No Suicide is Selfish – Horror Stories

No Suicide is Selfish – Horror Stories
Not for the kids-16+ Adult Story

short horror stories with fear

A husband who is lost in his wife’s memories. He sees his wife every night in his dreams. Touching her body and remembering her, then getting up from sleep, and he realizes that it was a dream of her wife.
He used to always think of suicide in his story and then, he did so.


Maybe now I’m so close to that endless madness I’m starting to realize something – something damn important. After losing my wife Emily, I realize now that no suicide is truly selfish. I get it now. I see her, I see her in my dreams every goddamn fucking night.
Cause she’s not dead, at least not completely. Every night I feel her hands caressing my face, slowly walking them down my naked chest and down my body. I feel the sensual feel of her touch, those fingers so warm and alive, yet I know she is both so dead and gone. It doesn’t matter, because I know she’s here, she’s not gone yet. I realize she was simply looking for something that wasn’t in this world. I get it, truly I do.  She will always appear but I know she’s still with me regardless.
I think about it now, I think about those eyes of my wife, my beautiful wife Emily. Looking at those beautiful eyes, all the while I trace her naked body with eyes and hands, cupping everything from her breasts to her thighs. If this is death, then it is no different from life. How can she be gone? How can she be if I can feel her warmth if I can feel the firmness of that skin, that scent of both life and death?
Suicide is not an easy thing, it must be so goddamn hard to make that decision.
No suicide is easy,
I tell myself that every day, even in the agony of the morning when I wake up to find it was a dream but then again was it? I wake to find myself holding nothing but sand in my hands, having realized I watched her become dust and dirt before I wake. Is this madness? Is this real? Am I alive or dead or even goddamn awake? Is it suicide or is it murder? Tying her up, letting her bleed. Did I want that or did she?
Christ I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know. I Don’t KNOW.
I tell myself her suicide wasn’t selfish, I drum it into my brain and skull, drill with anything sharp nearby because I need to, I need to believe what the hell happened and it happened for a fucking good reason because I’m going crazy thinking, I’m’ going crazy letting all these thoughts just multiply in my mind over and over and over again.
I love her, I loved her, and I love her. I hold her, I kiss her and watch as her face becomes no more than sand, dirt, and dust and blows away in the morning breeze. The agony of the loneliness cripples me, brings me to my knees and I realize I’m still here, I’m still fucking here. I miss her so much.
But I can’t stop myself from feeling those hands, those arms around me, every fucking night. Those fingers dancing downstairs, playing and teasing me like a passion play. That ecstasy, that rapture of that body dancing and grind in front of me, begging me to take her again and again and again. But she’s dead I cry to myself, she’s dead and she ain’t coming back. I remember the blood, I remember nothing but blood. I remember maybe a body, a shape, a shine, or a silhouette maybe even a goddamn shadow. I don’t know, I just don’t fucking know.
Suicide, death, the taking of your own life, even the wanting of death to come; is it not the same? Is it truly not the same?
Emily was my all. Emily was my life and she made her wrists weep. She let them cry all away, all her life in the tub; those stupid baths (as if that’s the cause of my entire problem).  As if I can blame a bathtub for my pain. As if I can blame my own wife for her pain, and I guess it was the pain I created.
I won’t lie to myself, I won’t lie to you, whoever the hell you are and however the hell you’re reading these thoughts, (be it paper or digital). My marriage was a mess, a complete and utter fucking mess. That’s the truth.
I cheated on Emily, I did, I did. I remember it; I remember it so goddamn well. I hate myself for it, I hated her for it. I hated her for not understanding why WHY I did it, WHY I Did what I did. Emily didn’t get it, didn’t get my loneliness. No one fucking understood my pain.
I don’t remember her name or her looks. Just that she killed the pain, if just for the while. Maybe that’s one more reason Emily hated me, one more reason Emily loved me.
Emily’s a ghost now, don’t you get that? Yet he’s still here. Breasts and legs and body and figure, she’s still here. She taunts me every night, teases me every night, and kills my heart with dust and sand every damn morning. My guilt spreads and blooms like a flower in my fragmented mind.
Her suicide, her death; I get it, I GET IT. I understand she did it not for her own self but there was nothing left in this world for her, except one thing.
Revenge; that’s all it is. How cold, how sweet, how addictive knowing she’ll take my soul in the heat of the sex, and the love. If I hold her she’ll disappear yet if I love her she’ll take me away, she’ll kill me there and then.
Ha-ha, I’m screwing a ghost. I’m making love to a dead woman; a woman that’s nothing but ashes in an urn on my fireplace. Yet she’s real, oh Christ she’s so real. Her suicide wasn’t selfish, at least not purely. She died for me, so she could take me away from a life and a marriage I hated.
That’s what love really is. I’ll sit here writing my thoughts and let my mind wander. I’ll drink myself to stupor and play roulette on every round. I can’t remember if I loaded the gun, but I’ll know in six rounds or less. That’s the beauty of it all, that glorious feeling of saying goodbye.
I realize now, no suicide is selfish.

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