The Wretched Night: A Short Story

“The time has been that, when the brains were out, the man would die, and there an end. But now they rise again with twenty mortal murders on their crowns and push us from our stools.”

~William Shakespeare (The Tragedy of Macbeth)

The Wretched Night

I’m at the table when she strides in, donning a red gown that curls up like fire. A long curtain of auburn hair frames her face, and at her neck, pearls shine as bright as her gaze.

We may have been friends forever, but today is our first date. 

I’m startled when she sits down and laces her fingers through mine, realising I’ve been staring at her for much too long. 

“Who are you, and what have you done to Bonnie?” I muse. 

“Ouch,” she smiles, before smacking my arm. “You look gorgeous, too, Clyde.”  

Suddenly, I feel as though I’m standing in front of a scalding fire. The embers reach into my eyeballs in a searing pain. I try to brush away the feeling.

“So, how far are you on the book?” I start.

“All good.” She gives a tight smile. All good means something is wrong. I grin.

“I could help you… What are you stuck on?” I ask her. At that, her clenched jaw relaxes. She takes a sip of her wine and begins.

A soft haze gathers around the edges of my vision. The lights are dim and the quartet is playing love songs on the violin. A pain flares up on my right temple as the wine glass in front of me forms a crack. At least I think it’s a crack.

“So she dies? Or not?” I ask. 

“Exactly. The. Dilemma.” She says, gesturing to emphasise the point. 

“Quite a predicament,” I say, feigning a British accent. “What if she fakes her death?”

At that, her eyes widen. “Have I told you how much I love you before?”

“Yeah, but you could tell me again.” A smug smile runs across my face. She blows me a kiss. I act as though the kiss is some lethal arrow.

I hear a rapping behind me. I turn to face it. Before I can, though, a terrible explosion deafens me. 

I’m thrown off my chair onto the floor, the marble hard enough to knock the air out of my lungs. I wince, my chest boiling. My vision blurs, and there is a violent ringing in my ears. In front of me, the wine glasses, mine and hers, lay broken, crimson wine spilling out like blood. A fire billows 10 feet behind her. Black smoke thickens the air, suffocating my breath. She’s disoriented but somehow manages to stand up by leaning on the table. She looks at me, her eyes tear-streaked. My eyelids grow heavy as I feel myself slipping. 

The last thing I see is her walking toward the fire.

When I come to, it is to the wrenching reality of her death; the fire left little of her even to bury. The rapping sound intensifies; it is so loud now that I sink to the ground, sealing my ears with my hands.

I awake with a jolt. My face is beaded with sweat.

The same dream again. A dream that twists itself into a nightmare. Every night for 5 years now. 

The rapping continues at my door. The rapping I heard over the cacophony of my nightmare. 

I stumble across the living room. My breath comes in shallow gasps. Palms slick with perspiration. Unlocking the door with unsteady hands, I step out. Rain drums on the tin shed above.

Then, I see her.

Her auburn hair barely reaches her shoulders now, and her pearly eyes don’t gleam anymore. My brain is turned to mush. A part of me died with her that night. That wretched night when I set off the bomb. Who is this then?

“Clyde?” She asks.

Bhargav Sen Bhowmick