I miss you, BeautifulA Story by Anhedonia 1349“I miss you beautiful,” his shivering voice spoke. In her eyes, you could see the love, the appreciation; she tried to be angry or dismissive, but the gentle tears rolling from her hilltop cheeks onto the valleys beneath told the true story. She was in love.
“I miss you as well,” she said. Her nervousness was of a different sort altogether than the anxiety he was experiencing. His nervousness was the kind that kept reminding him, You don’t deserve her; hers kept whispering what is he going to think or say? Both were trembling slightly.
“Are you okay?” he asked. He could hear her muffled sobs and the occasional sigh or gasp when in fact she let go of her held-in breath.
“I’m…” she began. She sighed deeply, paused, and momentarily caught her breath. “I’m dying,” she said. “The doctors have—”
On the other end, she could hear him shuffling with the receiver. He was actually sobbing. “They’re sure?” he asked. His tears were blatant and overpowering within his soft, gentle voice.
She sighed. “Yes.”
He wept for a long time and she, filled more with sorrow for him than with agony for herself, said nothing. After he had begun to quiet down a little, she stopped him. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“How do they know?” he asked. “How in the hell can they know that?” She heard him sigh and the loudly sniffle.
“They just…they just know,” she said, “but it’s going to be okay.”
Very rarely does a person actually prepare for death, and even less often do the go into it readily and unafraid: She had done both. The gene seemed to have leapfrogged about her family tree, killing this one and crippling that one—her mother had been spared although her grandmother had not. Now, the results that she had long anticipated had been revealed to her.
“Are you still there?” she asked. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m coming down,” he said. “No later than Tuesday, but hopefully tomorrow.” He seemed calm as if the initial shock had delivered him into placidness.
“You don’t have to…”
“But I want to,” he interrupted, “because I love you.” The small piece of valor made her smile once again. “I’m gonna go, buy the ticket, whatever,” he said. “I’ll call you later.”
---
That night, she didn’t think about the end or about dying; never once did she imagine the ceremony or any little thing about it. Sure she was ready, but she refused to wallow in it. Instead, she watched television—happy stuff like cartoons or romances; later, she ordered a pizza, sipped a glass of wine and snuggled into the warmth and comfort of a hot bubble bath. He didn’t call her back.
He did, however, go and purchase his ticket: in fact, he was even lucky enough to snag on of the last spots on the sunrise route, thus insuring that he would make it home the following afternoon. With that accomplished, there was nothing left for him to do except to mourn, which he did much like he did everything else—completely, and with his entire heart devoted to it. And so, while she was closing her eyes to sleep and whispering the sincerest prayer she had ever prayed, he was drinking away the agony and uttering tiny curses under his breath. Both he and she were as happy as circumstance would allow.
He made it home around four in the morning and fell staggering onto his bed. IN his mind, he replayed all the tiny laughs and smiles she had given him—all the pleasure and the love. He fell quickly to sleep, but not peacefully; whereas she was lightly drifting away and smiling euphorically, he was trapped in hell, wallowing in his drunkenness and dreaming of her face.
Sunrise was at six that morning: he woke up shortly before, packed one bag and stumbled to the train station. On the way, a sense of regret overtook him. He had promised to call—why hadn’t he called? Although he never realized it, that thought was the last genuine sentiment that he would ever contemplate.
Noon soon rolled around and found our maiden still lying in her bed, dressed from the night before and snug beneath her favorite hand-sewn quilt; if only she had wakened a little sooner, she would have heard the morning’s headlines blaring through old Mrs. Griffin’s apartment walls and into her own—
A horrible tragedy strikes our fair town, it said. At approximately ten a.m. this morning, EastRail’s number 119—the Sunrise, as it was known locally—derailed, killing all of its two hundred plus passengers. A full investigation is being carried out…
At ten a.m., as her one true love was being crushed along with every other traveler around him, se was being ushered into her destiny. She wasn’t scared. Even as her heart froze into death—even then, she was unafraid. Later that day, as the police arrived to break the news about her husband, her body was discovered, still sleeping serenely in her lavender silk pajamas that he had loved so much. One of the officers said later that her face was so happy—so eerily happy and at peace—that he actually felt guilty for having to move her.
Of course, she would have offered her truest condolences had she known the officer’s guilt. Or maybe she did know, and still does—maybe the does hear the tiny whispers that echo around about her. Maybe the two of them are walking together up there now, hand-in-hand, listening to us and our never-ending gossip. It would have made Ovid proud to have his myth lived out: two great lovers whose passion burned so greatly that death itself was powerless against them. But in the end, it all goes away—the myths, the characters, everything.
Because that’s all anyone really is: a collection of stories that lasts only until they're old and forgotten, and then they too become myths.
© 2008 Anhedonia 1349Reviews
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