Darkness spills in through the large windows of the silent room. What little light the moon has to offer shines dimly over the cherry oak floor. A breeze leisurely takes its time drifting across the vacant space between the open window and the chair I sit in, to softly rustle my dishevelled hair. This peaceful October night should in fact bring peace upon my restless soul, but it does not calm the madness in my head.

My thoughts battle with my conscience like two crows fighting for the last remains of carrion. As I sit in the chair, I cannot help but wonder if there is a sane explanation for what I have done. Perhaps the wind, which now rattles the window frame as it strengthens, will whisper its approval in my hungering ear. I long for someone—anyone!—to convince me that what I’ve done is justifiable; to assure me that I am not insane. But the wind, with all its might, only blows embers and ash from the fireplace into the already blackened room.

I do not fear the dark or what may lay behind it. Nor do I fear death or dying alone. At this hour, when darkness and death should be my only fears—and the moonlight my friend—do I curse the rays of brilliant light and call upon the Reaper himself to slay the bewildered nature of my state. The silent night deafens my reason.
Silence is the enemy that tortures you. It pecks and pricks at your every last piece of lucidity until you cannot bare it any longer. It clings to the shadows, blends in with the light! Silence is the villain which persuades you to believe you cannot see it, then tortures you mentally until you swear it’s the figure standing in front of you.
My guilty soul shakes in its prison beneath my ribs. My heart pounds rapidly, competing with the noise of the currently growling wind. Misty clouds the colour of coal cover the half-moon with their bodies. I pray the shadows will hide what I’ve done from the spirit who dances around my head, mocking me with her innocence. And ever does she mock me, with taunts of guilt which burden my heavy soul and eat away at my pride like maggots to a corpse. The spirit reminds me of my fault.
I could say I did not mean my actions; that it was an accident I could not prevent. But I know as well as the spirit herself that my Tormentor would reprimand me for such lies. I do not pity myself nor ease my conscience with small comforts that are naïve in their nature. My sanity, though, does suffer from such uncertainty about my battle between right and wrong. My conscience pulls at the angelic figure on my shoulder, begging it to subdue the devilish being that seems to have adopted all matter of sense in my mind.
And through the entire struggle—the bout for my plea to rationality!—have I forgotten why I carry on in this plight? My fault, my conscience, and my sanity all lay right in my lap! In the chair in the room with the vast window, does the spirit’s body lie limp in my arms. Her reposing gray eyes stare vacantly at the ceiling. Perhaps her lingering spirit solemnly damns me. Or perhaps, for the sake of my reason, the spirit thanks me. It is the reason, after all, which ever so politely solicited me to take the sickle from the shed and pierce it through her heart.
It would seem to the sane person that my arrangements were erroneous. Yet if the one you love did beg and plead for you to take their life—seeing as they could not take their own—and agony was the extent of their knowledge, then would you end their misery? That is the question which stares at me like a fiend and renders me a coward in the face of God.
The spirit’s melancholy eyes appear to gaze right through me, personally chastising my conscience. But I’m afraid that my conscience was deafened by her screams of pain and longing when she fell to her knees in front of me and asked with innocent eyes “please, take my life”. Now, hours later, she seems to have revoked her desire. I only wish the spirit had told me sooner, for the deed has been done and she lay lifeless in my arms.
Though the room is cold from the open window, my body remains warm. It is sick, indeed, but true that her blood does bathe me in such warmth. To say that the warmth is from my heart would be a lie, as it now beats slowly, dead and blackened in my chest. My sanity argues that I should rid of the spirit’s body, let it decompose with nature, but my black heart clings to any sign of life that may ripple through her corpse. The wind in her hair, the emptying of her blood, makes me believe that by some means she is still alive.
If she were not alive, then how could the spirit stand at the open window, whispering my name to the wind? I dare not believe my eyes for the face of the hauntingly beautiful spirit gazes back at me through the moonlight. Her gaze then slowly turns to that damned open window. With one final peak beyond her shoulder to wink at my dazed expression, she climbs the window ledge, and, like a feather, floats daintily out into the wind.
My crazed eyes frantically make their way back to the body in my arms. It lies tranquil on my lap, now, in peace with the rhythm of silence. The bleeding has ceased. The spirit’s hair does not move, even for the wind. And only now do I realize the consequence of my fault. Not her life, her body, nor her spirit, but my mind. That brilliant light from such a cursed moon did go overlooked when it did steal my sanity.
A pounding sounds at the door. Crude voices make their way to my chair, rudely interrupting my thoughts. But I cannot stand, for what could I do with the spirit’s body? The banging proceeds. The voices threaten to enter. I dare not move. Suddenly the pounding stops. Quiet resumes its place in the room. Then, with no warning to be found, the door bursts open.
Two men in bobby-style uniforms come crashing through the door. They order me to stand. The two face the back of my chair. They obviously do not see the spirit in my arms. “I cannot stand.” I reply to their demand. The men laugh and ask me why I cannot stand. “She lies in my arms. I cannot let her fall.” I do not see their faces but I know they’ve gone blank. The men have stopped laughing.
“Who be in your arms, Sir?” one of the men inquires. I don’t reply this time.
Both men immerge from behind my chair to look at the spirit in my lap, only they do not react. “There be no one in your arms.” The same man suggests.
I peer back down at my lap. The spirit sleeps there as clear as day. “Can’t you see her?” Those piercing eyes stare back at me once more, daring me to speak one last time. “Her eyes—how could you not see those menacing eyes?” The men gaze at me bewilderedly.
All at once the men grab my arms and force me from my chair. The spirit falls limp to the ground, cursing me for letting her slip. “No!” I scream, “How could you let her fall? What terrible monsters are you?” I struggle with the men, shoving at them and pleading they let me free. The spirit’s eyes turn black. Her beauty is lost, her innocence stolen.
I am pushed through the door, into the open night. The moonlight pierces my vision. The men shackle my wrists and push me towards the ever ominous black of the unknown. As they guide me away from the house, I spot the spirit standing below the window of den. She grimaces at me and whispers a secret to the wind which is carried by the leaves to my chilled ear. The men suddenly cease their walking, remove my shackles, and—for all my surprise—fall to the ground.
Perhaps it was what the spirit said, or it was purely the sight of her that made the men fall limp, but I do believe her words were truly haunting. What the spirit left me with? “In spirits night, no man shall fight nor cower, for beyond the wind lies a ruthless man, whom sits in the light of the shadow.”