005
We were married for half a year, engaged for two, and together for a total of five, give or take. She wanted out of her life— something she ultimately failed to do, and I wanted someone to love. I, too, failed in my quest. But for those brief six months, we were married. I loved her and I wanted her to be happy.
Either way, we were both miserable.
We moved together into a poorly insulated but well-built rooftop apartment that was either too hot or too cold, and perpetually haunted by dust bunnies. I found it romantic. She found it adequate. It had a terrace that I grew to hate, that we didn't use and that turned to a swamp whenever it rained.
The area we lived in was perfectly pleasant, quiet and breathable. It was an open area with a central garden and a road that circled around and connected back, with the buildings lined on either side. A perfect place for a newly-wed couple to live a happy, calm life.
The fighting was always there, ever since the beginning. But it ramped up in frequency, force and volume post-marriage. Soon we were screaming at each other, testing the capacity of our lungs and the limits of our vocal cords.
I hated every moment there and I prayed everyday for it to end. I was not brave enough for a divorce, not until the very end when I was driven to the edge of my wits. But I prayed for it daily. Either divorce or death. Because I saw no other way out.
And the wailing didn't help, either.
Every day, after sunset, this sound floated to our bedroom. It came from the building next to us. It was barely, but unmistakably, human. It was the sound of a woman wallowing in so much sorrow and pity that the only sound she could muster was this mournful cry.
The first day I heard it, I looked through the window of our bedroom. I remember clearly, looking into the room in the other building, a story below us. I could see an open door and past it a lit corridor, and framed within the door a silhouette of a woman lying on the floor, propped by one arm. I closed the shutters and never looked through that window again.
The wailing persisted, and soon it was not an uncommon occurrence. It was something that blended with the background. It was present through out all the shouting and crying and pleading and the sparse moments of respite that we found. But it was always there, and I was always aware of it.
Towards the end, when we were most unhappy, when she was so completely miserable that she was collapsing into herself, she started crying herself to sleep. And one day, she was inconsolable. She was wailing like a broken animal, stuck in her nightmare, not responding. I talked to her, patted her arm, shook her shoulders, flipped her around and shook her again, forced her to look at me, begged her to snap out of it. But there was nothing. She only made this grieving moan, like an omen of death, like her world was coming to an end. And it was the exact goddamn sound I've been hearing for six months coming from the uninhabited building next to us. I sat next to her, blood curdling, warmth seeping out of my body as she wailed, her face stuck in perpetual agony.
I don't remember when she stopped or how she stopped. I don't remember much past this point.
I left out how miserable her life was. I left out how much I loved her and how much I hated her and how it tore me apart. I left out how awful I was, how inexperienced and how completely oblivious to the fact that she hated my guts. I left out a lot because none of it matters, anyway. Not her, not me, nor the fact that I don't want to be close to a human ever again.
I just want this wailing out of my head.