Deathwish

— It’s time for a wartime news refresh, so let us begin. Scroll, yes, scroll. Who will it be?

…four casualties confirmed, no prior alert, two in their late sixties, two in their early thirties, critically injured, building partially collapsed, direct hit, search continues…

— She just turned thirty, didn’t she? But she doesn’t live there anymore. Her parents sold the place, or were about to. I objected, privately. They wanted to move north. But it’s been three years, maybe plans changed. The photo shows the penthouse balcony and the inside of the apartment blown open. I don’t recognize anything. Where’s little Phoebe? But back then we always ran downstairs as soon as we heard those sirens, come love, shower, film, or wine. They didn’t hear anything. It’s someone else. Can’t be, no, it can’t be. During the last war—or is it all one war, in intervals?—when some missile fragment fell in my street, didn’t she check on me? Even though it merely put a dent in the asphalt. No, it was through Dana. Or was it…? She did too, she checked directly, too. I deleted all the numbers. I still remember her email. Idiotic.

Subject: Are you ok?

I saw your old building got hit, are you ok? I know you don’t live there anymore but I thought I’d ask.

— No. I’m not reaching out.
— She can’t answer. Do you want it to be her? A glimpse of dusted pearly flesh, golden hair, twixt brick and gypsum.
— Why would I want it to be her?
— Well, do you?
— Of course I don’t want it to be her and I don’t want her to be hurt.
— Oh, is that your phone?

dude, heard the news. you ok?
what happened?
direct hit on his ex’s place.
Goddamn, im sorry
dude, you there?

— They know it’s your Anna. What’s wrong?
— It’s not her. I just still flinch when her name is used. Sue me. Why are they so sure? No names yet. And I didn’t want any updates about her life. Unless it was death. I thought something along those lines, right? Laid ground rules which were broken soon after.
— Ah, yes. You got your glimpse then.

lmao look who I saw on Tinder fuckin sad. poor thing’s gonna struggle to replace you

— My rage when he sent that screenshot in a show of basic, masculine support. I got a glimpse, alright. Didn’t even allow myself to take in the sight of her. She took it in our living room.
— You were not kind to your friends.

Are you fucking insane? Why the fuck would you send me that? Do not ever send me anything like that again. Nothing. I want to know nothing. And you send that while I’m with my new girlfriend? Idiot.

— It was still fresh. I was protecting myself; my next girl, Ida. She knew of the sore spot, the name I wouldn’t say. These days I’m done with her, too. She doesn’t ask me anymore, about the war.

— Maybe you are dead, so, no one to ask. ‘Sides, you want the woman who hurt you so, to ask you how’s life?

shes with Isaac now. i checked. Anna is with Isaac now

— Yes, Ida’s pointed excruciation of me, near the end. She relished the moment. Using her name to rub in his name so I know she inevitably moved on. Well, I knew that already. But how did she even find out? Doesn’t matter. I was almost too stunned. In awe of her loveless cruelty. Rage flashed white and bright.

say whatever you fucking call pathetic me im an idiot hate as much as you want but do not NOT use name if you EVER this again I never another word to you YOU understand im this deleting you off my forfuckingever and were—

— Anger issues.
— Sure. But I calmed down and told her I understood why she did it. She apologized. I don’t know if I forgave her. She knew what she was doing. Full intent. Anyway. What matters is that she’s not dead. Is she? This wish for her death, if I’m honest, is nothing new. So…
— Go on. You’ve even implied she died, in your writing, didn’t you? Mean little story.
— Aye, I did. But it wasn’t all mean. Love can be grey, and the story was emotionally honest, which makes it okay. Doesn’t it?
— No, you are spiteful and in pain. Aren’t you too old for petulance?
— It’s not spite or petulance; it’s art. Penance, even.
— If you say so.
— Do you remember that time with her? When we spoke of…

…those murderous husbands, I don’t get what brings them to kill their wives. So many of those incidents, have you noticed? Just these few weeks even. Husband kills wife, then himself. What’s the deal? And they’re usually Russian, too. Awkward.

— But I’m different. Not those sad, old Russians. I’m the new, post-Soviet Russian who broke the cycle. We were driving home; we’d gone grocery shopping. I stole a packet of Twizzlers. She scolded me.

Yeah, I know. It makes me sick. I think it’s some possessiveness, like—
Oh! The whole ‘if I can’t have you, no one can’ thing? Right.
Yeah, and those poor women are usually known to the police. Most of them complain at some point. But nobody does anything. Same with rape, assault—
Then the murder-suicide. I swear if I ever felt that bad, I’d just divorce. Can’t imagine the selfishness to kill. Hideous, unthinkab—

— Was it?
— It needs to be unthinkable, but I can retroactively see myself in those men, even if it’s merely through the vague, whatever-it-is deathwish. I promise you it never ever crossed the threshold in strange times/stressed times/grief times. Her by my side, bedtime. Did it? Never imagined strangling or killing her. They would wonder. Inconceivable and random. No prior indications.
— You should refresh again now—why don’t you? It’s been a while.

…rescue teams continue searching through rubble, some reported missing, growing fears…

— Good. With that in mind, what would her death do to your life?
— When I try to think of what I’d feel, all I get is breath going in, going out. Mental block.
— Would it liberate you from guilt? Would you be relieved and gladdened someone (the one) you hurt is dead and can no longer tell? Ruin your precious image. You handsome, virtuous man.
— No, I don’t feel or need that. It’s just that this report, this sight—they’re making me reach. Give me a break.
— Oh, again, please. One last time. Refresh the page, you’ll like what you see. A gift.

— No, this is sloppy reporting. Reckless mistakes. An edit is necessary, basic factchecking. I’d have done a better job at the news desk. She comforted me when I didn’t get the job.

Show changesHide changes …have been identified as David and Laura, their son Anton, and his wife Michelle. …have been identified Deleted: as Jonathan and Melissa Inserted: as David and Laura, deleted: their daughter Anna inserted: their son Anton, and deleted: her husband Isaac inserted: his wife Michelle.

— There. Because her parents did end up selling the place, moving, and—Anna is with that Isaac, elsewhere. I always knew she’d be alright. She deserves her happiness.
— Do you?