Rosie

By Billy Ramone

Watching a relationship die is never easy.   

          The sun is setting. Darkness rolls from behind garages and under trees where it has spent the day hiding. It flows across the yard, the block. It fills the town. I look at the picture of Rosie again: so young and carefree, with blonde curls framing her heart-shaped face. Her blue eyes sparkle with laughter as she waves shyly at the camera. I slip the photo into my pocket and let the darkness fill me, too.

Rosie is napping.  I guess that’s what people do when they’re sick and miserable. They close their eyes and check out. 

          As I start up the steps, I can hear her fussing. The real problem is her attitude. The unfairness of it causes rage to catch in my throat. Cursing me, when I’ve been so good to her. Opened my home. Shared my heart. And how have I been repaid? With suspicion. Anger. Accusations.     

          I see her dark form on the bed in the attic’s fading light. If it weren’t for her muffled voice, I would think she’s asleep. In the gloom, I see she’s tried to work a hand loose. Her wrist bleeds from the friction. She rolls to face me, hissing invective through her gag. She knows I’m there even though she can’t see me. I’d hated the way her eyes had filled with spite. They betrayed her, and she’s better off without them. I caress her cheek, and she shrinks into the angle formed by the ceiling and wall. 

It makes me sad to see her like this. It’s amazing how much can change in just a few days.

But there’s no use dragging things out. I clasp her throat. She shrieks into the gag. I miss her eyes then. They’d been so expressive; I’m sure they would have spoken volumes in the end. I console myself with the shudder that passes through her as her thrashing ends. As she moves from this side of the great barrier to the other, I wonder what the transition holds for her. A pulse of envy passes through me as I realize that now she already knows things I can only guess.   

I carry her to the car and drive slowly through the darkness to the Scioto.  Rosie slides quietly into the water, a white slash along the river’s black breast that lingers a moment, then merges into the darkness. I pull her picture out of my pocket, but it’s too dark to see. I say I’m indifferent, that loneliness no longer hurts. I know better, though. For a while, I’ll pretend solitude doesn’t bother me.   The pretense will sustain me until another pair of sparkling eyes and another glittering smile capture my attention. I know that despite Rosie, despite the other failed relationships, I’ll dust myself off and try again. 

I really am a hopeless romantic at heart.