reminded of the dead, watery smell. How small and fragile the shape within the sack looked before the contents had even been revealed.
It goes on like this for some time with Carol, their home, and remembering. Every passing second is a moment relived. After awhile, her berating words start to take form. It's as though their meaning sharpens the spear. Either Carol's gotten bigger, towering, or Murphy is getting smaller. The only change in their surroundings is the way the walls crinkle and peel; fire and rainwater seep through the cracks of their home. Carol, on the other hand, is rising. Her hospital gown tears, looks older, more worn out. Her long, graying black hair thins. Dark eyes become even darker when black ink pours into them, tearing down her cheeks. Carol rants and shrieks, her words forming together into the same mantra of her disgust and hatred. Murphy can't help but stare. This boils her even more...
"WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?"
This time, when her hand sweeps across his face, Murphy does not roll with the punch. It's impossible, because this time, he's thrown. Hurled down the hallway, he hits the floor again with abrasive force. He drags, rolling into the main entrance.
Fire continues to burn all around them, in spite of the continual rainfall pouring from the exposed ceiling. Above, everything from the second and third floor is caving in, though miraculously missing Murphy and his wife in the wave. The crumbing debris reveals a burning sky and rapidly shifting clouds, as if time is speeding forwards or backwards or doesn't even mean jack shit anymore. He isn't given much time to muse over this, when Carol retrieves him with her claws, lifts Murphy's upper half up off the ground, and starts digging the claws from her other hand into his chest.
He yells as the four-pointed needles dig deeper. When he does this, it only angers his wife even further, when he sees her. Her inhuman, twisted face, mostly shrouded behind a tattered black veil. Murphy immediately recognizes what she's wearing.
It's the dress and veil that Carol wore to Charlie's funeral.
Suddenly, Murphy doesn't feel much like screaming any more than he was sure to puke. What does this matter to her, other than to fuel her hatred for him and dig her claws even deeper into his skin. The cloth of his green overshirt shreds, exposing his bloodied chest that blooms out and soaks into his clothes.
"DO YOU REALLY THINK THIS IS WHAT CHARLIE FELT? IS THIS THE PAIN YOU THINK HE WENT THROUGH, WHEN YOU WEREN'T THERE TO PROTECT HIM? WHERE WERE YOU WHEN HE NEEDED YOU, MURPHY? WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU WHEN THAT MONSTER HAD HIM! YOU KNOW WHAT HE DID TO OUR SON. YOU KNOW--"
"Yes! I know!" Murphy cried. He couldn't tell if these were tears on his face, or drops of water as the rain fell down harder. These halls were once their beautiful home, full of life and love. Now all that's left is pain, and broken people. "I tried, Carol, but I didn't know what else to do! I can't bring him back. I can't--"
The sharp daggers of his wife's fingernails drilled into Murphy's chest, puncturing his lungs. Despite one of them spearing through his heart, he could feel it, continuing to beat rapidly in his ribs.
By all counts, Murphy Pendleton should be dead. Impaled by his ex-wife's hands.
"I can't do this anymore..."
He's tired. He can't take this. He thought he could come back here, make amends with her, find peace and maybe move on. But it's too late for that.
It's too late for the both of them.
He's colder than he's ever been now. More so when his arm swings out to grab hold of something. Carol's eyes widen when Murphy brings his arm right back. The blade of a kitchen knife dives into her side. As a result, her fingers stab so far into him that her claws rip out of his back and pin him to the ground. Completely, entirely, and wholly at the mercy of her fury, unable to run.
Dying.
"It's alright. You don't forgive me, and I know you never will." He wrenches the knife out of Carol's side. He grips it tight, steeling himself to drive it in again. And again. And again. Teeth clenched. Screaming on the inside as he watches the life disappear from the monstrous visage that could have, should have once been his wife. "I'm sorry. It's alright. I can't fix it. I can't... I'm so sorry, it's alright..."
Maybe it's death talking now. After several attempts to drive the blade through her ribs and chest, Murphy makes the final blow. The knife cuts clean through the side of Carol's neck, just like butter.
{Little Man Being Erased | Part IV.}
Though he expected it, Murphy can't help but exhale in disbelief. "Carol?"
She looks no different than he remembers, though it's weird seeing her wearing that hospital gown. However, her hair is the same length, her eyes are the same, narrow shapes. She even wears the same look of anger and revulsion. It's no different than the way she has always looked at him, ever since Charlie died.
Heartbroken by that very look, Murphy still approaches her the only way he knows how to. He lifts his hand, gets a better look at her face. Hoping that maybe, maybe there will be some traces of the wife he once knew, the woman he'd fallen in love and had a son with, somewhere in there.
Part of him has always wanted this, has been waiting for this moment. He imagined what it must be like, to seize the opportunity of a second chance. A chance for change, and renewal. Sometimes, it's all he can ever think about. What their lives would be like if she had forgiven him back then, if she could ever find it in her to love him as much as he still loved her. How he was willing to sacrifice everything he had left in order to bring her (and his own demons) the peace of mind, knowing that their son's killer was no longer alive. It's what she wanted, wasn't it?
So why isn't she happy for him?
"Carol..." Murphy repeats her name again like a mantra. What should he feel right now? Relief? Dread? "I'm sor--"
But he was wrong, he's always been wrong. All that's left is the same distaste, her hatred written all over when she rolls her cheek away from his touch. Murphy stops in the doorway. She's backed herself into the hallway wall. Even then, her eyes might as well be darting needles with all the fierceness of a mountain lion.
"What did I tell you about asking me for forgiveness?" Carol snaps. On top of all that is similar, she even sounds the same, except for one thing. Her voices are piled on top of each other. Emotions of sadness and anguish, happiness and relief, anger and ire, all is rolled into one speech. Her spite vibrates in the blood coursing through Murphy's veins, when his wife sneers at him in disdain. "How dare you try to touch me, Murphy. How dare you come here! DON'T LOOK AT ME--"
Murphy went to make his first mistake, and that was trying to close the distance between him and Carol. Immediately, she whips her palm across his face. Once he was looking at Carol's seething despair -- now he is staring at the wall. His brows furrow then. He notices that the paint is old and chipping away. It was never like that before.
"What did you think was going to happen, Murphy? That I would accept you, take you back? Happy ending?! What's wrong with you--" More and more, Carol's rage evolves into something else. She begins swinging her fists at him, pounding his chest. It hurts a lot more than it should, though not because of anything that can physically assault him. "DID YOU FORGET? HE'S GONE BECAUSE OF YOU -- OUR SON IS GONE. YOU'VE DESTROYED MY LIFE, MURPHY, AND I CAN'T JUST...! I CAN'T!"
As Carol screams, smoke seeps from the wall paint. Only it does not smell like burning wood. No, it smells like flesh. Skin and bone and hair. A horrible smell. There's a moment in which he remembers what it's like. Standing on the shore, watching the officers fishing the canvas sack from the bottom of the lake. He's reminded of the dead, watery smell. How small and fragile the shape within the sack looked before the contents had even been revealed.
It goes on like this for some time with Carol, their home, and remembering. Every passing second is a moment relived. After awhile, her berating words start to take form. It's as though their meaning sharpens the spear. Either Carol's gotten bigger, towering, or Murphy is getting smaller. The only change in their surroundings is the way the walls crinkle and peel; fire and rainwater seep through the cracks of their home. Carol, on the other hand, is rising. Her hospital gown tears, looks older, more worn out. Her long, graying black hair thins. Dark eyes become even darker when black ink pours into them, tearing down her cheeks. Carol rants and shrieks, her words forming together into the same mantra of her disgust and hatred. Murphy can't help but stare. This boils her even more...
"WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?"
This time, when her hand sweeps across his face, Murphy does not roll with the punch. It's impossible, because this time, he's thrown. Hurled down the hallway, he hits the floor again with abrasive force. He drags, rolling into the main entrance.
Fire continues to burn all around them, in spite of the continual rainfall pouring from the exposed ceiling. Above, everything from the second and third floor is caving in, though miraculously missing Murphy and his wife in the wave. The crumbing debris reveals a burning sky and rapidly shifting clouds, as if time is speeding forwards or backwards or doesn't even mean jack shit anymore. He isn't given much time to muse over this, when Carol retrieves him with her claws, lifts Murphy's upper half up off the ground, and starts digging the claws from her other hand into his chest.
He yells as the four-pointed needles dig deeper. When he does this, it only angers his wife even further, when he sees her. Her inhuman, twisted face, mostly shrouded behind a tattered black veil. Murphy immediately recognizes what she's wearing.
It's the dress and veil that Carol wore to Charlie's funeral.
Suddenly, Murphy doesn't feel much like screaming any more than he was sure to puke. What does this matter to her, other than to fuel her hatred for him and dig her claws even deeper into his skin. The cloth of his green overshirt shreds, exposing his bloodied chest that blooms out and soaks into his clothes.
"DO YOU REALLY THINK THIS IS WHAT CHARLIE FELT? IS THIS THE PAIN YOU THINK HE WENT THROUGH, WHEN YOU WEREN'T THERE TO PROTECT HIM? WHERE WERE YOU WHEN HE NEEDED YOU, MURPHY? WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU WHEN THAT MONSTER HAD HIM! YOU KNOW WHAT HE DID TO OUR SON. YOU KNOW--"
"Yes! I know!" Murphy cried. He couldn't tell if these were tears on his face, or drops of water as the rain fell down harder. These halls were once their beautiful home, full of life and love. Now all that's left is pain, and broken people. "I tried, Carol, but I didn't know what else to do! I can't bring him back. I can't--"
The sharp daggers of his wife's fingernails drilled into Murphy's chest, puncturing his lungs. Despite one of them spearing through his heart, he could feel it, continuing to beat rapidly in his ribs.
By all counts, Murphy Pendleton should be dead. Impaled by his ex-wife's hands.
"I can't do this anymore..."
He's tired. He can't take this. He thought he could come back here, make amends with her, find peace and maybe move on. But it's too late for that.
It's too late for the both of them.
He's colder than he's ever been now. More so when his arm swings out to grab hold of something. Carol's eyes widen when Murphy brings his arm right back. The blade of a kitchen knife dives into her side. As a result, her fingers stab so far into him that her claws rip out of his back and pin him to the ground. Completely, entirely, and wholly at the mercy of her fury, unable to run.
Dying.
"It's alright. You don't forgive me, and I know you never will." He wrenches the knife out of Carol's side. He grips it tight, steeling himself to drive it in again. And again. And again. Teeth clenched. Screaming on the inside as he watches the life disappear from the monstrous visage that could have, should have once been his wife. "I'm sorry. It's alright. I can't fix it. I can't... I'm so sorry, it's alright..."
Maybe it's death talking now. After several attempts to drive the blade through her ribs and chest, Murphy makes the final blow. The knife cuts clean through the side of Carol's neck, just like butter.