TITLE: On One of Summer's Afternoons
AUTHOR: Rain Garcia
RATING: T
SUMMARY: "I heard that you flew away from me."
FEEDBACK: Of course. Much appreciated.
DISCLAIMER: If they were mine, CSI: NY would never pass television's PG- 13 rating.
A/N: Jenna, StarrySkies, everyone who gave me the strength to push through this "writing crossroads". Those who always R&R --- very, very much loved and my thanks reach the sky every time. Reviews are like food for the writer's soul – they give me energy and much more.
I promise that Intro Retrospection is still active. I just had to rewrite the next chapter thrice, again, and this is my hiatus project. A small one. IR is still priority.
Taken greatly from my old (ancient, probably) short story, Free Butterfly. That was a fourteen- year- old's effort of angst. This is my effort now. Even if I did remove the suicide plot, I believe that this one seems to be more powerful. And just like Free Butterfly, I incorporated poetry into the whole prose. Hope you all like it, as something that's a little different.
ON ONE OF SUMMER'S AFTERNOONS
By: Rain Garcia
On one of Summer's calm afternoon, when the sun had gathered enough courage to desecrate Winter's loneliness with his mighty thunderbolts of warmth, when the rain had cowered back in fear and bundled itself up in flowery quilts beneath the chirping clouds, when the whole world stood back in awe with this magnificent transformation, when I stood apart from the world and took a step forward to savor the intensity of today …
I heard that you flew away from me.
It wasn't prejudicial, nor was it premeditated. I've waited years for this to come to me, yet at the same time, I've waited for this to not come at all. I've waited for you to stay with me for forever, however, I knew that the moment we celebrated union, I'd lose you.
I remember wishing for its falsity, its creative consumption for nothing more than that - creativity, but I was backstabbed. I turned around, crossed a deep ravine with misty hazel eyes, and found out that you weren't there anymore.
Like a butterfly awakened from a prolonged slumber, you spread your wings wide (creating a kaleidoscope of magnificent colors that reflected the yellow sunrise), and allowed the dangerous wind to bathe forlornly in the supernatural colors. You sniffed the stifled air, whisked away droplets of dew from your wings, and told me that you had to go.
Why, I asked. Why did you have to leave me?
Many, many reasons, you said. Just as life was nothing but a living, breathing being that dreams took care of, YOU yourself were nothing but a living, breathing being that thrived in your own dreams. I was your dream: I took care of you, I sustained you, I kept you alive. You needed to feel your own pulse race against your own fingertips, you needed your own life to race for you --- to see if you could actually catch up when it left you far behind.
I wanted to tell you that no, you didn't need to belong to anywhere – anyone – else but me, here and now. I wanted to tell you that what you were doing wasn't right, that this was not how it's supposed to be and how it should end. I wanted to tell you to stay. I wanted to tell you so many things … but before I could, you just flew away.
And I woke up.
On one of Summer's turbulent afternoons, when the sky had gathered in a condemning circle and insisted on wreaking havoc in my life, when the mighty rays of Helios shrank back into their humble lair, when the dark clouds emanated from the sky's gathering and started to bellow the earth with their frightening laughter, when the rain awoke in the midst of summer and began to pour …
I lost you.
And myself.
And then, everything else.
It was the sound of the explosion, the gunfire, the panic in your eyes, then the tenderness that it offered me before I saw the life being drained from you – from your soul. It was your fall - the helplessness of your whole physique - as you landed on the ground with a resounding thud. It was the pelt of the rain on your pale face, the way it washed away the jagged scarlet liquid that erupted from your chest. It was you, and me – flailing my arms in the desperation, in the last chance of grasping your life within my fingertips. It was me, and my failed attempt. It was that, and all. It was that that made me want to lose my sanity.
I held your lifelessness in my putty arms, springing you close to feel the last attempts of your shattered heart, trying in vain to just feel what was left of you. The rain drenched the world, but it could never match my tears. It could never match the destruction of my soul, for the second time around. Never.
You wanted to fly away, you wanted to resurrect your tired wings for reality, to fly into the sky with abandon. You wanted to leave me. After I gave you my life in a metal box, tied it with dingy nylon strings – I offered it as if I offered you the whole human race, and you took it. You took it and crushed it, allowing it be washed away to the hard cement --- just as the unforgiving weather washed away your blood from my hands.
They wanted to take you. I let them. They wanted to make you live. I let them. They wanted to release you from your cages, from me.
I let them.
Don't believe that I did this without feeling, that I didn't care at all. Don't believe for a single second that holding your last breath in my palm didn't matter at all. Don't believe that I resigned that easily, don't believe that I never loved you at all, don't believe that I didn't feel guilty, don't believe that I still have my soul. Don't believe that I believed that you truly allowed to waste your life away, my anger, that you were everything you said you were and that I was everything I said I was. Don't believe that I didn't feel ANY pain in my system as you left me.
Naked.
On one of Summer's lazy afternoons, when it had been the longest time since I saw your face, when it had been eternity since I held your hand in mine, when my life had been a cliffhanger of a poorly written story about unrequited contempt, when the sun began to shine in earnest, proudly showing its rejuvenation to anyone who cared enough to think that it mattered at all …
I kneeled beside you and prayed.
I prayed for the butterfly in you, the one that never ceased to flutter despite the crashing waterfall. I prayed for the life that maliciously wanted to keep us apart, then bounded our silver lining together, again. I prayed for myself, for my empty body, for the humanity that I feel had been stolen from me by what Death had tried to steal from you …
Like that magnificent butterfly of fairy tales and songs, you opened your eyes and revealed a deep hue of green that stole my breath away. Your stare – that and that alone – reminded me that I was still human, that I still lived and was of this earth. With that alone, my soul escaped from the metal box and returned to his home. Back to me.
You stretched your arms (your inconceivable wings of Liberty), winced at the surge of mortality, and smiled weakly at me.
My butterfly. My love, my life.
"Don't cry, Mac, please. I'm still here, I'm still alive. I'll be fine."
I almost lost you, Stella.
"If I am the butterfly that you trust, then you know that I will always fly back to you, whatever happens. I will always be inside you – I will always be with you. I will always come home to you."
I inhaled, she took a steady breath, and I realized it: We were both still alive.
She took my hand in hers, despite her weakness. "I k- know that I am rightfully where I should be. With you."
On one of Summer's afternoons, when the breeze played the riffs of an ancient lullaby, when the trees shook in time to the music of nature, when lonely tears disappeared beneath the dry asphalt of the ground, when lovers walk hand-in-hand together towards a predictable future, when the Earth yawned loudly and did not bother to cover her mouth …
You flew back to me.
Then, I was finally, truly alive.
Life went on, and we moved on. Just as you relearned how to depend on your regained strength, we relearned to trust the world that betrayed us so. We began to take baby steps, silently counting them and then, admiring the progress that we had made. We learned to breathe together, to savor the air, to savor life, and then create life as it was, as it should be.
I don't believe in many things. I don't believe that you wanted to leave me, and I don't believe that you almost died. I don't believe that you lived to give us another chance, because the chance was there all along and we had taken it, embraced it, lived it. I don't believe that I died myself, for until you should stay with me, I still will exist. I want to believe that this was a new beginning, but we both know that it wasn't. I want to believe that we were here together for a purpose, and we both knew that this was true.
I want to believe in the truth that you would always be a butterfly – molded out of pureness, of love, of immortal strength. I want to believe in the freedom of your soul, the freedom of our souls, as they had met in heaven and back again here on Earth. I want to believe in life, in fairness, in justice, in chances met and kept.
I want to believe in all of this.
And I do.
We both do.
THE END