Author: AppleCrumble PM
He writes her final entry into her diary. He never could leave a story left untold.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Hurt/Comfort/Tragedy - Words: 812 - Reviews: 10 - Favs: 7 - Published: 08-29-12 - Status: Complete - id: 3054219
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
May 25th 2012
We spend the first waking hours together. When the yellowing lights peaks through the small gap in the curtains, where the windows are larger than the fabric is willing to stretch. I hadn't slept well, I rarely do, so I spend the hours of the yellowing light watching you sleep. I watch your eyelids resting peacefully, as you dream. I watch your lips quietly moving with each breath you take. I listen to the quite rattling of your chest as I wonder what you could be dreaming of, it's been so long since I last dreamt, I often wonder but never ask, dreams are private, a gift for the beholder, no one else.
You begin to stir as the birds begin to sing. You look at me, eyes drugged from sleep; your clumsy hand finds my own and takes it tightly. You mumble what must've been a 'good morning' but I don't catch it, so I kissed you, an adequate answer I believe. That's my favourite part of the day, when we're together; I know you're safe inside my arms. It's the only time I don't have to share you with the world.
You're the first to break the docile morning's endeavour; you leave me in the bed as you go to shower. The bed feels cold without you so I go down into the kitchen. I make toast listening to the reassuring hum of the kettle, as it nurses me into the heavy day. You come downstairs, fully dressed and beautiful as always, your slightly damp hair in a messy bun atop your head. I kiss you and hand you a mug of tea as I go and get the post, one letter and a cardboard box. You're grinning as I open the box, my first novel. You point out that I am now a 'proper' writer, we hug.
The rest of the morning passes in a blur, you getting the Tube and heading to work, me going to see the publishers and thanking them endlessly. The rest of the day is more or less forgotten; for the most part I'm glad. It's easier; it's the time you gave to the rest of the world, time I selfishly long for. All I remember is picking you up from work. You get in and we head home. I don't see the van. I don't…
I hear the screams and the sirens. I hear you whimper. I can't quite focus, like I'm trapped in the all to frequent nightmares. I tightly grab your hand, silently begging you to wake me up. You're cold, so cold. I'm crying and I can see your glassy eyes. I freeze, I can't breathe, I can't move, I can't hear the screams and shouts. I'm being pulled away and I need to hold you. I need you to wake up. I need you to tell me that we'll get through this but you don't.
The hours that follow are empty and cold. I don't sleep, I don't talk, I don't move. I lie next to you but you're not there. One hand touches your side of the bed, where your body made an imprint in the covers. I'm lying here and I can't sleep, I'm scared and alone. Memories cut me and morph and change, blistering and biting. I can't cope, so I steal your voice. The hardbound journal that's set under your pillow, I open at day one, the day we first met. I revel in memories, loosing myself in your words and your voice. I stop when I reach the last day but can't read the words because I know what comes next. I know that the next page is blank. Without thinking I pick up the pen and begin to finish our story.
I've come full circle. The no longer yellowing light darts through the window and cuts my eyes. The birds outside and crying, weeping at the windows. I think of you now, eyelids resting peacefully as you dream.
I can't get the pain to stop, inside me, choking and burning me. But it's reassuring, I reminds me that you were here, that I loved you, that I still do. So I take my book off you're bedside table, where you left it this morning, promising to read it tonight. I open the first page and am greeted by the heart breaking dedication.
And now I know it can't hurt more than this. I cannot miss you more than I do now. Its searing burn crumples me and I am almost consoled, until I read your amendment, a small pencil mark, just at the bottom, written in your perfect flowing hand. Then broken with no one here to fix me. I run my fingers over the word, taking it in. That single word. The heart breaking word. The yes.