A/N: This was written on an extremely melancholy day. It's inspired by the third act of Our Town by Thornton Wilder so if you're familiar with the play, you'll know what is coming. Some of you might not like it as it's pretty heavy, I just want to warn you now. I hope you do like it though.
Defining Moments
I don't know of a single soul who would willingly choose to believe this life is futile. People spend countless years perfecting themselves, attempting to correct wrongs afflicted, and reaching for a happiness that may or may not exist. We are told from a young age that we deserve the world and we believe it because we have no grasp of the superficial. Everything we are fed is truth, is certain. It's only when we are older, when we have lived through disappointment and heartache and complacency that we understand the one and only certainty in this life is death. This may sound callous but I find comfort in the predictability of death, in that regardless of gender, race, social status, character-it is an inevitable and universal truth. What is uncertain, especially to those souls who have reached the end of their days, is what happens next.
I died on Sept 23, 2023.
The date is etched on my tombstone in beautifully scrolled figures and followed with a quote by W. Somerset Maugham. "Life isn't long enough for love and art."
It really is a beautiful tombstone. Sometimes I stare at it, comparing it to all the others around me, and feel a sense of pride in knowing that mine stands out among them. It's top of the line, of course, made of bronze and set delicately inside a polished granite base with a slant, six inches at the top and four inches at the bottom. People are more likely to stop and take a look at mine. They might make a passing comment about how it's such a shame that I was so young and flippantly remark about the tragedy of it all. People will undoubtedly mention that the stone is elegant and the quote is a fitting tribute for a life cut short. People who don't know me.
The weather is gloomy today. Dark skies, a smattering of rain. The earth is soggy beneath the feet of the people standing around. The men are cursing the mud and the women are complaining about their hair frizzing up from all of the humidity. I can't say that I blame them. Graveside funerals tend to be quite unpleasant when the weather isn't cooperating.
I suppose they are here for me, for my funeral, which is strange because I can't remember how long I've been here. It feels like...huh. Days don't really mean anything anymore, that is to say the length of them. But the moments of them, the memories of them, they mean something still. Their value is immeasurable. But that is for a bit later.
They've all gathered under black umbrellas. Mustn't come sporting a bright yellow one or one with large polka dots, that would be unacceptable. The women would titter on about the brazenness of it, and how dare she show up looking like that, and I would never do that, and she is not getting an invite to my next dinner party.
Bitches.
There is one here who has no umbrella, no shield from the elements. He stands alone amongst a throng of people. His designer suit is wet and his messy hair is plastered to his forehead. He's holding something, a bundle of sorts. Flowers maybe. No, not flowers, it's thicker, denser than flowers, and ovular. And it moves.
Oh. That's right. I know what he holds.
I got to see her face once. Everything was hazy but I remember her eyes. They bore into me and burned, branded me. I'm hers until the end. This is not the end.
It's stopped raining momentarily, but his face is still wet. I've never seen that before. He never cried in front of me, he was always so careful. I used to shed buckets, his arms would go around me, and I'd feel safe. Strong.
I wish I could put my arms around him now.
I don't think those sorts of thoughts very often, the pain is excruciating. I prefer to distance myself and wait. Wait for what's next.
Still...there is some pleasure in painful remembrances, an exquisite agony that squeezes and caresses your soul, for that is all you have left. Sometimes these little indulgences can't be helped.
He used to tie my shoelaces for me. I hardly ever wore shoes that had laces, but when I did, he would sit me down, prop my feet onto his lap and tie double knots so that they wouldn't come undone.
His shoelace needs tying right now.
He used to categorize his life by a series of defining moments, significant days and events that made him happy or refined his character or stood out as important for one reason or another. The day he learned to read, the first and only F he ever made on a test, his reaction to his parents' divorce, the first time he had sex and the first time he made love for they were two entirely different occasions, the publication of his first novel (he was so proud), the publication of his second novel (he was not proud), the day he told me he loved me and the day I told him I loved him too many years later.
The day we learned that we were expecting.
That's one of mine too, one of my defining moments.
I have so many and they all sort of run together, raindrops on a windowpane. Ever present and dominated by regret and bad choices, dominated by the other one, the other man. The one I foolishly devoted so much of my life to and got so little in return.
He is here today as well accompanied by someone I don't recognize. Her face isn't wet. It's bored. His is though and I am briefly overcome with a small amount of compassion.
But there is no place for compassion here for I know now that it is indeed futile and I wait, and I go over and over my defining moments until...until the day comes that I am sure is coming. They consume me, if it is even possible for me to be consumed in this state, a constant reminder of what I've done, the person I was created to be and the person I became. They whir in front of me, racing across the edges of my memory so that I can't stop and linger on any one but am forced to relive them all in an endless cycle. Some of them are in fragments, some of them are so clear that I'm momentarily confused. Am I reliving these days? They clip along before me and all I can do is observe.
My mother forgot my eighth birthday.
I love my father, I hate my father, I love my father.
My parent's don't care about me at all. I refuse to let this define me. I will create a new identity.
I am a queen, infinite and unreachable. No one can touch me when I am on my throne.
My essay was chosen and published! Oh thank God someone is actually listening to me.
I didn't get into the college I've wanted to go to my entire life and I think I will become nothing. A void. A waste of space.
I am desperately enamored of this dark prince who despises me one day and praises me the next. He is my world.
My world is over. My dark prince has betrayed me to his uncle and I want to die.
Do I have any sense of self worth?
No, I do not.
There's that boy, the one Serena likes so much. God, he's just so bland. He's so annoying. Does he even own a decent pair of shoes? He looks homeless.
He took me to a movie today and I didn't hate it, the movie that is. I hated every second of the date. I mean it wasn't a date though.
Why is he so nice to me?
Did I actually land this job? The world is my oyster.
I am a publishing mogul and you will know my name someday.
That boy keeps showing up here and attempting to help me be successful. Is he some kind of masochist?
When did he get so handsome?
Maybe that boy isn't quite as horrible as I initially thought.
Maybe he isn't horrible at all.
There's that boy, the one Serena used to like so much. God, I think I'm in love with him.
My heart belongs to him.
No.
No, I will not allow it. He has claimed a piece of me and I must get it back. I can't risk losing it.
There's my dark prince. He will be my choice. Yes. He is my choice, the one who compliments my life perfectly. We will rule on our industrial thrones and claim this earth for our own.
Here is my dark prince, becoming my king today. That boy, the one who has my heart, sits in the back, wounded, but he's here. I wonder why he's here.
Here is my dark prince, all fire and passion.
Here is my dark prince, all riches and splendor.
Here is my dark prince, all suspicion and mistrust.
Here is my dark prince, giving me a child.
My child.
I forget about that boy because now my heart belongs to this one who has yet to be born. My chi-
Oh God, please dear God. Not again. I can't lose another one to you. I beg of you. If you must take this child, then take me as well.
No.
No!
I can't continue. I can't go on.
Where is my dark prince? I guess he is gone, it was all too much for him.
I have nothing. I have no one. Please just let me die.
.
.
.
Please.
.
.
.
There's no mercy in this godforsaken life.
.
.
.
.
That boy is here, only he's a man now. I wonder why he's here.
After all this time, all these years, he's still here.
I don't want to talk to him or anyone. I just want to lay here.
He sits with me. Let's me be silent.
He brought me lunch today. And a movie. I still want to die.
He's started bringing books over and reading them to me. We are halfway through The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe before I tell him that I prefer to hear The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. He returns the next day with the entire L. Frank Baum collection.
He took me to the art museum, the aquarium, that disgusting theme park. I still want to die.
He took me to the doctor and held my hand.
My mother looks at him sort of funny, wistful and misty.
We rode to the top of the Empire State building three times today then gorged on frozen yogurt and espresso.
He made me laugh. He's so funny. I had forgotten.
I had forgotten a lot about him. I'm beginning to remember though. A loft in Brooklyn, an old cathedral, vows poignantly penned, a getaway car, a scandalous novel, a kiss, so many kisses, a frothy pink dress, a confession of love.
I can breathe again.
There's that boy. The one Serena used to like so much. God, he still has a piece of me. He's here and I'm starting to feel whole again.
He knows me.
His hands are shaking and he tells me he loves me for the second time in his life.
I smell his cologne on my sheets after he's gone. It's clean, subtle, slightly sweet with hints of earthiness.
I don't want to die anymore.
That boy and I are pledging ourselves to one another today. We are real, forever and I have never been more assured of anything in this life.
Happy. I am the happiest I have ever been.
.
.
.
.
.
This look, the look on his face, is priceless. I wish I had thought to grab my camera. He's overjoyed! There will be three members in our family soon. I am in rapture and also a little bit wary.
He's buying out the baby store. We don't even know the gender yet but everything is pink. He is just so certain and he's having so much fun that I leave him to it.
The damn baby crib is the source of our first big fight. He is so stubborn that I just want to hit him in the hope that it will knock some sense into that curly headed, addled brain of his! Why can't he read the instructions? They are sitting on the floor right in front of him!
Apparently he has a sixth sense because we are in fact having a girl and he is all smugness, as if he did this all on his own. Never mind the fact that it took the two of us to make this child. That part was fun. Never mind the fact that I am the one carrying this child.
I am the one carrying this child and a fear is creeping up on me. I suppress it, push it down.
I am an elephant. He is rubbing my feet and telling me how beautiful I am but I am an elephant.
She is stirring, restless. I wake him up and he places his hands on my swollen belly and leans his head down so he can listen to her, talk to her, calm her down. "I love you." he whispers. "Your mommy and I can't wait to meet you. Just a few more days little bug."
She's coming, she's coming! My baby girl is coming. We made it. All my fears, all my wariness are gone and I am in bliss!
"Get your hands off of me you moron!" I might need to apologize to the nurse after I've gotten the epidural.
Here is my husband, "Apologies aren't needed right now." he tells me. "You only need to concentrate on one thing."
Here is my husband, all understanding and support.
Here is my husband, all sweetness and comfort.
Here is my husband, all reassurance and adoration.
Here is my husband, welcoming our daughter into the world.
She is in his arms and I can see her. His face is like the sun and he is holding something precious to him. He brings her close to me and her eyes meet mine. They are brown, like her parents'. They bore into me and burn. Brand me. I am hers until the end. This is not the end-
Something is happening to me. I feel...wrong. I am growing fearful and I want to hold my daughter, the beautiful daughter of Dan Humphrey and Blair Waldorf. She is mere inches away from me.
I reach for her and her face is the last thing I see.
This is my quintessential defining moment.
I have no memories beyond that one. I didn't hear the beeping of the monitors or the doctors scrambling. I didn't see them take her from him and push him aside. I didn't see his face and I am grateful for that for surely the image would haunt me in my haunted state.
I can see his face now. On this day his expression is a mixture of despair and defiance. He wants to die but he can't. She prevents him from falling into the abyss, she who has my eyes.
He will live, they will live. And they will love each other until they come here to meet me one day. That is the day we will journey together and not before. It would be futile to attempt to move on without them for we are bonded and infinite. I understand this but they do not. They will though, they will one day.
The sun comes out and the people are leaving now, umbrellas long since closed and tucked away. They talk of lunch and sympathy cards, and wasn't that a nice service, and we really should get together more often. They all leave, everyone but him...and her. He stands beside the remnant of me holding her and refuses to let me go. He has never been good at letting me go. Maybe he never will, but he will live. For her.
He holds something else, a scrap of fabric. No, it's a piece of paper. It has words printed on it I think, a lot of words as if it were torn from...a book! He holds a page torn from a book. What I wouldn't give to know the words printed on that page.
He's speaking to her. "This is for your mommy. The other half of me."
He's placing it inside the earth and I can sense it, smell it. The strength of it's aroma is intoxicating. It tells of something powerful.
Ah. There it is.
"I know not if this earth on which I stand is the core of the universe or if it is but a speck of dust lost in eternity. I know not and I care not. For I know what happiness is possible to me on earth."
It's washing over me, wrapping around me, his gift to me during this interim, this rest stop along the way.
He knows. I am here and he knows I wait for them.
END
A/N: The quote on her tombstone is from The Moon and Sixpence. Dan's quote for Blair is taken from Ayn Rand's Anthem.