I'll keep you company
In one glorious harmony
Waltzing with destiny forever
Time dances whirling past
I gaze through the looking glass
And feel just beyond my grasp is heaven
Dark Waltz- Hayley Westenra
I want my story to be told when I die.
I think we all do, at some level. But my death is near. Too near. It lurks just one step behind me, reaching out, its feathery hands grazing me constantly. It does not startle me. And I cannot quite remember a time when it did. Even if such an instance existed, it has been far too long, and far too much has happened since. And this feathery death, shadowing me at every turn has been my companion for so long now.
And I have always known it would come to this, I always knew it would come for me, sooner than the rest, so what was there ever to be unsettled about? I am, to take in a positive perspective, always been one of the 'lucky ones', in that my life was told and explained before I could walk or talk. My decisions decided upon, before I had mind enough to question them. Because in the world where I grew up, the universe was as it should be and there were no surprises allowed. Everything was perfection and all that was not was spread on the outskirts, waiting for the something to extinguish them. I always knew I was one of them. Even inside the fortress of All Perfection and Holy, I was on the outskirts. Because I was born to be a sacrifice.
And I always knew that.
They had found me, years ago, almost drowned at the ocean. But I had not died, which was ... a surprise. I was alive, wailing and healthy, when I should have been dead. So, of course I had to die. I always knew it was that, or be hunted.
I had to be sent back to the world that had called me once before. It was rude to make them wait, they told me.
And it did not unsettle me. It never unsettled me, before.
I waited for death, then. I would stay up long, uneventful nights, lifeless already, and just waited for the final act.
And it did not unsettle me.
Not like now, when after all that has happened, I'm finding myself walking with quickened steps, cringing away from this preordained wraith that has followed me wherever I have went. It is as if all of a sudden I have realized what the meaning behind its closeness is- that at any moment it could reach out and grab me, and my story would be untold.
And it was okay, before, when I had no story. But I cannot go now. Not when I suddenly have so much to say.
I want to tell a tale before I die. A tale that will carry me beyond the reach of death. A tale that will forever evince my life. Like a piece fabric left behind when all its colors have faded away. A tale with the rush of life, dotted with tears and fears; coarse with the feel of touching hands, pebbles and rain; warm with those that live, and speak and hurt. One that will show you the world as it is, my world as it was: full of clouded emotions and events and politics and meaningless threads that wound together.
I want to tell you who I was, and how I died. I want to tell you.
I want to tell you who I loved and how he died.
I want to tell you my story, starting from the lashes and the burns, to the rescue of my gallant prince whisking me away (if flinging a bag over someone and kidnapping them could be considered "whisking").
I want to tell you the twists and the turns, the knives so well hidden and the hearts carried on silver platters. I want to let you inside me head, to walk through the soft passageways, feel the peaceful solitude of it.
I want to touch you, and I want to be held, before I die.
And I want to let you know what happened. Because so much happened, and I never had time to tell anyone, because I had to run, always, I had to run. And now with death closing me off from all around me, when I have nowhere else I can go- I want to tell you, to explain. To confess.
I want to be clean before I die, I want someone to forgive me. Someone to understand. Someone to know that I loved him. I loved him, I love him. Because it is so important- and I wish I was not dying. I wish I had not changed my mind, I wish I had never spoken to him with such rage. I wish I had heard all that he had to say, and I wish I had told him something that mattered. I wish I had left and run and -
I wish I had died that night, so long ago.
Someone should know.
Will you listen?
Will you stay with me till I die?
Let me tell you my story, then.
And now, when it is so close to the end, I think that really, this is where it should start. From the end. Or the almost-end. Because this is where all the emotions are. This is where the center of the universe is. This- this moment, as I walk up to the cove of the gods,
this is where the tale begins: