Chapter 10

A light mist had set in drawing closer and closer to the crowds beneath the Eiffel Tower. It was a grey overcast day in Paris, yet still they had come, their umbrellas ready to open at the slightest drizzle. Men, women, and children of all ethnicity waited patiently in line. Each had a different face a different story, but to the color blinded old women, sitting on the tattered park bench, they were all the same. Nonetheless she wrote about them all, painted them a new picture of beautiful greens and yellows.

She came everyday to watch the crowds, a red notebook clasped tightly in her weather-beaten fingers. She would sit beneath the same dilapidated oak, with its broken branches and pealing bark, creating a world in blue pen. The regulars knew her by face only, for she never spoke. No one knew where she came from, but no one could remember a time when she wasn't there. She was ageless, unbreakable.

When the fog finally extended its long fingers and the rain fell, black umbrellas bloomed before the woman's eyes like a funeral garden. Yet faraway she could see one lone red flower held by an old man that had already lived a life worth writing. Beneath him three beautiful children danced and beside him his wife stood smiling despite the drizzle. Picture perfect, the old women thought, a fantasy.

My sleep filled eyelids blinked heavily in the darkness. Fireflies danced before me like the delicate emerald faeries of a dream. Soft music, almost whispers, drifted round my face enchanting me with sweet melody. I wanted never to move, nor speak, but rather remain motionless under the intoxicating spell of beauty. Yet the summer night beckoned me, calling out my name, grasping my fingers in its silvery moonlight.

Standing in the shadows of the willows I turned upward, gazing upon the heavens. For a moment I let myself spiral back to fairytales that I had once lost myself in. I recalled all the timeless heroines that had called upon the stars for courage, and felt my voice call out for that same confidence. Yet no sound echoed through the park, but rather a strange heavy silence encompassed me. As I spun around to leave I remembered the tattered red notebook lying on the old wood, refusing to be forgotten. Unable to cast it aside, I picked up the worn paper and tucked it gently away.

I let my feet stumble upon the paved path beneath the lamp posts. Agelessly twisted beams of rust encompass a glorious pool of light which casts stained golden circles on the cobbled walkways. The shadowed branches dart into the gleaming bricks, while a small leaf falls gracefully, dancing the dark away. Sailing beneath the lamppost, its innocent existence is captured and preserved by the ancient structure of hope. It will live on long after the winter, where the leaf awaits certain death. For it will always shine away even the blackest of nights, they are angels of the streets and mothers of the wanderers.

How I needed a mother, one to protect me in my time of need. But instead I stood in the light of the lamp praying to whatever there is out there for forgiveness. Childhood. Bravery. Happiness. Love. You.

I waited, watching the grey clouds drift overhead. From far off I heard the chimes ring twelve times, midnight, the witching hour, the time where muggles experience "magic". For a second I felt like a seven year old on Christmas morning. The presents were waiting before me wrapped in all their glory. Santa had come in the early hours and left even more brilliant packages of red, green, and gold. Yet the tired mother and father insisted on waiting until 10 to open them. What torture it took to pass time. That same pure joy and impatience rose up within my heart.

Somehow I remained still, waiting for you. For my Prince. It was to be the golden moment of my existence, the one I would tell my grandchildren and they in turn would pass it down. It would become everything I ever dreamed off. Your love, the greatest treasure of all, was upon me.

Seconds toiled by as I hummed the faerie music soft and sweet. Minutes rolled across the sky before my eyes as I gazed upon the stars, and soon hours stole away. Dread filled me, a sinking feeling of hate. I was sailing across the sapphire sea knowing that what I was looking for was buried deep beneath the turbulent waves. I felt the immense fear of knowing that soon I would be drowning in the darkest pit of sea foam.

You had not come.

On the surface I convinced myself that maybe you had just forgotten or were running late. I played the reverse psychology game. I even lied to myself, creating an elaborate tale in which you had been captured and taken hostage. But deep within, I knew.

You were not coming.

I reached out for my notebook, the only companion I had left that still loved. It was the one thing left that still valued my soul. So with trembling hands and a blue pen I wrote:

Dropped

Shamed loss of paradoxical tragedy

Amounts to nothing

Alone beneath the deep waves of sorrow I sleep

Sailing through lonely mountains of loveless past

Someone conquer me

Before the sea comes

And then as the sun, in soft pinks and grays, rose I surrendered myself to the salty tears of a lover twice defied. Collapsing onto the hard dewy stones I called out in hatred, pain, and grief. Why did I not deserve your love?

Or rather why did you feel the need to abandon me not once but twice? I had never wronged you, yet instead loved you more then your mother. I kissed you with my eyes open. I held you tighter than a child. I worshipped you and placed you higher on the altar than God. Nevertheless you betray me. I wonder, are you with her now? Does she live here in London too? Is that why you came back?

So much I was blinded too.

Oh I see it now, the irony, I wronged Ron for nothing. My misery is truly beautifully written, worthy of a Shakespearean tragedy. This is my punishment, to teach the monster within me a lesson. It is to squash my idealism, my foolishness, my rashness. Well it was well taught I understand my mistake, for it remains the biggest of my entire life. If I could see Ron now I would beg a thousand apologies. I would repent myself to him. If only…

But I cannot go back now; it is useless. I should've taken death when I had the chance, it would've left Ron in grief, but at least a bittersweet one. Now I leave him in honest destructive agony. I am sorry Ron, and I am sorry in everyway a woman can be sorry.

I stand alone now, beneath the lamp post mourning lovers of two different creeds.

Tears roll down my cheeks the size of rose petals, as I force myself to face the truth. You were never what I thought. Instead you were malicious, unfaithful, and ugly. Your very soul was blackened, a hideous underworld in which I tried to dance in. Yet it is true that I loved that part about you, so different it was to Ron. Nonetheless I believed that deep down in the darkest corner there was light shinning, waiting for me. I see know whatever flame there was it had burnt out long before I knew you.

I was a dreamer, you made me one. For within my dreams you were what I wanted. I was wisher, you taught that. You gave me the stars. But I was a writer. You stole that from me.

No more will I feel the sweet enticing ecstasy of words. Never again will I write through a child's eye. What was once my world, my canvas, my glory has now been diminished to nothing more then a pleasurable hobby. And for that I will mourn more than any other thing that can be taken away.

For a writer I once was an illustrator of fairytales. I wrote of intoxicating enchantments that I had never seen, felt, smelled, or tasted unless it was scrawled out on the creamy pages of a book. Beauty had never fallen so elegantly in my lap. Bravery was a word whose presence in my vocabulary was missed. The taste of adventure had been denied to me. And I had never fallen from love's tender graces.

Now I see that love was not meant for me. I know that now, and I am a foolish idealist for ever believing that it could be mine. An empty eternity awaits me. Yet life goes on, the faeries still hum their mysterious songs, the fireflies still dance, the leaf has fallen and died. Love still finds happily ever afters for some little girls.

The End.