The Dawn of my Death.

Tears roll down her weathered face as she collapses to the tiled kitchen floor, grasping at the red hand print on her left cheek. My hand print. I stare coldly at the quivering woman in front of me with disgust. Briskly, I take my leave, insuring to slam the door behind me, just for effect. I scan the cold, deserted street, as I begin to walk, far from that place I call home, and that woman I call wife.

The cool night air washes away the uncontrollable wave of anger that consumes me. I had to escape. After nearly 50 years, I know the routine off by heart. As soon as you feel that hurricane spiralling up from your toes, turn and walk away.

The smell of salt fills the air around me, the crashing waves against the sand echo louder and louder with every step closer I take. I remove my faded, battered shoes and breathe a sigh of relief as I bury my feet deep into the cool sand beneath me.

I walk along the shore, leaving slight indentations of footprints behind me. I take a deep, salt filled breath as my mind takes me back, to the day of our wedding. The memory is blurred, lost over time, but tiny, insignificant fragments remain. A flash of her rosy cheeks and her deep loving smile find their way into view. Her sea blue eyes fixed on me as she walks down the aisle. We were so young, so in love. I smile back; all I know is that I love her.

I snap back into reality as I sharply exhale. I look out into the black pitch that covers the ocean. Darkness stretches out so far that I lose my gaze somewhere out at sea. I walk on, lost in thought. I travel back to the birth of our child, a little girl, my little angel. Her blue eyes looking up at me, her mother’s eyes. Her laugh brought so much life to our home, and joy to our hearts. I loved my wife even more then; she had given me everything I could ever want. I still remember that cold, windy night. It was 2am when I awoke to check on her, I was surprised that she had not stirred, with all the gushing wind crashing against the house. I had reached into her cot to fix her blanket, she looked so peaceful, I thought she was just asleep.

The years that followed felt like time itself had stopped. It wasn’t long before I started to blame her. I remember the very first blow, it is the clearest memory I have, the one that constantly haunts my dreams.

The salt is getting stronger, I’m sure of it. My eyes are beginning to water. But not tears, never would I shed even a single tear over her. I had turned all my rage, all my anger and confusion into one powerful blow that had knocked her to the floor and left her in shock. The beatings came regularly after that, every smash fuelling my anguish. She never once tried to stop me, she wouldn't dare. It was on that first blow that my love for her turned into a powerful hatred.

I look at my watch, it’s almost sunrise. I can’t possibly remember the last time I had sat up to watch the sun light up the world. As I walk on towards a distance park bench I feel an unfamiliar compassion welling up side of me. Regret? All these years, have I been living a lie? Convincing myself that it was all her, when she too experienced the loss of a child.

A lonesome tear trickles down my cheek as I sit and wait for the sun to cast its rays across the glistening ocean. The first beam of sunrise stretches out bringing warmth to my body, through to my soul. I think of the smile she wore on our wedding day and her weary eyes that have devotedly watched over me. They now give me a sense of comfort and guide me to the pending tunnel, of white light.