Ok- so this might be upsetting- just to warn you before I get attacked lol. Reviews much appreciated
Bones ached, creaked, pulling at his attention, the pain from lack of use and the intense cold of the morning an irritating distraction he didn't want to focus on.
Walking had become a chore, something so difficult he avoided it as often as he could, which hadn't been easy in his position, but he'd been there for a long time, and he knew how to work the system just enough so that he could live in relative comfort, or that which he perceived to be comfort at the very least. But now, clambering across grass still wet with the early morning dew, a dampness soaking the bottom of his trousers in wave like patterns, he wished it was something he'd done more of. Aches shook him, his strength was all but gone. Practise would have been easier, but he would do this anyway, he would do this even if it killed him, which, cold air attacking fragile lungs, it probably would.
So, without the aid of the stick or chair they had been insistent he needed, he took one fragile, shaky step after another, feet barely moving, tiny strides all he could manage. This was for her, and there was nothing he wouldn't do for her.
Eventually, breath strained, muscles twitching with an angry pain, blood rushing through his head at a rate that he was sure couldn't be healthy, he made it to his destination. He let his legs fail, sinking to his knees with a satisfaction that could only be matched by his desperation. Moistness spread from his ankles to encompass his legs, following to his arms as fists sank softly into the earth, soft grass twining about them. A shiver, surprising him as he realised just how cold it was, a stark contrast to the heat inside of him that couldn't be explained away just by the exercise his body was so unused to. He let out a stuttered breath, for a moment just captivated as it shimmered in front of him, the coldness allowing him a moment he never thought to see again.
Soft laughter, her laughter would always accompany any memory he had of her, as she stumbled slightly, her usual grace blocked by the blindfold. He drew her to him, couldn't remember what he said, but could feel her breath on his neck, see it dancing in front of him as he removed her blindfold, laughter fading to amazement as she twirled beneath the frost-tipped trees of his stories. He watched her for a moment, building up his courage, slowly sinking to one knee as his own breath danced in front of him, her fingers pulling him up before he even had a chance to finish the question, her warmth banishing the coldness of late winter and fading snow.
He can feel that warmth now, even after all these years, lying amongst wet grass in early spring, she's still keeping him warm. But of course she's not, his mind urges him to turn and face the reason he came here. He doesn't, not yet, its not time yet. Instead he casts his eyes out across the sweeping hills that this spot was chosen for, so much peace. Sun begins to dazzle its way across them, a myriad of colours to match the emotions coming from him. Soft blue of the cloudless morning met by a stunning yellow, hidden amongst varying shades of pinks and purples, beautiful and yet painful, so very painful.
He watches as it turbulently unfolds, wanting to capture it, smiling as a soft arrogance he thought he had lost through the agonies of time suggests that perhaps this is for them, perhaps he has finally been forgiven. He tries to cast that aside, but his mind won't let him, clinging to it despite its ridiculousness. He wants to be forgiven, more than anything else, he wants it so badly. Tears are forming now, he had thought he'd lost those too, but he supposes it doesn't matter anyway, none of it does anymore, and if he can still cry after all that time, maybe he can still be forgiven.
Eventually, soft shudders still shaking him as painful tears flow, gently, more as a reminder that its still possible than anything else, he turns, leaving the sunrise, the last one he'll ever see, the first one he's seen in over forty years. He turns slowly, pretending that its aching joints that prevent him, but in reality it's the same slowness he had so long ago, sinking to one knee, afraid of what might come next. Although, this time, he knows what will come next, and is very, very afraid.
Soft stone, a polished black, glittering in the sunlight, beautiful. Weak eyes behind tears squint to read the words, not sure if he wants to. Chiselled with a permanence, a simplicity that catches his breath, this was how she would have wanted it. Her name, and it is her name, for which he is eternally grateful. "Michelle Dessler." His voice sounds creaky, unused, her name unfamiliar on his tongue. It really has been that long. But it's still her name, she's still his, even in death. More words, he doesn't want to read them, they weren't written for him, her families sentiments.
He wishes he'd brought flowers, white lilies, they would have looked beautiful, softly offsetting black stone and dewy grass, bathed in the light of a gentle morning. He couldn't have, of course, the coins in his pocket now worth barely anything. It had taken all his money for the taxi fare here, one of the notes he held no longer even legal tender. Not that he needed money, he only had weeks left with his medication, and without it, hours he imagined.
But this was what he wanted. There was nothing and no one left for him, dreams of a family come to just that, idle dreams of a man with nothing else left but dreams. Now it would just be him and her, and it was beautiful here, everything he wanted, he didn't mind dying here, it was by far preferable to the numerous other times he had brushed himself with death, at least here he could see the sky, could be near her, could be peaceful.
A soft rustle behind him sent a shiver down his spine as he froze automatically, years of experience automatically taking over. It disguised itself as the wind, but he could make out short breaths echoing softly into the air, an approach from behind was never a good sign. This place was isolated, but that meant nothing. The world had been falling apart when he was still allowed to live in it, he wondered how much further it had fallen.
"I'm sorry..." There was something familiar about her, not her voice, but the inflections in it, her intonation, he recognised it. "You're Tony, right? ...Umm, sorry, Mr Almeida?"
He didn't turn, didn't face her, couldn't. It was the way she said his name, echoing repeatedly in his head. How many times had he heard her say that. He couldn't turn to her, couldn't shatter the illusion.
"I'm...Tony. Yes." His voice sounded false, his name a mask that no longer hid anything.
He heard her shift slightly, uncomfortably, a few steps taken towards him, then back again. "I'm sorry, I should go. I didn't mean to...interrupt...I should go." She turned to leave.
"Michelle..." One word, stuttered into the air, a plea, begging her not to leave.
It received a stuttered breath in return, air catching in her throat, whisking her around to him. "No." Not Michelle, she was gone.
A hand made its way into his vision as she sank down in front of him, the other hand clutching at the polished stone, leaving fingerprints on its tidy surface. "I'm her..." Suddenly awkward, "I'm Alice."
The hand was still there, he clasped it, seeing the truth in her words, a bone structure so similar, and yet fingers longer and more polished than hers had been. Holding it for longer than he should, he allowed his eyes to raise from the ground, taking in the woman before him.
She regarded him, waiting for a reaction, expecting one. But there was nothing, he guarded himself so very well. Eventually, he dropped her hand with a half smile.
"Alice," he murmured, soft tones of his voice reflecting what it had once been. This startled a smile out of her, cautious at first, but spreading with an ease.
"You are so much like her..." His half smile still frozen in place, not sure as to whether or not he should be happy or uncomfortable, not sure which he was, or even if he was either.
Self-conscious now, twisting a piece of hair behind her ear, sinking into herself. Voice quiet, "They say I look like him more than her."
He smiled again, painful this time, not bothering to hide that from her. He took the strand of hair she had been playing with, twisting it about his fingers in a half-familiar motion. But unlike his wife's hair, hers didn't twirl about his fingers, but rested limply, its greying blondeness a contrast to reddish brown curls. "That you do."
He had thought his voice was level, but apparently the years of bitterness he felt had crept in. "She loved him." Defensive, a slight amount of anger, she loved her father, he was all she had left.
He dropped the strand of hair, not tempted to draw his fingers across her face like he would have for Michelle. "She did. Yes. Otherwise she wouldn't have..." Awkward, painful, he stumbled for words, "No one could make Michelle do anything she didn't want to."
She nodded slightly, he was right there. Seeing pain, pain she had caused, she whispered softly, "She loved you too, always, even with him."
He nodded, he knew that too. It didn't take the pain away, but it helped. A silence enveloped them, comfortable, peaceful. His words didn't seem to interrupt that but flow with it.
"She was younger than you, when I last saw her. She had tears in her eyes, they were thick with them. When they took me away, I knew...I knew she would find someone. I thought it might be him, hoped it would be. He would understand her, they both had demons, I couldn't see her sorting them out with anyone else." A pause, he could feel tears again, but these wouldn't fall, these were decades old, nothing could make them fall anymore. "Was she happy?" It was all he could ask, all he wanted to know.
Her tears fell, misting her eyes as loose strands of hair wisped around her face. "Yes." Voice strained with tears, heavy between breaths. "She was so happy. She missed you, but she was happy."
He nodded, smiling. That was something, at least. That was what he had done it for, after all.
They sat there for a moment, the coldness of the morning being pushed back, the grass nearly dry now.
Finally she whispered, "How much longer?" Her voice still tearful, quiet shades of fear mixed in her tone.
He looked at her, surprised. "They let you out, after all this time, you have to be dying." Her voice was surprisingly level, hard facts keeping it so.
He nodded. "By now...An hour?" No sadness, more a peace. He wanted this. To be near her, to let go, to not have to face this pain anymore.
She nodded, her eyes were sad, she had wanted to know him, the man her mother had loved, the man her father had loved. She got up, brushing loose leaves off a dark skirt. Footsteps dragged her away, leaving just her voice, so like that of her mother's, echoing about him. "She never blamed you, neither of them did."
Eventually he nodded, not quite able to do anything else. Maybe they did, but it was over now anyway. He laid himself down, fingers clutching black stone, resting on the fingerprints left by Michelle and Jack's daughter.
Once again, he wished he'd brought flowers. But it didn't matter, none of it did. It was over now, he didn't have to fight anymore. He kept his eyes open for as long as he could, it really was beautiful here. Finally he let them close, whispering into the darkness, "She's beautiful Michelle, so much like you." He felt that same warmth encompass him as it had done in a snowy forest so long ago, could taste her again , it was ok now.
A half smile, thinking about her words, "I'm sorry." A gentle teasing, a sense of humour he'd all but forgotten as he left to join his wife.