“I’m not ready for this,” Elizabeth said. “Remember the butterflies. Everything, one day, will fade to make room for more beauty. Just because we will depart does not mean our beauty will die. In our memories, it will live on forever. I will be a part of you forever.” Frank’s hand became limp in hers as the constant beat of the machine altered to a prolonged note, one with no end. Elizabeth collapsed on the chest of her lifeless husband, wishing that her heart had stopped as well. Closing her eyes, succumbing to the darkness, leaving her soul in that hospital room, she couldn’t feel Frank beneath her, nor could she smell the stale air of death. Slowly, she opened her eyes, blinking the world into focus; in front of her, was a painting of a woman holding the hand of a dying man. She was in the painted hallway staring at an endless stream of memories as the lights, one by one, began to burn out until there was one; the flickering light at the end of the hall. Below: is the painting that was out of focus. Arms outstretched, she slid her fingers along the hallway as she walked towards the last flickering light. Heat exuded from her fingertips as she dragged a rainbow of blue, yellow, purple, black, red, green, and white along the walls as she inched towards the out-of-focus painting. As she neared, the image began to fade. Within a butterfly-patterned black frame rested a blank canvas. Elizabeth stood before it and felt clarity that had eluded her since the death of her husband. She placed her hands upon the frame, feeling its smooth texture. Her hands found the roughness of the blank slate. As she brushed her fingers upon its blank and rigid surface, the paint began to bleed onto the white until an image emerged --a woman, old and withered, lying in a bed. She has searched for peace all her life, and when she finally found it, it was stripped from her. So, she lied and waited. She lay in a bed, surrounded by a decaying world, scared by its cruelty. Waiting for death to free her soul. The image that appeared before her wasn’t that of a broken woman; it was of a woman who was free. A woman who has found desire, who has finally discovered love’s embrace. No longer is she lying in wait; she is reaching towards destiny. She is ready to depart.
The Wayne Literary Review: Escapism
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