The house by the lake (PS: Epilogue)

Years had passed since the day on which I had found your lifeless body in your bed.
A smile on your face, the gentle rays of the sun illuminating the room, a gentle breeze that moved the curtains of the windows.

You seemed… content.

I was at first broken. A small child with no mother, a lot of responsibilities that I now had to carry on my own. Debt, joblessness, depression.

I found some solace in music and made it my passion and my sole purpose for the following months, neglecting our child and my responsibilities. I had some savings that I made use of during that time.

When I played the piano you felt alive again. I escaped into a world where you were still alive, ill, but alive. I could tell you about my worries, about my fears, about how our child was growing up, how the house we had acquired was slowly turning into a home thanks to your love for detail and good taste.

During the piano sessions, I was free.

But then came the crash…

The savings, which I knew could not last forever, did indeed run out.
Social services deemed me unfit for parenting and took our child away.
My family decided that I was too much of a burden to take care of and stopped writing to me and inviting me to their lavish celebrations.

I was alone, broke and alone.

Looking back I doubt I would be where I am today were it not for the pit I dug myself into. Maybe, deep down, I knew that the only way for me to rise was to burn everything to the ground and build it back up from scratch.

It took me months to find a job and a few years to regain custody over my child, I was lucky though, since to this day they have no memory of us ever being apart.

The passion and despair I felt back in that time fueled a torrent of emotions that helped me produce what, to this day, is considered one of the best, if not my best work.

I have gathered the courage to write what I hope will be the first of many letters. I know it has been a long time since we spoke… I would not be surprised if you hated me a bit for having taken so long, but I needed the loneliness, I needed the despair, the depression, the depths of the pit to claw myself out of.

Alex is growing up to be a fine child. I take them for long walks in nature and tell them about the different trees, I tried getting them into music, but it seems that the musical part of us is dying with me. Who would have guessed though, right? Child of two musicians refuses to partake in their parents hobby. I guess that is how children are, they have to find their own way after all.

I am doing fine now, I know that there are other ways I can get in touch with you, goodness knows I needed this, but was partly afraid, partly too numb to realize.

I hope this letter finds you well.

I promise I will be sending you one of these every month to keep you updated on how Alex and I are doing.
Yes, I promise I am fine, you do not have to worry now, I am capable of taking care of everything. Except decorating the house… that is something only you could do well… Alex does have your good taste though, so I let them buy decorations every once in a while to give the house a more homely feel to it.

My studio is sacred though, I need the chaos to reign absolutely supreme in there!

I have to go now, Alex is ready to go out bird-watching and is beckoning me to hurry up.

I loved you, I still do, and I forever will.

Yours only,



Like a moth to a flame

I can distinctly remember the moment I was mesmerizingly staring into the flame just one second shy of his sickle slitting my throat.

In that flame I say a great deal many things:

beauty expressed through my beloved walking through a barley field, the soft breeze gently swaying the picture with a loving caress.

Love through a fiery and sensuous night of carnal desire and uninhibited lust.

Promise, a small child slowly walking towards me, bright eyes, playful smile, not a worry in the world.


But as soon as those soothing images had vanished from my head, I saw the other side of the coin:

Famine: a small child starving as the obese walk past him, greasy food in their hands.

Ugliness: a corpse washed up by the shore, its entirety swelled up and putrid.

Loneliness: Myself strolling through the empty streets of the biggest metropolis imaginable

I saw all those things and more the moment before the sickle sliced my throat, and now I am trapped, condemned to relive that moment again and again along with the rest of the victims he claimed for his amusement.

Now and again we can avert our eyes from those visions and see the real world outside the lamp, the only distortion the green, eerie light that emanates from us and to the world of the living through the impenetrable glass of the lamp.

The world has changed.

He no longer inhabits the isles, he no longer murders for fun. He has yet again become a shadow of his former self, now fighting in the league for some bigger purpose than himself.

But here we are, trapped, for it was ruled that, since we give him power, we are to be the sacrifice made for the greater good.

We were attracted to the lamp like a moth to a flame, and now we shall inhabit it forever.