by Peter Dawes
Right now I still hear his voice and sense his presence
even though I know he’s not here. Right now all I seem to do is cry.
I know all about time and wounds healing, but even if I had all the time in the world,
I still don’t know what to do with all this hurt right now.”
Nina Guilbeau, Too Many Sisters
Epilogue
I had crossed the threshold of desolation and emerged out the other side. The world had become cold, however. Lifeless. From the brightest form of vibrant to the worst monochrome. Everything within me hurt and no matter where I looked, I could see nothing but a barrage of reminders, mocking me with what I had lost. I had not merely lost my wife. I had murdered the single best thing which had ever happened to me. And now, I had been relegated the burden of learning how to live again.
The task felt far too daunting.
As such, I remained seated on the bridge, watching the idle stream of cars pass until they dwindled into an occasional distraction. Evie had tried several times to argue sense into me, but after her final pleas fell on deaf ears, she finally sighed and sat beside me. “You’re going to break your brother’s heart,” she said, “If you follow through with this. I know this is your decision to make, but Peter, I wish you would give yourself some time.”
“Thank you, Evie, but no,” I said, staring across the other side of the bridge toward the western part of the River Seine. Moonlight shone down on us, breaking through the ambient city light as much as it could and giving me a focal point upon which to stare. I rested my head against the concrete barrier behind me, a bittersweet smile playing across my lips. “Could I trouble you for a bottle of wine and something to write on?” My gaze shifted back to her. “Last time I will bother you for anything.”
Evie had frowned, and the way she rose to her feet left a small amount of frustration in each step she took. Pacing away from me, she fulfilled my request and as I took possession of the things I had requested, I also claimed my coat from her. “Tell Robin to send my sword to John,” I said. “And if you give me a short while, I will have something else for him.”
“If that’s what you want,” she had said. And as she sat beside me again, I opened a blank journal she had procured and began to write on the first page.
What followed were a series of letters.
To Lydia, I wrote, My Beautiful Daughter. Watching you grow was one of the great pleasures of my life and in your eyes, I have seen both the charm and the stubbornness which makes you your mother’s daughter. I am sorry, dear. I will regret not watching you become a woman and dancing with you at your wedding. While I promise to watch over you, I wish we could simply return to life as we knew it and press onward, as if nothing could divide our family again. You will always be my little miracle.
To John, I wrote, My Headstrong Son. You are fire, at times, and sometimes, you are the most solitary young man I have ever met, but you are always kind and loving. The burdens that await you are many, and the devices you will be given are few, but I hope you find the same pleasures that I did along the way. Someone to love. A family to fill your heart. The warmth and comfort of returning home and seeing life paint its beauty before your eyes. You are brilliant. Do not ever doubt that.
To Jamie, I wrote, Our Youngest Gift. I did not know how much we needed you until I held you in my arms. I know you the least, and leaving you is possibly my gravest sin, but you have been given a strong sister and a resolute brother to protect and guide you, as your mother and I would have wanted. My wishes for you are the same, as is my desire that wherever your calling leads you, you always know who you are. Far more than a seer, or a device, but a man with the power to embrace his destiny.
Finally, I turned the page and wrote my last note.
To Robin, beloved brother. Friend. Mentor. The one guiding force which has been a constant throughout this mess of an existence I let myself be drawn into. All the reasons for accepting that immortal pact seem so foolish and transient right now, inhabiting this final liminal stage, but I am glad to have had you along for the journey. You have sacrificed so much and have been given so little in return for it. I am sorry I could not love you the way you deserved. I am fortunate that you have cared for me regardless. Whatever the remainder of your long years brings you, I hope it finally graces you with whatever your heart has been denied, and brings you to a place where you can find eternal joy and comfort. I will be waiting on the other side to greet you. Take your time arriving. – Peter
Closing the book, I had wiped the onslaught of tears away from my face and handed the journal back to Evie, along with the pen she had loaned to me. “Please deliver this to him,” I said. “He will know what to do with the other notes.”
She took the book, eyeing me skeptically, and tucked it under her arm. Still holding my sword, she rose to her feet and paused to look at me, prompting me to meet her gaze and say goodbye to her. “I don’t say goodbye,” Evie said. “It’s a depressing prospect and I have hope something will convince you otherwise before it’s too late.” As she squared her shoulders, she also jutted out her chin. “You’ll simply owe me an apology when that happens.”
Before I could respond, Evie paced away from me. Her heels clicked along the pavement, her stride confident though I could not determine what purpose her exit served. When she had vanished – taken away in the same car which had taken me there – I settled in for what little remained of the night, opening the bottle of wine and examining the slow parade of cars. I had the bottle nearly emptied, and most of a pack of cigarettes smoked, when the hour before dawn began its march across the sky.
To say he took me by surprise assumed I did not think another attempt would be made to dissuade me. I heard him approach before I bothered looking at him, and even then, I beheld him through the lens of inebriation, holding a cigarette which had been half-depleted. He stopped a few feet shy of me and remained standing, demanding I peer up at him.
“Good morning, brother,” I said, bringing the cigarette to my mouth and drawing from it. As I exhaled a plume of smoke, I flicked what remained of the cigarette away and focused what I could of my attention back onto Robin. “Have you come to see me off?”
Fury danced behind his eyes, suppressed for the moment while Robin studied me like a recalcitrant child. “No, I am here to get you inside,” he said. “You were given some time to have your fit, but it’s nearly dawn. Now, get to your feet and into that car.”
Lifting a hand, he pointed toward a vehicle parked near the Petit Palais, one which differed from the car Evie had been escorted around in. I examined it for a moment before looking back at Robin, failing to lift my head from the half-wall behind me while I shook it. As such, I ended up rolling it from one side to the other. “This is no fit. I am staying right here.”
“You’re going to have to explain yourself before I grant you any form of legitimacy.”
“What is there to explain, Robin?” I barked a laugh, laden with bitterness. “What are you going to do? Give me a list of all the things worth living for? Did Evie hand you the book? Believe me, I have already made an inventory of them and I can count them on one hand.”
“Even having one gives you something worth living for, Peter.”
“Spare me the proverbs.” My disposition soured, my resolve cracking enough to allow the grief full passage again. As I tried to place it into words, I let it roll over me, like razor blades penetrating my skin. “Tell me when it stops hurting. Tell me how long it takes for any of that to matter again. What form of hell am I going to have to occupy before I give a damn that I have you or my children when I have been hollowed out and the space that lingers hurts? Are you going to hold me down while I tear at the curtains and beg for it to end?”
“You speak as though you’re the only person who’s ever lost someone. Or had to figure out how to carry on without them.” Robin strode closer to me and paused again. “The answer to the riddle is as simple as it is complicated, but you
need to let yourself try.”
“Try what?” I stumbled to a stand, taking hold of the wine bottle while I did. After the ground stopped listing, I gained my bearings enough to encroach upon my brother’s space. “How do you continue past this? What sort of wisdom are you going to impart upon me that makes me want to endure this torture?”
“The wisdom that it never goes away, but that it fades,” Robin barked back at me, closing the remainder of the distance between us. “It becomes a thunderous roar and then a dull ache and if you’re fortunate, one day you wake up and you remember what it’s like to think and hope and love and you dare yourself to do it again. But you’ll never get to that if you give up now.” He stripped the wine bottle from me and threw it from the bridge, heedless of the waste.
Immediately, his focus settled on me again. “You have to let yourself endure it,” he continued. Looking me in the eyes, he raised a brow at me. “You have to struggle awake and go to sleep and count each minute, even if it’s simply spent leaning on something for support. What I loathe is that you would give up so readily, Peter. That you would write your children notes and leave me with such a menial goodbye while claiming to be sorry you could never return the sentiments I’ve had for you. I don’t care about that now. What I care about is that the man I call a brother is throwing himself away when he hasn’t seen all this immortal life has to offer him.” Robin glowered. “Find that thread to hold onto and follow it to the next one, brother, but don’t think for a moment I am allowing you to die.”
“Are you going to pull me from this bridge?” I asked, mocking in my tone. Had I the mental faculties, I might have heard Flynn as much in the challenge as I did myself. As it stood, however, Robin seemed to recognize the surrender not merely of the seer, but of the assassin as well.
And in recognition of both, he did the one thing he knew would reach us.
The man not given to impulsive gestures pivoted to the side and only when he lifted his hand did I know what he intended to do. His fist impacted my jaw with no quarter given, the sting spreading within seconds while my head recoiled, my already precarious balance not able to compensate. I flailed while spinning and as I tripped over my own two feet, I spilled onto the concrete wall, clutching onto it for support. My knees almost hit the pavement, and as I struggled to right myself, I felt him pull me by my suit jacket to a standing position again. “Now, get in the bloody car,” he chided. “We barely have fifteen minutes to get inside before the sun consumes us both.”
Shoving me forward, he walked behind me, like a sentry escorting a prisoner to jail. I protested, but allowed him to lead me, and while he threatened to hit me again, I did not make it a necessity. We got into the car and he secured himself behind the steering wheel while I leaned against the car door and stared at the onslaught of dawn. Being forced to live did not renew my desire for living. Retreating away from one sunrise did not remove the temptation which afflicted me every night to do the same. In forcing me to carry on, Robin had also consigned me to a private hell, of which I saw no end in sight.
I would be forced into servitude. Not only had I been robbed of Monica, I had been stripped of my freedom. Clinging onto the thread of my children, I sought my way to the next, but would have to wait seven years before finding one that could bind me back together.
And of all places, it came to me one night, in a bar in San Francisco.
To Be Continued...
In Acknowledgement
Coming soon!
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http://crimsonmelodies.com/deathspell/