- August, 2001 -
"Which one, Violet?"
The little girl, clad in pajamas and a mock serious expression, ambled over to her mother's bookshelf and perused the stacks, pausing every now and then at a Steinbeck or a Hemingway much to her mother's amusement. Finally, the girl selected her book and slid under the covers preparing for her bed-time story.
"Hmm, Eliot. Are you sure honey? Even I find his prose a little dense."
"I'm sure Mommy. Read now."
Vivien Harmon opened to the content's page and carefully read over the available poems and cantos. Maybe it's best she chose a poetry book, Vivien thought. The majority of classical poetry could put me to sleep as well.
"Which poem should I read? Here," She handed the book to her daughter and prayed Violet wouldn't choose to have them both suffer through one of the longer ones.
"The Hollow Men, Mommy." Violet said, almost immediately after Vivien handed her the book. She placed it back on Vivien's lap and cuddled up to her side.
"The Hollow Men it is." Vivien sighed. It could be worse I guess.
Ben Harmon stood in the doorway of his bedroom, watching the two girls he loved most in the world. Violet and Vivien. Vi and Viv. He thanked God Violet had inherited his love for poetry. Vivien couldn't stand it. Ben was actually surprised to see her reading it, even as a bed-time story. The things a mother does for his child, I guess, he thought.
"Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but with a whimper"
"Mommy?" Violet's eyes were lingering open and her body was heavy with sleep. "What does that mean?"
Vivien looked up, seeing Ben in the doorway and mouthed for him to come nearer. She need his explanation as well and she knew he'd word it better.
Ben silently padded to the bed where he eased his body next to his seven-year-old's. "Well, I think he means that the majority of people in the world think of dying as a big adventure." Violet had turned now, her body angled between the two of her parents, more awake now. "But really, when it happens, things aren't as exciting or noble. Circumstances don't always work out for people and sometimes you don't get to be a big hero when you die."
Violet was silent, her eyes heavily lidded and her expression somber. After several quiet seconds she said "I'm ready for sleep now."
Ben and Vivien, used to the abruptness of their daughter, stood. Vivien put away the book and Ben scooped his little girl into his arms and headed for her room.
"That was a little deep for ya' kid. You're not scared, are you?" Ben said.
"No, Daddy. Death is nothing to be afraid of."
Momentarily stunned, Ben stopped in front of her bed and looked down at her. "What makes you say that?"
"Well, it's the start of a new life, right? You die and go someplace else, meet new people, get a new family. I'd miss you and Mommy but…I don't know if I'd remember you." Violet was being perfectly serious, Ben thought, as perfectly serious as an exhausted seven-year-old could get. "Anyways, I'm tired. Put me down, Daddy."
"Well, death is not something you have to worry about, baby. You're going to be perfectly fine. You're going to live a long, happy life, meet a boy you'll eventually marry and then start your own family. Violet, you're only seven, don't think about it."
"It's okay Daddy. It really is. I'm not scared."
- 16 Years Later -
Violet Harmon, perpetually stuck in her seventeen-year-old body, paced back and forth in her room. Crates of books stolen throughout the six years of Halloweens littered the floor and music blasted from speakers loud enough to bother her parents, who no longer cared what she did anyway. Sunlight fought it's way through her heavy, dark drapes and cast a gloomy, reddish tinge to the air. Her chalkboard was still there, surprisingly. Whenever a new family came in she just hid it in the basement till they moved out, within the month and sometimes, if her parents were particularly gruesome, within the week. But a new family hadn't been here in a good seven, eight months so the chalkboard was up, covered with song lyrics and poetic phrases long erased leaving an almost permanent gray chalk covering. Only one stanza of poetry stood out amongst the dirt and dust.
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but with a whimper
Her pacing finished, Violet stopped and glanced around the room, staring at things that would only be special to her eyes. A Nirvana CD with a scratch down the side, perfectly unusable. A palm-sized bird carved into a corner of the room that she'd only discovered once the room was completely unfurnished, hidden discreetly where two walls met each other. And a book. The most heavily-read book Violet owned, it's pages bent and creased, it's binding almost frayed to pieces. It lay almost reverently in the center of the room, open to the very poem Violet had written on the chalkboard.
It was the same book that Vivien had read to Violet when she was younger. The one book that she requested on an almost weekly basis from that day forward. Violet did not like poetry, to her father's disappointment. She preferred heavy Russian writers and stories about tragedy and unhappiness. But T.S. Eliot had taught her something at seven years old that Violet still remembered. Death is not a big adventure. Death is not something you can prepare yourself for, something to plan out your reaction to. Death is harsh and cruel and unfeeling and Violet never forgot her own reaction to it. She never forgot because now she lived in constant contradiction of it. Death, for her, her parents and all the other people trapped in this house, is something to be extremely afraid of. Because now they are exactly that. Trapped.
She closed her eyes and saw the poem's last line in her head and how it related to her life.
Not with a bang but with a whimper
Tate Langdon's life ended with a bang. Violet Harmon's ended with a whimper.
