Epilogue: Both Of Them Deaf To The FiddleIn The Hands Of The Death's-Head Shadowing Their Song
from Two Views Of A Cadaver Room by Sylvia Plath
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Death still occasionally permeates my dreams, but my life blossoms, enough to ease the pains of my loss. I still miss my family, but I don't blame myself anymore. I know that everything happens for a reason, even death. Mine will come too eventually. But right now, I only focus on the happiness that's finally found me. A fresh start, with the only man I've ever loved.
We both decide that first night in my apartment, that the past was exactly that. Past.
Our first week together, we hole up only venturing out for food and the occasional walk through Central park, making up for lost time. Eventually, Angel sells his Hotel despite my protests, and buys a relatively small townhouse in New York with the profits. The city makes sense for us, together we can get lost in the bustle of the big Apple.
He works at an Art Gallery. I quit the diner and teach a few self defence classes instead, though I continue to walk dogs in the afternoons, not for the money, but because I actually enjoy it.
I still slay. Sometimes. When I want to. It no longer calls to me though, as it once had. The only call my body feels these days, is towards him.
We both like the lack of space of our home, neither failing to relish in the notion of it being our home, seemingly only because it justifies our constant need to be with one another when we're inside of it. After only a few months, we've made love on almost every surface.
The kitchen. It started out as a playful food fight, a flick of flour in his face, and then the kitchen was a mess, ingredients all over the place, our bodies splayed all over the floor, as we wrestled for dominance. But then I was pinned underneath him, and he caught the look of want in my eyes. And well, one thing led to another.
Against the patio door. The sun was just rising, and Angel sleeping fitfully from our fight the night before, woke early enough to catch it. I felt him get out of bed, and unable to fall back asleep, got up as well. Walking out of the room and down the stairs, a blanket wrapped tightly around myself, I saw him standing in front of the glass doors leading to our surprisingly private backyard.
I knew he was watching the sunrise, and smiled. And even though I was still mad at him for blowing me off for some private showing at the gallery, it quickly faded at the sight of him. I walked towards him, and stopped just behind him.
Opening my blanket, I wrapped my arms around his waist, stepped on my tippy toes, and placed a tender kiss on his shoulder blade, over his exposed gryphon tattoo. I felt him shiver when my lips make contact, an ache developing between my legs at his response. His hands grasped mine when they were finally around him.
"I'm sorry," I said softly. One of his hands pulled me, and then I was standing in front of him.
"Me too."
The sun forgotten, he kissed me again and again. Eventually he lifted me off the ground, my legs hooked around his waist naturally, and pinned me between the sliding door and himself.
He had his way with me under the rays of the rising sun.
Point is, even though it always felt like he was walking in and out of my life, no matter how many times it feels like the end, it never really is.
I had to lose everyone I loved, and myself in the process, to finally get it.