It's been a long year (freewrite)

He walked through the hallway that reminded him so much of her, every pore of the walls breathing in her skin, her lustful perfume drenched over every door. It seemed like there wasn't a single room, across the house, across the universe even, in which he hadn't loved her. But try as he might to remember all the nights he loved her and all the mornings he took her in his arms, the only one that stood out, in the haze of his forgotten memories was the last.
The image plagued him, making him unable to breathe, reigning hell over his every waking moment. Not that the nights were any easier, he would dream of her constantly. A particular recurring dream – he'd see her across the street, waving and yet not seeing him, and he'd turn, like they only do in the movies, 'cause maybe she was waving to someone else. But it was only just them, always, on the opposing streets – it was in the middle of town and he knew the street well. And he'd run across the street, not even looking to see if there were cars coming his way, because he had to catch her and with every second spent on the other side, she was getting further away. And in his dream, he'd call out her name.
'Mary,' he'd yell, 'Mary, Mary, Mary.'
But Mary never turned around to look at him, as if she couldn't hear, and maybe she could not. After all, the sounds were very faint to him too, like he was screaming down a very deep and narrow well.
So, he'd run faster and faster, feeling his heart as it begged him to stop and ignoring it each time, thinking that maybe if he was only a little faster, he would catch up to her, and yet he never did. And every morn, he'd wake only to be happy – for just a brief moment – thinking that he didn't need to catch her after all. He'd always thought that was utter bull, how could you not remember someone so crucial to your own existence was gone?
And yet he never did, because somewhere deep inside his mind, she was still there.

He walked the corridor with his eyes closed most days, because he couldn't bear to see the wall, to see the exact spot where her head had been. The wall had been cleaned many times over and repainted, of course, but he still saw it. Her body slumped against the wall, her eyes closed. It was the eyes that did it, it was looking at her and realizing he'd never see the smile in her eyes again. That's when he realized this was real, that Mary wasn't there anymore, not for him, not for anyone.

The phone rang, breaking him out of his dreaming yet again.

'I can't do this anymore,' he said into the phone, as soon as he answered.

'Come now, Charlie, we've talked about this,' the voice on the other end said after a long, considered pause.
'No, you talked, but you never listened. I can't,' he whispered and with that, he hung up the phone and threw it into the wall. Not where her head had been, but slightly to the left. He watched as the screen smashed into a thousand pieces and crumbled into nothing. And despite that,he listened to it ring again and again and again. Charlie closed his eyes and ran out of the house, careful not to lock it behind him. He longed for the day when some bum would try the door to find it open and take everything that reminded him of her.

He walked without knowing where he was going, swaying slightly on his drunk feet. And yet, how could there ever have been a question of where he was really going? He knew, he knew as well as anything in his head that there was only one place to go. He sat down by her, in the clear opening of light. He'd made sure there would always be light, even at night, he'd set up a special headlight that was always on. He'd expected someone would take it, some children playing their spooky game, but nobody dared to go near the burial ground. He was alone – utterly, utterly alone – in his grief and his emptiness, just like he always had been.
He sat feeling the light on his back, closing his eyes against the tears and the memories. Each moment bringing him fresh images of her, in the cold and dark hallway, waiting for him. It had taken him about a week to think of that, to realize that the darkness from when he'd entered the house meant she'd died in that darkness. Alone and scared, waiting for him to come back, to save her, but he never could.

'I'm not a good man, love, I never was,' he barred his teeth and bit the inside of his cheek. He'd tried to tell her how sorry he was so many times, he'd willed the words out of his mouth, and yet he couldn't. Because he knew that saying them even only to her headstone would give him some sort of release, a peace of mind he did not deserve. He hadn't been able to save her when she was alive and now he'd let the words burn him to a crisp.

Charlie knew the voice from the telephone was there watching him even before he turned. He bent down and kissed his wife's grave one more time and then he walked away.
'Why are you doing this, Charlie?' the voice asked – it was tall and dark and seemingly friendly. 'We've had so many good times together.'
He said nothing, stepping around this stranger he knew so well.
'Are you going to leave me now, is that it? After all we've been through, after all our friendship has brought you,' the stranger cried, walking beside him.
'No,' Charlie said, reaching into his pocket. 'No, my friend. I'm not leaving you, I'm gonna join you forever,' he told him and before the stranger could react (although Charlie very much doubted he would) he took out the think black blade and sunk into his own heart.

It doesn't hurt, Charlie found himself thinking. Lying on the damp grass, he could see the stranger bent over him and he could see the flash of anger in his eye. And for the first time in a really long while, Charlie smiled. A tortured, hideous grin.
'Why, Charlie? You'll never be with her now,' the stranger told him. 'I thought you craved redemption, to save your soul and join your beloved in eternal rest, all that.'
The stranger was almost pleading, but they both knew he would not get his way. This soul was no longer his to torment.
'No,' Charlie tried to shake his head, but found he could not, 'I never could. And you knew that. I should've known too. There's no salvation for people like me.'

This story was prompted by the word 'redemption' which I think is a nice fantasy, but not much else. Thank you @mariannewest for inspiring me to write every day <3 Check her out!

Thank you for reading,