Chapter Five
Right. So she's dead. I understand that. Thats one hurdle jumped, now all I need to work on is learning to speak again and becoming vocal in front of her. Not a hard task you may think, however, I'm still silent and wide eyed five minutes later, her stare still burning furiously in to my own. Her glare unnerves me at this point. I realise that quite quickly. Her pupils dilate, the colour around them alternate between a shocking blue and an emerald green; she cannot decide her current mood.
"It can't be that bad." I find my lips move and that sentence is uttered. Of all the things I could have found to say, and I choose one of the most diabolical lines possible. Sylvie's hand falls from mine, dropping limply to her side to become functionless and hidden among the great and many folds of her tattered dress. She sighs and lifts her eyes to the heavens, crossing then to him again. "I really didn't mean to say anything bad." I splutter quickly. I feel every possible excuse churning through my mind. Any explanation would be welcome as I see tears drip incandescently down her flushed cheeks.
"I know." Her voice wavers, cracking under the pressure of staying composed for me. Did she really feel the need to be strong in front of me? Was that boundary really between us? She slumps suddenly to the floor, her dress following afterwards, forming a cushioned area around her knees. Her small hands cover her face and for a few moments there's silence.
"I just don't understand." She wasn't the only one. Her sobs erupt and she shakes against the podium she had previously been positioned on top of. I kneel next to her, the squelch of mud underneath is barely acknowledged when I know I now have some sort of role to play for my distraught friend. I shuffle closer, my fingertips brushing over the silk of her apparel before I slide my arm around her cold being, pulling her in to my own living, warm presence. I bite my lip, somewhat apprehensively as she guides her hands around my middle, locking her fingers together as she nuzzles her face in to my chest. "We never did anything wrong. It shouldn't have come to this."
I don't question her words. How can I when I haven't a clue of what she's even speaking of. Of what time is she crying about? Is she defending her innocence when she was alive, or after she'd died? I stay silent and still, my only movement being my hand as it moves from her shoulder to dragging my fingers through her hair, yet her crying doesn't cease. If anything, the more time that lapses where I don't talk seems to give way to more anguished cries. I feel I must intervene quite soon.
So I take that gargantuan leap, that so far I've tried my hardest to suppress and not bear thinking about.
"How..." I cough involuntarily, choking on thoughts before they form as words. I clear my throat, noticing her volume has reduced to nothing but silence, her eyes staring up at me inquisitively, waiting, knowing what I'm going to ask. She's ready for this. And I see in how her gaze softens and she blinks away her tears that she's relieved I'm biting the bullet now. She wanted me to ask.
"How did you die?"