Content warning: This story contains references to violence that some people may find triggering. 

A man sits down to Valentine's dinner with his wife, but things take a turn when painful truths are uncovered, resulting in him having to embrace the agony of reality for the sake of a new perspective on life as a whole.

This story was contributed by Paul 'PK' Kingston

Sitting across from her, I watch as the flickering candlelight dances upon the contours of Mary's hair. It's the same hairstyle that she's worn for upwards of five years but the soft glow seems to give it new life, as though tonight is the first time I've seen it.

Sipping from my glass of Argentinian Malbec, I softly inhale through my nose to take in the myriad of aromas. I naturally close my eyes as the bouquet of the wine intermingles with the faint smell of fresh-cut wild flowers that I've prominently displayed in the crystal vase we received for our wedding.

As I gently place my glass back on the table, I can't help but notice the look of sadness in her eyes as she stares at her plate, unmoving. The stillness of her body as she sits with her hands gently folded in her lap would almost suggest that the polished silverware on either side of her plate had not even been presented as an option.

Every part of me wants to lighten the mood, cut through the silent tension with some sort of quip, but in the moment I feel myself filling with the very same anguish I see displayed upon Mary's face.

I mirror her position, gently folding my hands in my own lap, hoping that the shift in position will somehow help me find the words to properly express myself. However, before I am able to find my thoughts, she speaks in a cautious, hushed tone, "Robert, I... I'm sorry."

I take a moment to choke back the tears that inherently rush to the surface in response to the sound of her voice, trying to play off a falsified tone of levity in the process, "Ten years of marriage, and I think that's the first time you've apologized before I have."

She says nothing in response, looking at me as though I were one of her students speaking out of turn. It works. What can I say? She always was great at her job.

Only once I've fallen silent, dipping my head shamefully for the outburst, does she continue, "I'm sorry for everything you've gone through. This was never the life I wanted for you... either of us, for that matter."

I can't help but scoff in the moment, immediately recognizing that I'm still behaving like an obstinate teen in the second row of her English class.

Leaning slightly towards me, Mary's eyes soften from a look of sadness to one of loving concern. As she gathers her thoughts, she briefly glances towards the flowers, before turning her attention back to me, "You deserve better than this."

I desperately mine for levity once more, playfully gesturing around the room, "Look, I know it's not perfect, but I think I did a pretty good job with the place."

Whether it's out of annoyance or willful indulgence, Mary scans the room with a look of mild approval before landing on the bookshelf and holding a perplexed gaze, "You moved our photo."

My heart swells with sadness once more, as I quietly mumble, "It's... in the drawer."

Looking up from my momentary sulking, I see her eyes are back on me, softly welling with tears. Whether they're from pain or pity, the last thing I want is to ruin this night by making her cry.

Despite my best intentions though, something makes me feel inherently compelled to explain myself, "It just... it hurt too much to see it. I couldn't do it anymore."

A single tear falls from her cheek, lands on her linen placemat and immediately disappears; leaving no signs it had landed there. Paying no notice, she gently dips her head; "It kills me to see you like this."

I try to fight off the impulse to flip the table in anger, and instead find myself standing from my seat so quickly that the high backed chair falls to the ground behind me, its impact resounding throughout the apartment.

Filled with frustration, anger and loneliness, my vision blurs with a steady flow of pain-fuelled tears as I vehemently jab my index finger towards her and yell, "Don't you say that! Don't use that word!"

Patiently, she remains in her chair, unshaken by my outburst as she methodically reasons with me, "Robert, you need to accept that this is where we are now. You can't continue ignoring it."

Blown back with bafflement, I feel my eyes widen as I scramble for words within the storm cloud of emotions churning within me, "Ignore it? How could I possibly ignore it? Everything I see, everything I do, every fucking song I hear, it all reminds me of you! I can't ignore it, because it's all I think about!"

I'm expecting her to protest my impulsive rant, but instead she remains quiet, recognizing that I need this. I need to release everything I've been holding in, for fear it will destroy me from the inside, out.

Still desperately floundering for words amidst the barrage of emotions, I regretfully settle upon an unwarranted, accusatory tone, "Why did you have to do that? Why did you have to be so fucking brave?"

Mary lifts her eyes to look into mine with powerful rectitude, "Because they were children, Robert. Someone had to."

Collapsing onto the floor, I begin to unabashedly bawl as the past five years of my cyclical, hate-fuelled life melt away and I'm immediately taken back to the day the agony began.

For months, I had been prepping for a meeting with a select group of financiers and city officials, hoping they would come together under my proposal to double the amount of affordable housing in the city over a 12-year period.

It was the perfect pitch. The city planners would make the Mayor look good prior to re-election, therefore solidifying their jobs for another term. The housing project would legitimize the name of an up-and-coming not-for-profit that excelled in social media marketing tactics, and in turn, their marketing would then benefit a deep-pocketed, yet aging corporation fighting to stay relevant in today's world.

I was in the midst of my momentum-building introduction to the pitch when my phone began buzzing on the conference room table, revealing a picture of Mary crossing her eyes and sticking out her tongue on the screen.

Sheepishly, I clicked 'ignore' and pocketed my cellphone with a smile, silently cursing Mary for calling when she knew this day was so important, not just for me, but both of us.

Moments later, my phone vibrated a second time. I blindly clicked 'ignore' again, doing my best to hide my embarrassment.

Then, when I felt it ring a third time, concern began to creep into the back of my mind, but I was also reaching the climax of my pitch, so I clicked 'ignore' again, this time promising myself that if it rang a fourth time, I would politely excuse myself.

Only that fourth call didn't come... not until after the meeting.

I finished shaking hands, successfully sealing the deal with a smile on my face. After saying my goodbyes, I returned to the conference table to sit and check my phone. There were three voicemail messages from Mary.

Suddenly alarm bells began going off as hypothetical scenarios played out in my mind. My finger hovered over the 'play' button, but before I could press it, my phone began vibrating again, this time displaying a number I didn't recognize.

Confused, I answered, only to hear the conflicted sound of an authoritative man trying to feign sympathy on the other end of the line. He identified himself as a Police Officer.

My heart immediately jumped into my throat as I collapsed into my office chair and felt the room begin to spin. Every muted sound, the Officer's voice included, washed away into a high-pitched tone of white noise as the blood drained from my face to the point of making it feel unnaturally cold.

The poor bastard on the other end had to explain the details three times before the words were even able to penetrate my initial state of shock.

...Mary was dead.

According to the Officer, Mary had been in the middle of her Grade 9 English class when the alarm had gone off, signifying there was an active shooter in the building.

Room by room, the attacker kicked open doors and unleashed his hatred upon anyone who found themselves on the receiving end of his thunderous insecurity.

Within an hour (the same hour I was in that Goddamned meeting) the gunman had worked his way towards Mary's classroom. It was only after I had listened to her voicemails, days later, that I realized she had been calling me from under her desk to tell me she loved me, because when everyone else had been panicking, she had already made her decision.

As the teenage gunman kicked open the door to Mary's classroom, she bolted towards him without hesitation, in order to protect her students. However, in the process of doing so, she had taken six bullets to the chest, two to the neck and three more to the face, not only killing her, but mutilating her beyond any hopes of recognition... fucking automatic weapons.

Despite the barrage she had received, her initial momentum had been enough to carry her lifeless body into the shooter, knocking him back and creating enough time for some of the braver students to disarm and restrain the shooter, ceasing his onslaught.

In the wake of the attack, there had been a public memorial, during which many of Mary's students had shared their favorite memories of her, but despite the warm intentions of their words, it was glaringly evident that none of them had taken the time to know her the way that she knew them.

A few Government officials had made appearances as well, spinning their vague sentiments and empty condolences before politicizing the shooting to either end of the voter spectrum.

Even the school had announced that they would be naming the re-constructed wing after her, and though the announcement was met with thunderous applause, none of it would ever bring back what truly mattered.

We would never have another movie night where we both fell asleep before seeing the ending. Never again would we walk through the park during the first snowfall of the year. No more would we dance around the apartment in our underwear after getting a little tipsy from that second bottle of wine over dinner.

We would never argue deep into the night, only to wake up and apologize to each other because neither of us had been right. I would never be able to enjoy the familiarity of her scent as she passed by me, never feel her crying in my arms as I held her tenderly; I'd never kiss her again, never hold her hand, nor giggle to myself as I listened to her adorable soft snores.

All of it, everything, had been taken from me. And so, in turn, I swore that I would never forgive this world for what it had stolen. I spiraled. I plummeted into a dark existence fuelled by contempt and anger, save for one night a year, Valentine's Day, when I would still make Mary's favorite meal for her.

Mary then crouches before me, having moved from her position at the table. She attempts to gently caress my cheek with her hand, but I feel nothing as it makes contact with my skin.

Looking beyond my eyes and into my soul she says, "Robert, you need to let me go."

Between my sobs, I'm barely able to utter, "I can't live in this world without you."

Her eyebrows arc with tenderness as she contests my claim, "Yes you can. But Robert, this... this is not living. You've locked yourself away from the world, you've shut everyone out."

Looking at her with confusion in my eyes, I ask, "What the hell was I supposed to do? Do you understand how angry I am, all the time?"

With the same endless compassion that had made me love her in the first place, Mary gently places her other fictional hand upon my cheek, "You need to find forgiveness within yourself, and move on. You need to share yourself with this world. They need you, and you have too much to give to deny them of that. You need to let yourself be happy again, to live, and love again."

My confusion shifts to shock, "I will never love again."

Tenderly, she tilts her head, "Yes you will, and that's okay. That's what I want for you. I want you to remember why life is worth living, and how beautiful a gift it can be."

I inhale with the intention of protesting once more, but before I can even form the first word of my response she adds, "I know it's hard, Robert. But only one of us died that day... Don't make it two."

With tears streaming from my eyes, I look deeply into hers and say, "I love you Mary. That will never change."

I see a smile cross her face, "And I will always love you."

She leans in to kiss me, and though I know she is merely a projected image of my subconscious memories, I still softly close my eyes to receive her; only she never makes contact.

Opening my eyes, I find myself alone, sitting on my apartment's floor, facing the twinkling lights of the city as a backdrop to the picturesque dining table, set for two.

I clumsily bring myself to my feet, brushing myself off as though I were shedding the emotions that had so viscerally driven me, mere moments ago.

Standing alone, I turn my attention towards Mary's chair, desperately trying to will her back, but I am quick to remind myself of her words. Forgiveness. Life. Love.

Pivoting around, I grab the handle of the drawer and pull it open to reveal the back of an 8"x10" picture frame. Flipping it over, I stare at the image of Mary and I on our wedding day for the first time in years.

My eyes dance over the image of the two of us lost in each other's gaze, smiling like the dumb kids we were. Mary's wedding dress had been flawless, seeming as though it had been summoned into existence solely for her to wear. I, on the other hand, was sporting a clumsily tailored rental tuxedo, with a bowtie that had refused to sit straight.

Letting out a soft chuckle at the memory, I wipe away a single joyful tear before it falls; only then do I catch a glimpse of my reflection and realize I'm smiling for the first time in years.

With a warmed heart, I gently place the frame back on the shelf, where it had always belonged, and as I do, I can't help but get the feeling that somewhere, my Sweet Mary is smiling back.

***************

PK is a Toronto-born Actor/Writer who lives in LA with his beautiful (and far more talented) wife and his adorable cat. PK can currently be seen at the Second City Hollywood each Saturday at 7pm performing in "Canuck as F*ck", an hour-long sketch comedy revue running through April 2020.  Read more from PK here.