The Quiet Death of Doctor Meyer

“The Quiet Death of Doctor Meyer”

I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since we buried Molly. My sleep is
fitful and restless. Dancing imps crawl about me in my dreams, condemning me
for what I’ve done, a female figure in red the source of my macabre trial.
The repeating rhythm of “Long live Doctor Meyer, burned his wife in a
kitchen fire,” the only discourse the little demons will give me. It?s a
swirling hatred, my nightly tribunal, and it drives deep into my heart. I?ll always fear
the coming of the executioner because of this dream.

Her funeral was the picture of respectful in its opulence. It’s hard to
think of something like a funeral being a social event, but it turned
out to be the place for young socialites to gather. Morbidly curious about the
rich man’s wife, they paid faux respect never knowing the greatest affront
to her memory was that I was there with Sophia.

I refer to “we”, for it was a joint venture between Sophia and myself.
We had planned the death of my wife meticulously. It even was a point of
contention many times, not because I questioned murdering my wife, but because
Sophia’s schemes often drew heavily on Faulkner. I found this sort of
“accidental” death to be something that was easily traced, and had no intensions of
spending the last outdoor walk of my life sauntering between a cell and gallows.

She once told me that certain types of hypnosis, applied clandestinely
to a sleeping subject, would not allow that subject to breathe in such a way
that one would think they are dead. She reasoned that we could have my
lovely Molly carted off as dead long before she was, being done with her
without much worry. I vehemently stated that for all her faults, I would
always love Molly. If we were going to end her life, then we were going
to do it in a civilized manner.

Since the day I set fire to the kitchen, with Molly locked inside, I’ve
been quite satisfied with sticking to my stance. Not many questions were
asked, and it was assumed that it was a grease fire catching her dress.
“It’s the peril in having a kitchen with only two exits, sir.” The constable
said. I shook my head, and wiped a tear, and carried on in the expected
decorum of a gentlemen.

My sleep hasn’t had anything to do with guilt, mind you, but rather
with the fact that Sophia has a tendency to kick in her sleep. She whispers
things that I wish I couldn’t hear, and she moans in a ghastly breath of air when
we make love. She is, essentially, a fine lover but a terrifying
presence in the house. I find her hollow eyes cutting through me at
dinner occasionally, as if she’s staring straight into the soul of my being.
It’s only this afternoon, when she tried to alleviate one of the negro cooks
of her right index finger, did I realize that it was, perhaps, best she

Sophia, however, seems to have had similar plans in effect for a much
longer time. My dreams fight me again, the familiar children?s rhyme
flittering in the back of my head:

Long live Doctor Meyer,
Burned his wife in a kitchen fire.
His mistress and he sealed her in,
A horrid death for loving kin.
Let’s hang that doctor for forty days,
he set his dear, dear wife ablaze.

What roused my conciousness awake was nothing short of terrifying. My
body shook, and my eyes opened to pine above me. Pine all around me. I tried
to move when I realized what was happening, but Sophia prepared well. My
hands were bound behind me, my feet much the same. It mattered little,
though, as her hypnosis was much more effective than I was led to believe. I never
dreamt I would be awake when I was buried.

It was a bare silence. A gruff voice from above me broke in, lamenting
the back breaking work of grave digging. I tried to scream out, I tried to
make him aware, but my heart sank when I heard Sophia finalizing the
deal, I was being buried alive for a week’s pay. Her soft voice carried
sweetly on the air, echoing off of the wet dirt around me. “Leave his marker
without a name.” she says, “I understand that the Doctor has retired to the
Florida Keys.”

And so it began, the gentle wrap of dirt on wood. The slow muffled sound
of life being drowned out. I wept to myself in my last hours, the door
into hell closed behind me. All the while, played in my head, were the
voices of those vicious little imps. “Long live Doctor Meyer, burned his wife in a
kitchen fire.”

The air became thick, and developed an acrid smell. I am nearly postive
that my body is long dead. I can’t feel my heart beat, and there is a dullness to my faculties. The air is acrid and hot, and it no longer hurts to breath.

All that lives in me now is a regret for what I’ve done, and a burning hatred for
Sophia. These are the things that let me know I was once a person, because humanity
left my heart long ago.


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Mike Black is…

A writer, reader, commentator, music lover, art lover, futurist, tech lover, pragmatist, romantic, DepDecoist, and a bastard. Hopefully you enjoy.

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