Disclaimer: We don't own Chocolat. Okay, maybe Roux. And his guitar. :]
P.S. No, we're not insane and we don't talk to ourselves. [Snicker. Smeagol.] This is actually two people. :] Vrykyl and Lipbalm.
***
He didn't want to go back. No, not yet. Not back to the warm, encircling arms of home that had lavished him in such comfort that it was enough to stifle him. Not yet. But neither would he leave. There was no blind-faced running that could tear him away from the pain that lingered in his heart for so long. Oh the hours that wrenched across that betraying clock!
And so he sat in the middle. In the core of existence.
Roux situated himself absently on the old, weathered chair that had seen too many summers on the wooden dock. He held the aging, metal guitar in his hands and fiddled with his thumb pick before strumming a soft minor chord, stopping the vibrating strings with his hands and staring down intently at the murky water. Clouds of sand overlapped in the barely transparent water, misting his view.
Ripples of gentle, lapping water hit the sides of the creaking poles, small waves replacing each other in delicate patterns. The waning light reflected on the dark water, but stood unnoticed. The sunset was beautiful, breathtaking even, but forgotten and lost to Roux. What is a sunset if there will only be darkness afterwards?
Thoughts and emotions paced and pulsated in his head, screaming out too loudly for Roux to be distracted by a depleting sun.
She had been looking forward to the festival for weeks. The loud, colorful experience was Gati's favorite event of the year.
"Papa, papa, will you take me to the festival?" She looked up at him, eyes wide with excitement.
"Of course." He smiled down at her, a faint sheen of amusement in his eyes.
"You promise?"
"I promise, Gati." He stroked her hair softly before lightly grasping her shoulder.
He struck another reverberating chord, a slight breeze carrying the notes through the air.
She hadn't got up that morning. Vianne went to check on her, and his child, that beautiful daughter of his was ill. And Vianne had cared for her, lightly mopping her burning brow every few minutes with a tender countenance.
She was a wonderful mother.
As night fell, Gati hadn't improved, but worsened. She could hardly open her mouth to speak, she could not move, could not make words except to whine softly in her sleep. Roux desperately beckoned for the doctor, a thin, frail man with wide-rimmed spectacles.
"She has scarlet fever," he said, mopping her forehead with a cool towel, a grim look on his face.
The next chord was louder, almost jarring him. He let the sound echo in the metal of the instrument.
When the doctor left, Roux stood by her bedside, watching her, checking her head, replacing the cool cloths on her brow. The sight of her lying there, the sound of her shallow breathing made him feel helpless. There was nothing he could do.
He struck a final cord, feeling the vibrations across his fingers as he strummed lightly across the strings.
Her death came in the morning. He remembered wiping the sweat from her brow, kissing the warm forehead lightly. Roux looked down at her. She will move. She will wake up and open her eyes, stretch her arms and call to me. She will laugh, declaring herself the best joker in the world.
But she did not move. She did not say goodbye.
The sun slid down the horizon. Roux smiled vaguely. She wasn't gone, just sleeping. Sleeping for eternity.
Pulling the guitar from his neck, he stood up and felt the wind rustle a few strands of hair behind his ears. He walked off the creaking dock, holding the weathered, battered chair in one hand, the aging guitar in the other. His steps coinciding with the beating of his heart.
He heard her laughter in his ears.
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