The Dead Man's Woman

Yes, it has been a while. Ah well.

This is pretty much all the good that can come out of late night exam mugging. I was recently told that this blog is 'all serious' and in that spirit, here is a piece inspired by Albert Camus' The Stranger, fiction written from the point of view of Marie. Title credits, a play adaptation I was a part of a couple of years ago :D

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I’m tired of being the mistress of a man sentenced to death. How long am I to hold on, hang in there, not let go? To cling to a sliver of hope by the tips of my manicured fingernails? To shut out the voice in my head crying for rationality, for a better future?

I love him. Or at least, I did.

We met in strange circumstances, we did. His mother had died, my boyfriend had left me. It is unsettling, speaking of these situations in the same breadth, almost writing off the death of a progenitor as being the same as a spineless, transient relationship. Yet what can I say? That queasily unsettling feeling of the very first day set the tone for our liaison. I became the mistress. He became the stranger whose unidentifiable charm drew me in deeper than I expected.

I want to marry him. Or at least, I did.

He grew on me, that man. How and when, I do not know. He had an abrupt way about him, always answering questions off the top of that intelligent head. If one didn’t know better, one would claim there was no heart in the man, that he was merely a machine with bodily needs. God knows I knew of them. Yet, I walked up to him one sunny afternoon. And I asked him to marry me. What possessed me, I have not the slightest clue. Did I expect him to gush with emotion? No. Did the long forgotten memories of girlish romance threaten to rear their suppressed head? I think so. I should have known better. He said yes because I was the first woman to ask.

I know him. Or at least, I did.

He didn’t do it on purpose. He is not a bad man. We went swimming that morning. Out in the middle of the ocean, our legs intertwined as we floated in the calm waters, I almost felt happy, normal. His hands found their place on the small of my back and we kissed. The salt in my mouth mixing with the salt in his mouth mixing with the salt in mine. Four hours later, they found a man with five bullets in him. They said he had done it. No. I don’t want to hear more.

I believe him. Or at least, I did.

He told the world it was an accident. A series of unfortunate events. A set of bad circumstances. A mere coincidence. He didn’t speak to me at all. His lawyer said he hadn’t meant to kill that man. It was Raymond who had a bone to pick after all. Maybe it was the sun at the wrong angle or something about the sand. There was a dead man on the floor and the gun in his hand. This is all we know. But he isn’t a bad person. He isn’t.

I want to wait. Or at least, I did.

I visited him at prison. Once. I sat on the other side of the glass with a plastic smile plastered on my face. I asked him if he was fine. He said he was. I felt stupid asking. So I spoke. I spoke to fill the awkward silence. I spoke to hush the nervous beating of my heart. I spoke. I told him of work and tennis and swimming. Of Raymond and Masson. I spoke till my jaw hurt. Till the men came to take him away. I spoke and I smiled. And I never went back.

I’m tired of being the mistress of a man sentenced to death. They say he will die and I will live. But I want him to survive. At least, I did.