love kills

1809

[october 10, 1809]

A 35 year-old Meriwether Lewis steps out of Grinder's Tavern. He slips away from the entrance to let two drunkard couples push out the door and into the night. As the grating voices disappear into silence (apart from the undertone voices coming from the tavern), Lewis returns to his room. He expected the Tavern visit to make him feel more social and excited.

It didn't.

Meriwether Lewis paces his room, wringing his hands. His throat is dry. William Clark is at the back of his mind. He almost forgot about the man, until he traces his life back to the expedition. Back to when he was shown what human touch can do to oneself. He missed those days. Badly.

William Clark was only one of the many reasons Lewis had chosen to do this. He had to do this.

12:00

A gunshot. Followed by the stentorian voice of Lewis, bellowing, "O Lord!"

12:01

Another gunshot. Meriwether Lewis now regretted everything.

He slammed his room door open, the hinges keeping hold only by their knuckles.

"Help! " He groaned, staggering out of the doorway. The soft and subtle grey hair that encased his scalp was now tangled and matted, a clump of red goo daring to gush from his head. His hand was clutching his chest. Blood was oozing from between Lewis' fingers, his voice now becoming limp and strangled. Miss Grinder, the mistress of the tavern-owner, rushed in front of him. She gawked at the poor boy, the poor staggering boy. The bloody boy. Bullied by his own brain. Miss Grinder didn't attempt to speak to him. As Lewis catches a glimpse of the woman standing frozen in her footsteps, he let out another bellow, a string of words so forced they sounded like a phrase taken from a Shakespeare tragedy. "Oh, Madam, " The boy cries out, "give me some water-- heal my wounds!" 

Again, Miss Grinder did nothing of use to him. She left him to his devices, and turned her head, slipping away from the pleading bleeding boy. She couldn't think of having to deal with the blood that could have stained her hands and gown, each drop soaking in the uneasy truth-- attempted suicide.

[october 11, 1809]

Meriwether Lewis feels the grip on his razor weaken. The regret he felt had left. He expected nobody to miss him. Not even William Clark. He was by now covered in horrendous cuts, blood dribbling onto the cold wooden floor of the tavern. His mind was nowhere. His thoughts had no correlation whatsoever. Just focusing on slicing skin until he feels the warm trickle of blood down his body. One last slice, and his life will end. The battle will cease.

Lewis digs his blade into a clean portion of skin just below his hipbone. The stained-maroon blade dipped and severed into his flesh, tearing apart whatever life he had left. All he could fix his eyes onto were an abundance of marks and the familiar glare of blood. 

Meriwether Lewis slumps onto the floor, dropping the blade from his hands, leaving another deep red impression on the wood. One last thought, one correlated and lively thought, had floated into Lewis' brain then.

1794, Lewis looks over at his hazel-eyed commanding officer and soon-to-be companion, who is gazing at him with a smile only soulmates can know.