(Don't think it's much of a literature classic, but here goes!).


Prologue:

She sat there, in the same cornflower dress she had bought
over fifty years ago in a small boutique in London, while
he tried to read his book. He was struggling, though, and
not just because his pride prevented him from wearing his
reading glasses. The silence kept interrupting his thoughts,
and it disconcerted him. Instead of concentrating on the
words swimming about in front of his eyes, his whole essence
of being was channelled into focusing on what she was about
to do, or say. He could not relax while she sat there so
quiet and unassuming, like a cat, waiting to pounce on its
innocent prey. He had to be prepared for whatever form
her latest attack would take. Years of practise had
refined his sixth sense, and he knew something was about
to happen. It was never silent for long.
With the usual stupid, ovine grin on her face, she
turned to him, and said, in her placid monotone voice,
"Oh, dear, Richard, I think I've had a little accident."
He sighed, and went to fetch the bucket and sponge.
The little daily rhythm.
"I'm very sorry," she said when he returned,
clutching clean underwear in one hand, the heavy pail in the
other. He was too busy wondering how he could persuade her
to change out of that dress to pay her much attention, but
she carried on anyway, "I don't know what happened."
Perhaps an outsider could be forgiven for thinking
there was still some remnant of a human being left there,
but one glance at her face would dispel that idea. Her
appearance and the words she uttered were unrelated – she
was steadfastly staring straight ahead out of the window,
over the white-washed cluttered houses to views that no
longer existed.
Putting the bucket down on the floor, he firmly,
though kindly, said to her, "Come on, Lorna, stand up for
me," and she obliged with a little help.
He dipped the sponge in the soapy liquid, squeezing
the excess out, worn and disillusioned. Just another day.
"The raspberries will be ripe soon!" she said to no
one, making him jump slightly, though he should have
anticipated some new outburst. "I'll make you a crumble.
You like crumble, Dickie!"
She began listing the ingredients needed for a
crumble – quite accurate, if he'd been listening, but he was
too concerned with cleaning her up, and managing the difficult
task of attempting to undress her without her screaming
until the neighbours appeared. He pulled up the sponge,
letting it drip a little, but just as he approached her, she
moved suddenly, knocking the sponge on to the rug, a
widening patch of dark cream spreading across its pale
surface.
"And custard. Let's make custard!" she continued,
oblivious and excited.
This had been his existence for more years than
he could count. He had waited for her to recover, but she
had gradually declined, unable to do anything without his
supervision and assistance. Perhaps a nurse might have been
arranged, but he had never considered it as anything other
than his duty. `Til death do us part, whatever she thought
of marriage. This was his penance, and he was not going
to give her up to anyone else, especially not after all
these years. She was still his, his possession, and he
could not share her.
He picked up the sponge again, and lifted her skirt
a little. She squirmed as its cold surface brushed against
her leg, and he grabbed her ankle quickly to stop her
wriggling. Frightened, she replied with a shriek, and her
knee automatically swung, knocking his temple, and causing
his vision to temporarily blacken.

"Go ahead, Dickie," she said, taunting him. He was
furious, trying to control his temper. She shook her head
at him, and he seized her waist, pinching violently, making
her gasp, and her confidence faded. She struggled a little
against him, and despite the fear in her eyes, she managed
to say, in a frightened, high-pitched voice, "It'll be the
only thing you'll ever do in your life!"
What happened? His heart pounded, the blood rushing
to his head. She had slipped; she had fallen. He looked
down, and there she was at his feet. His throat
involuntarily shut, and bile rose up from his stomach.
Blood. Thick, red stuff, matting into the carpet. Her face
looked sick and grey – not like the glamorous actresses in
the picture houses. He needed help – she needed help!
Who to call – was she even still alive? Panic hit him,
and his hands started shaking. There was blood on them
too – so much blood! He knelt down to her, sobbing. What
had he done? He had to get help.
Her hands were limp, and unresponsive to his anxious
attempts to hold them, her wedding ring fell into the
crimson gunk as he pulled at them, sinking into the carpet,
unreachable. He was terrified. There seemed no way to undo
what had happened, but he knew she needed help. So he
picked her up, unaware of her flailing limbs, gripping her
body, her clothes, her greasy red hair – anything. Her body
flopped down and gruesome, he struggled towards the door,
awkwardly opening it. He prayed that their neighbour
would be able to help them, to help her, to pretend it had
never happened, and he apprehensively hoped that no one
would ask him any questions...

He cursed under his breath. His head hurt, but he
had long learned that it was pointless shouting at her.
Her actions were spontaneous and uncontrolled, and she
would be unable to comprehend what she was in trouble for.
But she just wouldn't stop wriggling! His arthritis
hurt his hands, and he didn't have the disposition to
suffer all this agonising pain just to get her properly
dressed. Soon his joints would start to seize up – what
was he supposed to do then? She had become worse – more
senile – these last few years, and he wasn't sure how much
longer he could cope for. Yet he knew he had to, somehow.
If only he could make her understand his regret!
She sat down suddenly, almost kicking the bucket
over. Her dress was still wet, and it stank of urine, but
he couldn't be bothered to try and make her change out of it.
He did not want another fight. His joints clicked as he
tried to stand – Lorna was murmuring something about their
ration books; he knew not to listen to her anymore.
He bent slowly down to pick up the sponge, but it
was caught by a corner underneath her foot.
"Lorna, lift," he instructed softly.
"Oh, now, Dickie, what are you doing? Don't you
know we're expecting visitors for tea?"
He sighed, frustrated, and tried to prise the sponge
out from under her.
"Dickie!" she reprimanded.
"I need that sponge, dear," he said, biting his
tongue.
She smiled cruelly, and stamped her foot firmly
on that little pink oval, squishing it, the water dripping
out of it as she did so. She watched, and then turned her
face back up to him. "What a mess, Dickie!" she exclaimed
with glee.
He hated her. It consumed him suddenly, and he
could barely control his temper. He shouldn't have to be
here! He hated the way she kept talking and talking and
calling him `Dickie' and smiling that awful, empty smile.
Was she doing it deliberately – taunting him, blaming him?
Perhaps it would have been easier if he had managed to
finish it then and there. Perhaps it was not too late.
She grinned at him, smoothing her soiled dress, and
evil thoughts sped through his brain and his body, flooding
down to his trembling right hand which manifested itself
into a curled fist. She was talking and talking, on and
on about the tulips and the weather and all sorts of
things which were now years out of date. His whole body
grew more agitated, shaking. He wanted to shut her up!
All his long life... But it wasn't too late. He could still
do it, and rescue himself from this life! There was a limit
to his self-imposed punishment, and this was it. She had
asked for it, and he would be free!
As he raised his fist, ready to hit that stupid,
smirking face, Lorna stared boldly at him, murmuring,
taunting in a strange recollection, "Go ahead, Dickie, hit
me. It'll be the only thing you'll ever do."
He stopped, and looked back at her. He knew these
outbursts were without her control; just snatched
glimpses of her previous life, but the brief atmosphere
had cleared. She was the same Lorna she had always been,
with the same weaknesses. Just the same as she had been –
since that day.
He felt sick. He had been going to hit her. He had
sworn he would never be violent again – he had let her down.
He had promised – in return she had remained his property;
an agreement she had never been conscious of.
"I'm sorry," he whined. "I didn't mean to upset
you, my dear." He started to stroke her hair, ignoring the
pain in his knarled fingers, which were still bent and stiff.
"I love you," he whispered guiltily, knowing that it was
only his conscience that would hear his words. He could
never make it up to her, but he had tried so hard!
"See," he said, taking advantage of the fact her
vacant gaze was presently directed towards the window, "I
brought you here to take better care of you. Remember how
you used to complain about how cold it was in England? Isn't
it much prettier here?"
Of course, she didn't answer. She didn't even
interrupt with her usual nonsense. It was as if she knew what
he had done, and was refusing to even acknowledge his
frightened apologies. He had done so much for her – what
more could he have done? He hadn't been willing to let her
go...
She stared straight ahead, unblinking, and he sighed,
knowing there was no use continuing. She was beyond him now.
It was as if she had managed to leave him, all those years
ago, leaving only a husk of herself for him to fuss over.
He watched her for a little, then got up, and emptied the
pail down the utility room sink, the sponge left abandoned
on the floor. He was weary, and when he went back into
their lounge, he was pleased to notice her mumbling away to
herself – this meant he could relax for a while.