Disclaimer: Not mine! If it were, it would be bittersweet to the core.
Author's Note: Inspired by a music video. Though I never say it, I think you can probably tell who it is talking about. Enjoy!
The Day You Went Away
Her eyes were fixed on the distance, looking not at the landscape but her imagined future. She was safe, a reality that had not changed since she entered into his company, but old enough to know that safety wasn't everything. He was still there, the unchanged figure that stood, silent as he disdainfully ignored the world around them. Too young to be worried about it, too young to feel the ache of loss, the slight pain in her chest. Too young to dwell on the future.
She smiled up at the imposing figure, a smile that was a lie. "I'm going to die," she said, her words lacking the bitterness normally reserved for such things. He didn't respond, though his frown may have deepened. He turned, instead, away from her. "You'll remember," she said, more for herself than for him. "You'll remember to the second, the date and time." Again, he said nothing, his posture not shifting one inch. "You'll remember," she said, the smile shifting slightly as she saw something, an idea, a thought, coming into focus.
He could never have said what changed, but after that day, there was a change. Softer smiles, almost pitying. Less conversation, though there had never been very much real conversation between the two of them. And then it did happen.
September
22, Sunday, twenty five after nine. The sun was rising, and she was
wearing white. She wanted to see the sun set, and though he didn't
often give in to her compulsions without a fuss, he had merely smiled
and accompanied her. She laughed, on the way up to the cliff top.
She didn't betray her intentions, even after the end. She just
smiled, and looked up at the sun, and turned towards him, holding out
a hand. "You'll remember," she said, "September 22.
Sunday. It's twenty five to nine." She stepped backwards, her
motions more crisp than they had ever been, stronger, somehow.
"Remember," she said, hand still outstretched.
He
thinks about it, sometimes. The way she held it out. He could have
held her hand, and she wouldn't have been able to do it. It never
occurred to him, that she might throw herself off a cliff while the
sun rose. She didn't scream, never raised her voice. She was young.
Too young. And sometimes, when he thought too much, he knew that
she'd done it so that he would remember her, the child and the young
adult she had been, rather than the aging, broken thing she might
have become. The memory is unsettling, And it hurts. But it's his
memory. And it's her.