Chapter 1: Too Much
The air is cool but thick and heavy as the sky rolls in tones of gray overhead. I hurry from one side of the short cut grassy clearing to the other, stopping only when it feels right. Breathing with a little effort, I throw my arms up, so that my hands are at my shoulder's height, arms stretched out in plea. I close my eyes, and open them when the words feel fit to burst from my very heart if I don't choose to speak them first.
"Give me the child." I proclaim, pausing briefly. The sky rumbles, almost in response. I steel my gaze, but keep my arms open in welcome for an answer to my demand. "Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, I have fought my way here, to the castle beyond the Faerie City, to take back the child you have stolen, for my will is as strong as yours, and my kingdom is as great.." The storm thunders distantly, angered. I hesitate, the uncertainty obvious in my faltering everything, hands dropping a bit and stance no longer as strong.
"My will is as strong as yours, my kingdom as great… oh, damn!" I relent and go for the book tucked away in my vest, turning to the last page, where the cursed line waits to be rediscovered, yet again. "'You have no power over me.' I can never remember that line." I grumble to myself, disappointed that I have, once more, forgotten the pinnacle of the story, the climax, the very penultimate of my favorite part of the entire book! Even running through the entire tale as I have done, time and again with my father, I cannot seem to recall that line in the moment it's needed of me.
Before I can continue to berate myself, a bark from my dog brings my attention back to things. Looking from him to the sky, I am surprised by how dark it is, dark in the way only the soon setting of the sun can make the sky, storm or no storm.
"Oh, no!" I start running, knowing I've lost track of time in the worst possible way. "Caesar, come on!" I beckon my faithful dog as I pass, though he's already prepared to follow. The clouds open up when we're halfway home, the water cold, refreshing, but altogether bothersome because I know I will get in trouble for both myself and Caesar being soaked when we finally get home. My greatest fear is the book, tucked happily away again, getting wet or even. My vest is a thick, though partially transparent material, so I hope my copy of Labyrinth is safe there. I can only hope that any damage done to it is mild or nonexistent as I complete my dash to the back door, where my guardian waits for me. I slow to a reproachful pace, afraid to meet the eyes of Mrs. Giry as she stands on the back porch.
"Christine." The disappointment is obvious in her tone, though she speaks rather quietly.
"I, I am so sorry, I know I promised it would be a short walk, I did not mean to lose track of time, I- I just got caught up in-"
"In your tradition, I know. Hurry inside, and take care of Caesar as you do." She sounds understanding, sympathetic, though I know she cannot help but be disappointed. And it's only fair, I know, that she feels that way. She has plans. Instead of saying what we both know, she simply turns and walks inside, leaving behind a towel to pat down my fluffy hound with. Being a Great Pyrenees, Caesar's perfectly white coat is soaked, and sure to do similar damage to the inside of the house if he's not dried a little. Briefly assuring the status of my book, I take the large towel to his coat and rub him down from his head to his toes and tail, until at last he can at least be described as 'damp' rather than 'soaked'.
I myself have also dried a little, by way of airing out underneath the porch's fans, so I let us both in, dutifully grabbing my book on the way in. To my regret, Mrs. Giry and Meg are waiting for me at the banister, ready to go. I feel so bad for holding them up for so long already, and I had hoped a little that they had just gone ahead by now.
"I'm sorry, ma'am." She holds up a hand, silencing me softly. She never means to be harsh, and though she is often very kind and gently, she is also intimidating in a way I cannot quite describe. She seems to exude control, but she wields it fairly and deftly.
"I know you are. You would never hurt or inconvenience anyone, and I know that. We simply wanted to assure that you were safe at home before we went out." She is fair, and kind, too much so considering all the trouble I'm sure I've given them. They're going out to a ballet tonight, and luckily they're not late for the performance itself, only late by Mrs. Giry's standard of 'twenty minutes early is on time' mentality.
"Are you quite sure you don't want to go with us, Christine?" Meg asks sweetly from beside her mother. They look just alike, though Meg's coloration must surely come from her father. Where Mrs. Giry is dark in her hair and eyes, Meg is light, sandy blonde and green eyed. She looks at me softly, kindly, eagerly. The fourteen year old girl has been a sister to me, and truthfully I wish I could share the eagerness she holds to watch, perform, and breathe ballet, but while I am amazed by it, I simply do not find as much joy in it as she, and I have attended a great deal with them already. Their bi-monthly adventures to one of the many productions that are always being performed somewhere have gotten quite old and, frankly, a bit boring to me. No, better to let them have their fun, and not third wheel them with my dull, tasteless attendance.
"Yes, Meg. I'll be fine at home, I'm only sorry I've made you wait. Please, go have fun. I'll be fine." I repeat, only wishing for them to go so that my embarrassment might be forgotten, and for their night to finally start.
"If you are certain, dear, dinner is still on the stove on a low heat. We'll be back late. Stay inside, don't answer the door or the phone, and have a good evening." Mrs. Giry finally breaks the stagnation by walking over, lightly placing her finger tips along my jaw, placing a small kiss on my forehead. At eighteen years of age, I am very nearly her height, so I dip my head to allow the kiss.
"Thank you, Mrs., I'll be fine, I promise." I smile gratefully. "Thank you." I barely seem to whisper. She simply smiles and takes Meg, who waves cutely at me, by the hand and out the front door. I vaguely hear Meg make comment about how I spend so much time on my own, and her mother's response about how sometimes people need to be alone to think, especially in times of struggle, and how it's the job of those who love them to be there for them when they're ready for other people. Truthfully, I have never spent so much time alone, but so much has changed in the past few months.
I try not to think about the myriad of things that are different as I collect a bowl of gumbo from the pot on the oven, but it's hard. It seems to be all I can do to retrace the path my life has taken, again and again, trying to track where things went wrong. But the answer is the same every time, and very obvious at that.
It all started when my father fell ill.
We had been so happy, here in our small, no-name town. My mother had died when I was very young, and I did not really recall much more than an impression of her, though my father spoke long and often about how much they loved each other and me. Still, in some ways losing her only lead to a stronger bond between my father and I, and we spent a majority of our free time together. When I was still very young, shortly after her death, we moved here from some city and settled in quite peacefully. The small town became quite the home for us both, and quite the stage for our adventures.
For, when I was not in school and he was not at work, we would reenact our favorite novels, or make new stageplays out of other books that we had read recently. These stageplays only grew in number and range in the scenic town, and continued on through middle and even into highschool. As one might guess, our favorite was Labyrinth, a book with an anonymous author that detailed the story of Sarah, a girl who foolishly traded away her infant brother for the love of a fairy prince. I was always Sarah, and sometimes other characters as well, for when you only have two actors to put on a play you simply have to do more than just play the leads! Father was always the baby, Toby, and hilariously so, and we always fought over who got to be the Fairy Prince, Jareth, though the fights were good-natured and silly. I loved to talk back and forth with myself, though I always stumbled at the very end, a habit that I still have not broken as seen in today's singular production.
But at the end of my junior year in highschool, my father became sick. Our little plays became infrequent and strained, and he did not get better. The town's doctors could not find a reason for his illness nor could they find a solution to the pains that came with it. They never thought it fatal, though, and it was a surprise to us all when he passed away during an overnight stay at the hospital, an event that shook the whole town. My father performed in several choir and band groups, and there was no corner of the county that he was not known by someone. Many people, many who were strangers to me, attended his funeral, which happened a week after school ended. I was lost. While I had friends, like little Meg, no one had been as important to me as my father had been, and to lose him was a terrible thing. I felt as though I were lost, too, and my body was only a leftover of his passing. I'm still lost.
Since then, Mrs. Giry became my official, legal guardian, and took me into her home, where I have been more or less happy. Don't get me wrong; I love Meg and Mrs. Giry is truly the best mother-figure I could ask for, the best one I have ever known, even, but I still find myself lost in a mental sea, wanting for my father. But he is gone, out of reach, and I am perpetually reminded of this as I continue to exist without him.
I try to put it all, simply everything, out of mind as I clean up what few dishes are left from dinner, but it is a vain and futile effort. Even something as mundane as this stings with his absence.
So I trudge up the stairs to my room, what was once the Girys' guest bedroom, and sort of crumple into my bed. I don't know what to do with myself. If I were in school I could at least distract myself with pointless algebra or writing or whatever! But it's the heart of summer, and I have read all my books twice, written a fair number of my own stories and poems, and sung every song so many times that they all feel flat and heartless when I try to do so again. Nothing feels good anymore, nothing feels right. My heart is sick and exhausted, for without guidance neither it nor I know what to do with ourselves.
I grow restless quickly, unable or unwilling to spend the evening staring at the ceiling again. I am tired from my attempt to play the entire run of Labyrinth myself today, but I could not find sleep right now if my life depended on it. So, I sit up on my bed, and search around my room for something, anything, new that might distract me. A few boxes are left unpacked in the corner, a couple more on the desk by the window. I've been avoiding opening these last ones for no reason in particular, but I suppose that with the evening young and vast before me, there really is no reason to wait any longer. I push myself out of bed and over to the ones by the closet.
Inside the first one are my wall decorations, posters of plays and movies and stars, as well as photographs. I set the photographs aside, the ache of my heart too great to deal with them for now. I happily, or nearly happily, take to setting up the posters with the sticky tack Mrs. Giry got for me the week after I moved in. It takes a good half hour to put them all up, as I move slowly and take my time in deciding their placement, but the result is the room is lively, homey, and screams 'me'. Also in the box, underneath the coiled posters, there was also a bag of cut out stars my father and I made ourselves, which I then dedicate to putting up as well. They are old, made of anything from cardboard to cardstock to posterboard or even cork, but they are all unique and lovely and bear a memory of my father that I allow to run through my head as I put them up, one by one. I don't know why I can let myself remember him in these stars, but the photographs are too much. Perhaps the hazy, imperfection of my memories make it easier to ignore he's missing now than the clear, precise reality of the photos. For, unfortunately, a few chronicle his descent into sickness, and if I were to shuffle through the pile to those, I am quite sure I would not fare well. I am unsure exactly what I would do, but the very thought of seeing his thin, pale, almost plastery face where his happy smiles should have been aches too much to even consider.
In the second box are my trophies, earnings from father-daughter competitions and school performances alike. I have trophies and ribbons from as early as kindergarten, and these too bear memories of what used to be. I lovingly arrange these on the desk and the shelves nailed above it. This takes even less time than the posters and the stars, and the third box has only a few more sets of clothes, which are quickly stuffed away in my dresser or closet, depending on whether they need to hang or can be folded. Soon I am left with one box, and this I dread, for I know that at the bottom is the worst of all my possessions.
Still, avoiding it forever is impossible, so I open it up, taking out the remaining knick-knacks, toys, or books until the source of my woe is revealed. There, at the bottom of the box, is my father's violin case. It's beat from years and years of travel, use, and love, more years than I've been alive, as it was a gift from my mother to my father when they started dating. He could never bear to do more than repair it in her memory, even when she was alive, and he loved everything about it. He could never, ever even stop to consider replacing it. On the back there's an inscription, the words of which have faded until they are now a shadow of their former incarnation. Still, as I pass my fingers over the barely existent indents, I know they read, "People never truly understand until it happens to them". Father said she meant it in regards to love, how she had almost unwillingly become enamored with him, but I find it equally fitting now. Father always lamented the loss of his wife, my mother, but I barely got to know she existed before she was taken from us, and in that way there was not much for me to miss. Now that I am forced to miss him, though, I think I begin to understand why and how he felt the way he did. I stuff away a sob as I click open the case, the familiar metal clasps feeling strangely alien to me. I was never meant to be the one to open it, and it almost feels like a mortal sin to do so without him patiently watching me do so. But I must do this on my own, now, and slowly I draw the lid open.
Inside, the violin sits faithfully, waiting for his expert hands to dutifully draw a loving song out of the ancient strings and bow. He'd taken such good care of it that he'd never had to change the strings and rarely had to tune it. Oh, how patiently and obediently it played for him, and how foolishly it waits for him now.
"Well, you shall have to wait forever, for he will never play you again." I say to it, scornfully. It sits still, seeming to pay no mind to my biting words. Gently, I take the bow and body in my hands. He taught me how to play, though I am sure I am nowhere near as deft with it as he was. No, my voice is my better instrument, but even that has been failing me lately. There is no joy in singing when there is no joy in me at all.. Perhaps I can conjure up a way to live happily if I honor his instrument with a last song.
I stand, walking out of the room, which suddenly seems stuffy and wildly inappropriate for a concert, into the hallway at the top of the stairs. I breathe hard, trying to stand properly, trying to be calm. I draw the bow over the strings, and the sound is an anguished, awkward wail. I cringe at my own misstep, but I am not ready to quit yet. Blinking harshly, unwilling to give into tears, I try again. It is little better, but this time I keep going even though the sound is all wrong.
I know with utter certainty that it is tuned but no matter how I brush the strings with the bow, the sound is wrong, just bad, angry. As I strike a string too harshly and it screams at me, I scream back. Now, now the tears come. They drop down my face onto the delicately shaped wooden body of the violin, and I cannot help but impossibly blame the instrument for the loss of my father. I yell at it, a wordless shout that would surely cause alarm if we had any neighbors near us. But we have large yards on either side of the house, and I am grateful as I continue to insult the violin, gripping both its components too harshly, stomping around in a little circle, unsure what to do. I see its case lying in my room, and I almost too harshly throw the violin inside it, slamming the small frame shut. I take it by the handle and storm out into the hallway again.
But what am I doing with it? Where am I going? I want to be rid of it, as if to get rid of it would be to get rid of the memories that I so heavily attach to it, but there is nowhere to take it. I want to respect my father and the love he had not only for the beautiful instrument itself but the woman who gave it to him, but its existence offends me with the terrible weight of the past, a past which had him in it. It only reminds me that my present and future do not have him in it, and those stolen years grind against my mind like gritting teeth.
Mrs. Giry's bedroom door is open, and I stride, each step heavy and harsh, in, half thinking of abandoning it there until I can be responsible enough to bear it and its terrible memories. But I know that when she and Meg get home, there would only be questions, and that would defeat the purpose of putting it there in the first place.
I practically growl in frustration, pacing angrily around the open floor of her room, the walls and floor blue with light from the storm outside. As I wheel around the room again, a muffled but dense thud distracts me. I turn around sharply, searching for the source, but I find it's only the book, fallen out of my vest where I had forgotten it. Not letting go of the case's handle, I stoop to pick up the book with my left hand. It's fallen open to one of the beginning chapters, the precise moment where Sarah wishes away her brother for a moment of quiet.
How fitting, I sneer at the violin, standing back up.
"'Once upon a time'," I quote, not really needing the book for this part, but not wanting to let it go. ", 'there was a beautiful young girl whose stepmother always made her stay home with the baby.'" Here, I jostle the violin, as if it were the offending infant instead of the tool of music that it is. Angry, I continue, "'The baby was a spoiled child. He wanted everything for himself, and the girl was practically a slave. But what no one knew was that the Fairy King fell in love with her, and gave her certain powers. So one night, when the baby had been particularly cruel to her,'" I shake the violin again. ",'she asked the fairies for help. Say the right words, said the fairies, and we'll take the baby to the fairy city, and you will be free. But the girl knew the king would keep the baby in his castle forever and ever and turn it into a fairy, so she suffered in silence until one night when she was tired from doing housework and hurt by the harsh words of her stepmother, and she could bear it no longer!'" I stop, tense. I hold up the violin, the words' edges glinting in the flashing light.
"What I wouldn't give to be rid of you! You and your damned memories of him!" I shriek at it, though it offers no protests. Disgusted, angry, I set it down on the center of the carpet. I cannot bear it anymore, and I resolve to abandon it here, Mrs. Giry's imminent prodding be damned. "I wish the Fairy King really would take you and all your memories away; maybe then I could remember how to be happy!" I shout, nearly breaking into sobs as I walk away. I mean to mock the violin, but in its silence I do believe it succeeds in mocking me.
There is a flash of light and a thunder clap that both seem to come from just outside the master bedroom. I yell at the proximity, and fall to the floor in fright.
When I stand a moment later, the house seems emptier, stiller, somehow. I put my fingers to my lips, suddenly uncertain about… something. I turn myself around, investigating the hall around me. What was I doing a moment ago?
I walk into Mrs. Giry's room, certain I was doing something important, or at least thinking something important here, just a moment ago. But the room seems devoid of any hints of whatever it was. I look down at myself, wondering if that might yield any clues. I have a book in my left hand, open to the early middle.
I must have been reading, then! And I simply got lost in the act of walking and reading until the lightning and thunder shocked me back to the present! Yes, that must have been what I was doing. Unfortunately, I don't remember any of this book, though it seems to hold promise. The shock must have made me forget. Well, that's alright, I shall simply start again, and maybe tomorrow I can go to the library and get something new to read, the summer's been so boring so far.
Why ever didn't I go with Meg and her mother tonight? It would have been so much better than being alone here. I do hate to be alone, and I can't remember the last time I was for so long as an entire evening. Well, I simply make the best of it by reading this new book and laying in bed, relaxing.
As I fall asleep, I almost swear I can hear the sounds of an expert playing a violin, playing a tune I don't know…
