The sun is setting as Alexander closes the back door, oblivious to the loud click of the Yale locking behind him. He feels guilty as he stares at the raised beds, now fallen into dereliction, where Grace grew their vegetables before her illness. 

Looking down, Alexander sees a stag beetle lurching across the gravel and curses A.A. Milne for his poem; the nickname ‘Beetle’, oppressed him at school.  At University, one of his former tormentors was a fellow student and so ‘Beetle’ stuck even then. Alexander stoops and gently places the harmless, though fierce looking creature, in his hand and laughs as its tiny antler shaped jaws tickle his fingers. Unlike you, beetle, he muses, I was never brave. But I must have had courage to do it. It was only when he fell in love with Grace that he allowed her to call him, ‘my lovely beetle’.

The sky darkens. There’ll be rain, he thinks. Still carrying the beetle, he returns to the locked back door. Now where did I hide that emergency key? There’s no key in the flowerpots by the door. No need to worry; there’ll be a window open. He only starts to rage when, after a prolonged search, he can find no way in. Tired of hearing his children’s endless demands for an explanation, he’s left his old black telephone off the hook on the kitchen table, thinking that if this is the sum of their concern, so be it. I’ve lost their love but, at least, they paid my bail.

He sees Grace’s favourite shrub, a huge mock orange, its pure white blooms glowing against dark green leaves. Mock bloody everything, he thinks. The rain grows heavier. Still holding the beetle, he climbs in beneath the arching foliage of the shrub and crushes the beetle between his thumb and forefinger flicking its carcass away into the gathering darkness. The smell is somehow frightening, claustrophobic, reminding him of the night he secretly scattered Grace’s ashes amidst the trees of Beverley Westwood, and knew he’d done his duty, but not escaped so-called justice. 

Slowly, torrential rain drips through the bush. The smell of the blossom is intoxicating. He sighs, pulls his sweater more closely about him, lies on the bed of increasingly wet fallen leaves and twigs, and stares into the darkness, wanting to sleep forever. He remembers the Old Testament law: thou shall not kill; it isn’t comforting. Sleep finally overtakes him as his tears fall. 

There, in his sleep, Grace speaks, There was no escape for me, my love. The pain destroyed me. You did all you could. Medicine failed. Not a single drug worked.
I love you so.
It was only your love that helped me to escape. 
It was illegal.
It was merciful.
Our children hate me.
You put me first. You need no forgiveness for being the bravest of beetles. 
Alexander, opening his eyes, whispers, If I was dead there’d be no trial, and I might be forgiven.

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I hope you enjoyed this story. Please feel free to pass it on to others who may be interested. You can read my previous 500 word stories on my website www.philcoskerwriter.com under ‘Writing’.>>>More

© Phil Cosker 2023
Phil Cosker has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved; no part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted by any mean, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the prior permission of the author.