No More Sorrow by Sara Travis

I place a gentle rose on his coffin. When they start shoveling the dirt on top I hardly feel a thing. Hands are shaken. Soft words are spoken. And before I know it, we’re back at the house, eating ham sandwiches and sipping cold tea. The day is mostly a blur of flower arrangements and cling-film wrapped lasagnas and embraces that don’t last long enough to impart any sincerity. I know what’s hiding behind their eyes, the words that swell in the back of their mouths. I know what they’re thinking. So I flit from guest to guest, I dab my face with a moist tissue, I offer a brave smile and I politely decline any offers of a bed for tonight.

“Are you sure, Susan?” they say, “Are you sure you want to stay here, tonight of all nights?”

“You shouldn’t be alone, please, say you’ll stay just one night.”

“But it’s the house, Susan. You don’t want to stay in the house, do you?”

I stretch my face into a small smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes.

“I’m fine. It’s comforting to be here, in the house where he took his last breath. So many … happy memories.”

Their heads tilt to one side, they give a simpering smile, and nod as though they understand. But they don’t understand. They can’t.


Sometime after midnight I pour myself a glass of his scotch and retire to our bedroom. Under the duvet, I cradle the revolver to my chest. Her sickly, putrid perfume still clings to the sheets and it turns my stomach. But I can’t bring myself to change them. Not yet. When I close my eyes I see them together, writhing on our marital bed, a tangle of pale, fleshy limbs. A flash and then red, everything is red.

I slip the gold band off my finger and put it in the bedside drawer. There will be no more sorrow. For me, at least. With hindsight, I can see that death was an easy way out. But if he makes it to heaven, he’ll know that he’ll face me there one day, too. And then I’ll make sure he gets what he deserves.