Post Mortem

 

The predominant soliloquy, which often usurps the mileage of healthy meditation, remains presently at abeyance, but its audible magnitude, of pervasive effect, cannot be disavowed. It is like a bitter draught of memory, or a morsel of putrid flesh forced onto the grimacing tongue. Emancipate thee Satan, from the insurmountable talons of woe, so that I may not, live accursed forevermore, retrieve thy blade of distress from my bowels, and let the blood outpour! The daily rudiment of common leisure fails me, and the abysm of depression, yawns for my soul. My wife, she has murdered herself, with a noose, and will not see, the store of futurity let alone feel the dalliance of daylight. It was this morning that I found her, suspended and inert from the elongated throttle of the rope, that thieving serpent of malignant mesmerism. It must have been the miscarriage that made her so dejected, alas! I deserve a premature burial in an uncharted terrene. The physician related to us, that she would not conceive and the fetus was no more. Her temper had become ill with augmented symptoms of dysphoria, and morbid abulia, but I remained remiss of the possibly ensuing prospect, which would be adumbrated in her crippling deficiency of practice. I have retrieved her cold body, and it lay on the floorboards with limbs aligned as a star. I have no reason for this, but my heart throbs with exquisite sensations of faltering decadence as I pace unto her, and undress her gown, delicately. I wince, but I cannot repress my insufferable lust, and so I raise her legs with a slovenly fumble, and chuckle, impishly as they rest beside my quivering hips. This ought to spite the Devil!!