Lying to the Dead

The words hung in the air, a living thing, stalking through the rooms of the apartment, searching him out. Ethereal, uttered thoughtlessly in a momentary flash of unreasoning, unaimed anger, yet seemingly capable of wielding a terrible purpose.

"Why don't you just die!"

A moaning, howling wind rattled the windows, while the Lake frothed and battered its way across the shore, spilling across the Drive, as if Nature herself raged in fury over those five damning words. A chorus to the mute tableau inside, where the words, their task done, bore witness before their creator.

Some things should never be said.

Silence, and yet the words echoed off the walls, through his mind, a deafening accusation that withered him where he stood. Just words but, once uttered, never to be recalled, unalterable in purpose, forever damning and damned. Just words, and words can't kill, except when they do.

Now there were no more words, only a void into which they could be poured but could never fill. One can not apologize to the dead, for the dead are beyond reach. The dead know nothing of sorrow, of regret, of wishing that the words could somehow be unspoken. The dead do not know that those words were a mistake, that they were not meant; they only know that they are dead.

He could only wait in silent confrontation with the deed his words had wrought. Wait for the help he had summoned, forlorn as that help was, while the words mocked him, demanding their pieces of silver.

Nothing left but nothing, nothing but a despair beyond tears, nothing to say or do to change what has been done. One can not lie to the dead, can not absolve themselves of what they have done.

One can not hide from those five, simple words.