The Love That Was Meant To Be

Clang. Clang.  The sound of the church bell sounding noon rang through Bristle's empty streets. The stinging fall air overtook the town in its icy grip, swirling mist and throwing shadows. The feeling on Monroe Avenue could not have been eerier. Had I not been there and had I not known the events that had taken place earlier that year, I would've told myself not to worry; the streets always looked this way in the dead of winter. Oh, the irony.
I walked down the sidewalk on Monroe Avenue, my boots leaving a clear print in the frost-coated cement. Passing by boarded up shops and crippled family businesses that I knew so well, once again my feelings tried to overtake me, but I held them down. If I looked back, I knew I would surrender to my emotions, and I would never regain control. I kept walking.
As I approached the chapel, I kept telling myself I could resist, but deep down I knew I couldn't. I kept my head up, staring forward. As I neared the chapel, I tried to focus on the flickering lamp at the end of the road, but my eyes kept wandering over to the intricate walls of the chapel. Closer now. I wondered why I had chosen this road at this moment, had it been any other time, it would have been different. Perhaps it was supposed to be.
It was only one store away now. I caught myself staring at the door frame; I yanked my head to face the road with my eyes closed. I began to pass. I opened my eyes a hair, but the melodic incandescence of the ice reflecting chandelier lights pulled them apart. A flicker. I froze.
I could help it no longer. As if by some paranormal force, my head began to turn towards the open doorway. I tried to stop myself, told myself it was impossible, there was no way, but that didn't stop the supernatural force that was turning my head. There was no way I could stop it now. I urged my feet to move. To take me away, away from here, anywhere but here. Nothing. Whatever was turning my head was freezing the muscles in my legs as well. It was too late. Perhaps it was supposed to be.
My eyes reached the doorway; I stared inside and what I saw, I knew, was surreal. There I was with my bride-to-be. The ceremony was taking place, dozens and dozens of our closest friends and family were piled in the pews. It couldn't be happening, it wasn't happening. Though I knew the truth, I could not believe it. The ceremony continued. Me and Sheryl took each other's hands and looked each other in the eyes. The feelings welled up inside me once again; I jerked my head away but it quickly found its way back. The preacher was finishing the ceremony. He told me to kiss the bride and I remembered doing so with such passion. And then it was gone. Though I suppose it was never really there.
I couldn't hold it in any longer. I fell to the ground, weeping for what is, what could've been, what no longer was. Had anyone been on that street, I would've picked myself up, dusted myself off, and walked on as if nothing ever happened. But no one was on the street, and no one would ever be on this street again. Perhaps it was supposed to be.
Tears flooded down my face for what felt like hours. By the time the barrage had ended, the church bell struck 12:30. I slowly rose to my feet. My eyes darted towards the inside of the church. It was empty, just as it had been the entire time. Now that the worst had passed, I worked up the courage to go inside.
It was just as it had been that day, years ago, untouched by the plague that devastated all else. I felt as if I were in a dream as I floated down that aisle, like I was going to wake up at any moment, reunited with her in my arms, and realize that it was just a bad dream. But it was no dream, and she was no longer mine. Perhaps it was supposed to be.
I came upon the third pew from the front and sat down in the middle of it. This was where we first met. Right here, in this very seat, sat the woman of my dreams some 20 years ago. Only then, she wasn't a woman. She was only five, and I was only seven. I felt the memory coming on oh so strongly, and I welcomed it warmly into my mind.
It was the middle of July. While the sun was at its peak, high in the sky, we came piling into the pews for the ceremony. My father was the best man and her mother was the maid of honor. Had it been any other way, I presume, we never would've met. Perhaps it was supposed to be.
She had looked at me and smiled warmly as if she had known me forever. Her smile, oh, that smile of hers never really changed. For all the years we were together, she smiled at me that same exact way, and I wouldn't have had it any other way.
But that was then, and this is now. It was no longer the way it used to be, and it never would be. Perhaps it was supposed to be.
I knew I had to leave before my emotions swept me away, but they wouldn't let me flee any longer. As I turned to walk towards the door, my eyes caught on a small marking on one of the pews. It wasn't just any pew, though: it was our pew.
It was the pew where we fell in love. This had been the pew where my sweaty hands had shaken as I passed her that letter. To this day, I still remembered what I wrote:

Roses are red, violets are blue
I' love to go to the Prom with you

That line's pretty cheesy, this I know
Just do me one favor, check [ ] Yes or [ ] No

When she opened it up, I could've sworn I saw a sparkle in her eyes. She looked at me with her sweet smile and wrote something on the note. I was so happy and relieved when she handed the note back to me; the first box was checked and her number was scribbled on it. That was when I knew I loved her. Perhaps it was supposed to be.
A year had passed and we were still together. Our date had just ended and I was driving her home when she turned to me and told me to pull over in front of the chapel. I did as she asked, not knowing what had drawn her here. She rushed me inside, holding my hand, and led me to this pew. She asked me for my pocketknife, and we sat there and carved our initials inside a little heart in a place no one would think to check, no one but us, forever sealing our love in that pew. Perhaps it was supposed to be.
It had been what had caught my eye, and now I found myself sitting there beside it, absentmindedly moving my finger over it, like I didn't believe it was still there. But it was still there. Perhaps it was supposed to be.
The memories poured from my body; I couldn't have stopped them even if I wanted to. They had to run their course, which led to the final memory.
At the end of February a few years ago, her mother's funeral was being held in this chapel. We sat in the front row, clutching each other's hands tightly, holding each other for comfort. As the day went on, her eyes filled with more tears while I remained dry-eyed. It wasn't that I didn't care, but I had to be strong for her own sake. But while I was alone I wept; not for her mother, though I loved her like my own. I wept for Sheryl, for it hurt me to see her in such pain. I couldn't bear seeing her so sad, but there was not much for me to do but to stay strong, and so I did.
At the end of the service, I remember her clinging to me like she was about to fall off the edge of the Earth. She wiped her eyes, looked up at me, and said, "Promise me you'll never go. Promise me you'll say goodbye before I do." There was nothing I could say but, "I promise." Anything else would've only made her more upset. Perhaps it was supposed to be.
And then I came upon a realization. Without thinking, I uttered aloud, "I never said goodbye." Before she was gone, before I left her, I never said goodbye. I had to say my farewell; I could live no longer without fulfilling my promise to her that I had made that day.
At last I realized my love for her was never truly lost, had never really gone. It was only bound in shackles by the reign of fear that had resided within me. In a moment I had banished all fears, threw off the chains that held back my love, and left the chapel to return to my beloved Sheryl.

Once I finally reached my old home, where she now resided, I stumbled up the steps, tired and breathless. I dug around in my pocket for my key, but it turned up empty. I fumbled through my other pockets, my panic rising with every negative result. I ended up triple checking every pocket before remembering what I did when I left.
I had been so upset, so devastated, that upon finishing locking the door, I had thrown the key childishly into a line of bushes, never wanting to see it, or her, again. I was at the bushes in a heartbeat, searching furiously through every one, looking for my only key. If only I had listened to her and gotten a spare! Perhaps it was supposed to be.
After an exhausting 15 minutes of searching extensively through those bushes with only one thing in mind, I was left with nothing but scrapes and bruises, the most painful one being in my heart. I couldn't let it end like this; I had to see her again. Nothing was going to stand in my way, especially not a single flimsy door. I had to try to reach her, so I decided to try and bust down the door.
At first I tried to kick it down, but no matter which way I stood, I couldn't kick it hard enough to break it down. I tried a normal front kick. Nothing. I tried standing with my back to the door and kicking backwards at the bottom of the door. Still nothing. I knew she must have heard me, but there was no way she was answering the door. Not the way she was, not with the way I had trapped her. The only thing that I could think to try now was charge it, but the way the stairs spiraled to the door made it impossible. Perhaps it was supposed to be.
Then a thought occurred to me. Why break the door down if breaking a window is easier? How could I have been so stupid? I made my way counterclockwise around the house until I came to the first ground floor window. This one led into the kitchen, just next to the table. I couldn't waste any more time to see my beloved, so I didn't bother finding a rock. I pulled back and unleashed a devastating punch on the window. It shattered into a thousand pieces. Thank God! Now I can finally see her again. Perhaps it was supposed to be.
I climbed in through the window, ignoring my new cuts on my face and arms, and the glass that now resided within them. I quickly made my way to the basement where I had left her. I came to the room that held my Sheryl; she was just behind this door. I was going to see my beloved again, but without the fear that had frightened me before.
I opened the door to see her right where I left her. She was locked in our old dog kennel, which was 4 feet wide, 6 ½ feet tall, and 10 feet long. She noticed me walk into the room and stood up, stumbled over to the door, and reached out for me. The feeling of seeing her again was more magnificent than I had imagined.
The room smelled like her. To anyone else, it may have reeked of rotting flesh; it may have even been unbearable, but to me, it was the sweetest scent in the world. Her skin was pale and peeling, her face and body blotched with blood, her hair had almost completely fallen out, and the knife was still lodged in her chest from our fight. Despite all these things, she was still the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. My beloved was no longer who she had been, but she was still my beloved.
I walked over to her prison.
"Oh, baby, what have I done to you?" I looked at the cage I had put her in and the knife I had put in her chest. "I'm sorry for how I acted before. I was just scared; my mind was clouded. But now it's clear, and I'm no longer afraid."
She looked up at me with those still-sparkling blue eyes, and I knew she was happy I came back.
"I shouldn't have treated you so poorly," I continued, staring deep into her eyes, "I shouldn't have locked you in this cage or, you know, put the knife in your chest. But now I'm going to fix my mistakes."
I approached closer to the door to reach the combination lock and she retraced her arms as if she knew my intentions and wanted me to proceed, as if she was giving me her blessing. I swear I saw her smile a warm, happy smile. Her smile. It had been almost a year since I had used the lock that now separated me and my beloved. Maybe it was a subconscious thing, but it was the lock I would never forget the combination to. It was LOVE, 5683. I entered the combination and the latch unhitched.
I opened the cell door, allowing my beloved to walk feely, but she did not. We just stood there for a moment, staring at one another. Finally, I reached down and pulled the knife from her chest, flinging it uselessly to the side. I wouldn't need it. Perhaps it was supposed to be.
She threw herself at me the way she did on our honeymoon, the way she did on other countless occasions, the way she always did. We fell onto the floor, her laying on top of me, staring into each other's eyes.
Her and I both knew we couldn't be together the way we were. Her being a zombie and me being a human, but we had to be together. I nodded at her, giving her my blessing. She sunk her teeth into my neck and, rather than fight it, I welcomed it, just like all the memories back at the chapel. The virus had spread to me; I quickly transformed into one of them, and I wouldn't have had it any other way. Now we could be together.
At last I could finally see, perhaps it was supposed to be, the love that was meant to be.