There's beauty in the breakdown
--Let Go, Frou Frou
Last Request
I longed for the past to haunt me again. No matter how unpleasant I thought it to be.
The last candle flickers momentarily before it vanishes into a thin wisp of smoke. My fingers tread delicately over the keys of my mother's piano. Each key is imperfect in its own glory, adorned with chips and scratches. I noticed that the parlour door remained slightly open, and I admonished myself for my carelessness.
I have become accustomed to these midnight meanderings. Every night, as the clock strikes twelve, I would slip downstairs into the parlour. I did not want to wallow in an empty pool of dreams, or forgotten memories. Nor did I wish to submit myself to those dark spirits that weave webs of lies, and instill fear. Instead, I chose to become a creature of the night, like my mysterious guardian. I would either string a simple melody together at the piano, or sit by the window, a novel in my hands, watching passer bys flit past.
Tonight, I noticed a young boy, no older than eleven, drifting past with a book of poetry in his hands. His mouth forms odd shapes, as he tries to pronounce each word with eloquence. This humours me. He shivers in the flailing winds that toss him about, like a limp rag doll. I want desperately to run out of the door and lead him home, or ask him to read to me in the dim light of the street lamp. Anything to take this emptiness away.
I gasp.
A sharp, piercing cry, from the piano resonates around the parlour.
This startles me, and my eyes dart feverishly around the room, searching for the cause of the noise. I attempt to remain calm, although my hands tremble. I suddenly realize that I have faced far greater fears, but this was indeed the most frightening experience, I have ever encountered.
Something, or someone was approaching behind me. I could feel their cool breath, like a sharp knife, steadied at the nape of my neck. There is no room for questions, and I am overcome by a sickly notion. I ponder whether I have just conjured the impossible, like a magician with unexpected tricks that even he has no knowledge of. I am drowning in a well of uncertainty, with nothing to keep me afloat. I feel that the room does not spin as it should. I can see clear as day and the only thing I am sure of is this.
Nobody wanted this to happen. Not even I.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could feel two hands on either side of my waist. The long, slender fingers cradle me like the branches of an old oak tree. Sturdy, yet strangely comforting. I want to lean back, and murmur his name, like two young lovers sitting in Hyde Park, basking in the fading sunshine on a warm summer's evening. Perhaps if I held my breath, I would be able to hold onto this moment for a little longer. I felt so lonely.
Silent thoughts escape me, and I am sure that he has caught them in the palm of his hand. He dangles my thoughts in front of me, tempting me to embrace him, speak his name, show a gesture of affection, tell him that I had drawn him back with all the strength I could muster…
I felt like a cat, steadying myself before the frightened mouse dangling in front of my eyes.
But I did not falter.
His eyes are closed, as if he were in a peaceful slumber. He bows his head low, and the tip of his nose traces the curve of my shoulder, as if he were breathing in my scent. I closed my eyes, and followed his movement, like the sun moving behind the clouds. Sooner, or later this would become far too harrowing. I wanted desperately to turn to him, and meet his eyes once again. To search for the little warmth that still remained. The bottom of his lip grazed my earlobe, and I shivered involuntarily.
Gemma…
His name was but a whisper to me. Something distant that I could not reach. My throat had closed up, and I struggled immensely to say what I had to say next.
"Why did you come back?"
I could have answered that myself. Lingering questions, my desire to pour myself into him, and confide in him again-but most important of all, his reassurance. He was always so sure of himself, and I admired that.
When he answered me, my blood seemed to run cold. I could not see anything, as I was immediately catapulted into a dark place. It drips with filth, and my agile fingers scratch at the walls, blindly trying to find a way out to no avail. I can hear a faint wailing in the distance, and I fall into a corner, unable to bear the noise that I am burdened with. I open my eyes a little, and see the walls slant dangerously towards me, as they close in on me. I am trapped and mute.
The words fall slowly around me, like dead leaves drifting from the weathered branches of an old tree, as winter approaches. It is so very cold.
To ask you to forget me. Forever.
He surprises me by tilting my chin towards him. His lips brush delicately against mine, like the flutter of a butterfly's wings. Though my eyes are closed, I can visualize every curve, and feature of his face. The way his curls hang loosely over his eyes, brushing against the tip of my nose. The soft touch of his hand as he caresses my left cheek. His thumb stroking my cheekbone, with each stolen kiss. He drinks so deeply, with the belief that my deathly cold kisses will cure him of his eternal slumber.
I want you to know that you are not alone Gemma. You have not lost everything. If you isolate yourself, you will weaken your spirit. Only the weak ones are consumed by guilt, if they do not learn to move on. Do not shed any more tears for me, dearest Gemma. You must learn to let go, so that one day we may see each other again. Please do it for both of us. Do it for me.
Tonight, I did not ask him to return to me.
The sky is a morose shade of grey, which complements the melancholy atmosphere. The attendees wear grave expressions on their faces, forming a dark cloud around my father. Grandmama cries softly, and Tom puts his hand on her arm to comfort her. Through my veil, I can recognise a few familiar faces at my father's funeral. I am noticed by Simon Middleton, the viscount's son, and I step behind Tom to conceal myself from his eager eyes.
As the service draws to an end, I excuse myself, as I did not want to be offered a thousand weary condolences. Instead, I decide to collect my thoughts by taking a walk along a path that is partially hidden by a thick blanket of snow. It will be sometime until I am able to return to my bedroom, to snuggle under my warm fleece blankets. To escape from this biting cold.
Gnarled trees line the pathway. They are huddled against each other, hissing in a strange, unfamiliar burr, weaving dark secrets. Each tree extends their arms towards me in an attempt to catch me unaware. They compete in a most unruly fashion, swaying this way and that to step before their opponent. I wonder how something so frail, and feeble can be so cruel and vicious in nature. It is best to stay true to the path.
In the distance, I can see something glinting in the snow. A shard of light reflects off a tombstone nearby, and I quicken my pace so that I can find its source. Curiosity has taken the better of me, and I dislodge the shining object from the snow and hold it in the palm of my hand. It is some sort of box. I crouch behind a tombstone, and open it cautiously. A forlorn melody that could transcend both time and place flowed from the box, like a tiny stream.
"Who brings you this gift?" the trees whistle.
It is Kartik. I know for sure. Kartik has set me a task, just like the tasks that the Rakshana had set for him, to prove his worth. It was the music box that he was to give me as our final parting gift.
Something to remember him by. And ironically, another thing to forget.
As I leave the cemetery, I realize that the wrought iron bars do not look as menacing as they did upon my arrival. A fog drifts through the cemetery. Perhaps it is a ghost, lost, and dwindling in a different world. It wants to return to a safe place. Home.
I stare pensively out of the carriage window, upon passing the Athenaeum, yearning for the events of the past to unravel, like the reel of a black and white movie. Scenes spring to life, as my eyes search relentlessly amongst the crowds bustling along the narrow London streets. I raise my hand, and press it to the window, as if greeting someone from a far. As the cab turns a corner, I take one last glance before my hand falls to my lap, like a bird that has fallen off it's perch.
I now understand what I must do. I must listen to Kartik and fulfil his final wish.
Westminster is only a stone's throw away from here, and I make haste so that I will be able to return to Grandmamma and Tom in time. I tread carefully around fellow Londoners, and do not stop until Westminster Bridge is in view. I have crossed this bridge many times when I have visited this part of London, but never have I been so reluctant to do so, until now.
I am standing in the middle of the bridge which is almost deserted, save for a horse and cart. The Thames is quiet today, and I too take solace in its tranquillity. Under my many layers, I can see the music box glinting in the palm of my hand. I hold my hand over the water's edge and close my eyes.
I will shed no more tears.
The music box falls out of my hands into the Thames. It sinks slowly into the depths of the river, and I watch as it disappears from sight, a single memory laid to rest.
The music box was a test, and a difficult decision. I could have kept the music box, to keep the memory of Kartik near me. Or I could have rid myself of it, thus leaving my past behind me, and reinforcing the trust that Kartik and I shared.
I decided to listen to him.
Letting go is not an easy task to accomplish, but in doing so I have set Kartik free. I have set us free. I realised that I was not alone anymore.
I waited for the ripples emanating from the music box to dissolve completely, before crossing the bridge.
It feels weird writing something that's 'Post TSFT' since I haven't read the book yet. I haven't managed to get a copy, as the book's coming out in a few months here. So, I decided to write this one shot to pass the time.
Like many others, I found out about the ending (well, the basic details) as soon as the book came out.
I didn't want to dwell on the depressing aspect of Kartik's death, so I decided to reunite Gemma and Kartik. Perhaps there was a hint of a happy ending at the end of TSFT? My assumption... there could be a slight possbility that Kartik will wait for Gemma, until they meet again.
T'would be lovely if you could let me know what you thought of this one shot by reviewing. I'd really appreciate it : )
purple.skivvy