Most people do not know what true fear is. You cannot be afraid of the dark, or of heights. That is not fear. That is caution. You do not know what is in the dark. But someone or something could be there, waiting for you. So, you are cautious when walking alone at night. I have fears. I am six feet and seven inches tall, weigh two hundred and eighty-four pounds, and I am not afraid to say that I am afraid. Trust me, anyone ashamed to admit fear is not truly afraid.
I am afraid of being stabbed between the ribs with a pocket knife by some dimwit mugger, half my size, who thought he could take me on. I am afraid of that specific scenario because I have lived it. I know exactly how painful it was, so I know what I am afraid of. As for the mugger, he could not possibly be afraid of the dark, could he? I mean he waits in a dark alley for people to come through so he can rob them, so that is very unlikely. If he is honest, what he is really afraid of, is trying to mug a six-foot-seven, two hundred- and eighty-four-pound guy who beats him within an inch of his life despite the knife in his side. He can be truly afraid of that, because he has lived it.
Now, I am afraid of Jennifer leaving me. I am afraid of Jennifer leaving me, because Clara left me. I know what you are thinking: “how can you be truly scared of Jennifer leaving you if Jennifer has never left you before?” Stop being a smartass. The point is, I have had a girlfriend leave me just before I proposed. So, I am scared of it because I have lived it and know exactly how much it hurt. Now that we have that all cleared up, I am sure you understand why Jennifer is tied to the bed. It is because I am afraid. The gag is because she would not stop screaming. She keeps thrashing too, struggling against the ropes. She has messed up her hair, but she still looks beautiful. The most beautiful woman I have ever known.
Have you noticed how when people lose a husband or a wife, it is not really over? They remain the person’s widow or widower, and the dead person remains their late wife or husband. Until they choose to move on, maybe remarry, in the eyes of everybody else they are still together. They are still a couple. So, when they put out the fire and find her burned corpse with the ring on her finger, they will forever remember her as my dead fiancée. Speaking of which, I have not proposed yet. I retrieve the little black box from the back pocket of my Levi’s. I sit next to Jennifer on the bed and take a deep breath. Honestly, I am a little nervous.
“Jennifer,” I begin, my voice cracking with emotion. “I know we have not been perfect. We’ve argued a lot over the past three months. You keep saying that I’m a psychopath. I keep telling you that I’m not. You keep asking me to get these weird drugs. I keep telling you that I don’t need them. They are for crazy people!”
My voice is going a little bit higher than I planned so I stop, realizing I have drifted a little bit off-topic. Another deep breath.
“But,” I resume, “all of that, the fact that we are still together, despite all the conflict only makes me more convicted in my belief that we are perfect for each other. We are meant to be together.”
I place the box on the nightstand and loosen the rope holding her left hand. I pick up the box and open it revealing the ring. I take the ring out. She tries to use her free hand to loosen the other.
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I take her left wrist in my hand, and though she struggles against me, she is nowhere as strong as I am. She must be nervous too. Maintaining my grip on her wrist, I continue my proposal.
“I have never felt as complete in my life as when I am with you. I have a lot of fears, but spending the rest of my life with you is not one of them. It is the only thing I’m sure I want to do.”
She has stopped struggling, but she keeps shaking her head and trying to speak but her words are meaningless mumblings against the gag.
“Please do me the honor of being my wife,” I say. “Will you marry me?”
More head shaking and mumbling. There must be a ‘yes’ somewhere in all of that. Still, this is a serious matter, better to be sure.
“Blink if you mean yes,” I say.
I have never seen anyone open their eyes so wide and for so long before. It feels like eternity but finally, she falters and blinks. With that, I slip the ring onto her finger. She continues shaking her head, tears streaming from her sexy eyes. Tears of joy, I presume. She must be as happy as I am. Why wouldn’t she be, I made it all perfect. I contemplated popping the question at her office where we have our twice-a-week dates, but her secretary, Sarah, is a bit of a busybody. I knew Jennifer would prefer something more private. That is why I tracked down her house and decided to surprise her here. I resist my own joyful tears as I tie her hand as before despite even more vigorous struggling. By now I can smell the smoke and the room is obviously much warmer. I turn to the door. Black smoke is creeping in through the spaces between the door and the walls and floor.
The fire is moving quicker than I planned. I should leave now. I know that I should, but the thought of losing her feels too much to bear. I know, I know. I said death is not final and all of that. Seriously, stop being a smartass. The thing is, I will never see her again. Her sexy body, her suggestive eyes, it will all be destroyed by the fire. We will never have our spirited conversations at her office during our dates, which always made Sarah rush into the office to “check if you are okay, Dr. Hill.” I swear I will miss those. I will even miss the nosy Sarah.
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I walk to the door and open it, I am greeted by a wall of smoke and flame. I shut the door, coughing. As the coughs cause my eyes to water, an image forms in my mind, but it is like I can see it with my own eyes, so vivid. It is not one body they shall find in the burned ruins, but two. Two lovers cuddling in bed as the flames surrounded them, its heat forging them into an eternal embrace. That is how we will be found. That is how we will be remembered. How romantic.
I join Jennifer on the bed. First, I remove the gag. Her screams make no difference now. I can already hear the sirens outside. But they will not be quick enough. Next are her hands. Surprisingly she does not try to hit me or undo her legs herself. She just watches as I untie them for her. As soon as she is loose though, she bolts. But not fast enough. Halfway to the door I catch up to her. Wrapping both hands around her abdomen, I lift her off her legs and carry her back to the bed. She thrashes about, hitting, biting, scratching, and screaming all the way. But it is just meaningless flailing.
On the bed, I maintain my grip on her, putting a little bit of my weight on her. Not too much though, just enough to keep her in place. I distract myself with the smell of her hair as I wait for the flames to turn us into the charred sculptures of my imagination. But the peachy fragrance is quickly overshadowed by the choking smoke. As we both quake from the force of our coughs, I still maintain my grip. But that weakens soon enough. Yet she does not run. She stays there, coughing, choking. The heat is intense now. The flames have come through the door and encircled the bed. The curtains are burning. The heat is almost as intense as our love. This is where we are supposed to be. I cuddle her in my arms. Surrounded by flames, the love of my life in my arms, right here and now, I am not afraid.
