Blame
Sandra hugged her black coat tightly shut to ward off the bitter cold as she approached the funeral parlor. She was attending Henry’s service out of obligation. In fact, she barely knew him, even though they had worked side-by-side for years. The truth was that Sandra never socialized.
Oh, there’d been a time when she and George had shared bottles of wine over dinners with friends. But then George had left her, and their “friends” had abandoned her, and the bitterness had taken root within her heart. She had learned of George’s death a few years ago, but felt only resentment for the ill he had caused her.
She climbed the steps to the parlor, her teeth chattering. How selfish of Henry to die in the frigid cold of winter when he could just as soon have waited for spring. She cleared the last step, gasping. She was out of shape and aging. She pushed open the heavy oak door and made her way down red-carpeted hallway.
“Henry Little’s Service,” read the sign before the heavy double doors.
Odd–she’d never known Henry’s last name before. The doors opened and she entered the room, which instantly dimmed. The only light, she noticed, came from softly glowing candles, the flames of which flickered wildly as the double doors slammed shut. She jumped and looked around, seeing no one. She stared into the shadowed corners. It was then she saw him, and her jaw dropped. He sat in a velvet chair, his legs neatly crossed.
“Hello, Sandra, it’s been a long time, no?”
“George!” she gasped. “How? Why?”
“It was you who summoned me, Sandra, with all the endless years of blame that you refused to let go of.”
She stared at his pale features, accentuated by the glowing candles. “Who are you to criticize me,” she spat, “when it was you who robbed me of my life?”
“I pity what will happen to you if you don’t let go.” George stared into the distance.
“I came here for Henry, not you.” Sandra turned. “I’m leaving.”
“Do you know what Hell is, Sandra?”
“Hell has been my life.” She faced him one last time. “You should know that.”
“If you don’t break away from the endless links in your chain of blame, Sandra, you will learn what Hell really is.”
“I refuse to listen to you,” barked Sandra.
The double doors swung open and she stumbled into the brightly lit hallway. Back home, she flung herself into bed and cried, then fell asleep. She awoke the next day positive that it had all been a dream. She went to work, and was surprised to find a vase of flowers sitting on her desk, against which was propped a note.
“We are sorry to hear of Sandra’s death. Please join us tomorrow for her service.”
Sandra rushed to the reception area, her feet surprisingly lithe.
“Is this a joke?” She showed the note to the receptionist, who stared right through her, blinking her mascara-laden lashes.
Sandra ran from the office and back to the funeral home, her feet squishing down the red-carpeted hallway. Had she not been so preoccupied, she might have noticed it was oozing blood. She banged open the double doors and stomped into the room, leaving bloody prints in her wake.
“George, I demand a word with you.”
A cool breeze caused the candles to flicker. The double doors slammed shut.
“George, I know you’re here.”
The velvet chair in the corner burst into flames and George appeared before her, a burning ball of fire.
“I warned you, Sandra. You have only yourself to blame.”
“How dare you?” She lunged at him, her black coat becoming engulfed in flames as she rolled with him on the floor.
She was fully prepared to battle him for all eternity. After all, he was the one responsible for all the wasted years of her empty life. And for that she would blame him forever and ever and ever.
