I miss you, Beautiful

“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.

Reviews

[Benjamin L. Weekly]

Very good, Chas. This story highlights the brightest qualities of your writing style. I was full entranced from the first word to the last. I would say you are going places! I love the story, the characters, the differences between man and woman and ultimately how, although apart, they ended up sharing a common experience together. Here are the two things I found that should be fixed:

"She heard him sigh and the loudly sniffle."

--- I think you want to add an "N" to the end of "the".

--- The other thing I noticed was how you mention his "home". You mention he got a ticket on the Sunrise Route, "thus insuring that he would make it home the following afternoon". Then, a little later on, you mention "He made it home around four in the morning". Either he has 2 homes or something needs to be changed here.

Well, it was a pleasure. I hope you continue to share little gems like this with me. Good luck in the future Chas.

[Caroline Tigeress]

F*****g Brilliant man, your best writing yet. Captured my heart, my movement, and didn't see it coming... until it hit me like a train wreck :)

[Jazlean]

this story gripped me so tight i wanted to cry and we strong at the same time. it was beautiful, a little predictable yet beautiful..it really makes the reader reflect apon there lives and there loves..
chas you have once again shown great talent.
well done.

[Heather Stover]

I think this is one of my favorites...the guy who said you suck should get kicked in the conch!

(heart)

[Pierce Franklin]

Fantastic, sad without being depressing considering the subject matter. I was hooked right to the end.

[Heather Angelika Dooley]

This was just so cleanly lovely! I read it slow and took my time and it had a seamless flow. Normally when I read stories (and even published novels by "famous" authors) there are lines that jump out at me and I think, 'Eh, sorta clumsy there' or 'not very fitting'--in this I never ever did that! This is just really wonderful, sweet, & non-flaunty writing. I loved it! You did a superb job!

[Erik Bergstrom]

I read this again, and then I read my comment below. Haha, how little I knew you back then. I hadn't read a lot then, but now I've realized what a gift you have for language. Even though it seems whimsical, it's a style that works for this story. As you know, I try to stay away from it and present things in a more real fashion, but that would have made this boring and not flow as well.

You know how to spread out your ear for words. The line that was pointed out before caught me this time...I might not have seen it before, I'm not sure. While the language is different, there's still much truth in your words. Nice choice to re-feature.

[Juliette Cross]

that was really nice. i wasn't expecting the outcome. i love the last line alot.

[L. L. Jacobson]

Chas-
Ironically, this beautiful tale of true love and the inevitable fate of separation of that love through death is almost a mirror of my life right now even, and I am the one who is sick, and he is the one who might die at any moment.
As a reader, I love to get into a great story and pretend I am a character, an example being Atreyu in The Neverending Story, but this one here, I was in all along, and still am, and will be for always, minus the train wreck.
You have a gift for provoking emotions within your readers. Even if the others can't relate to dying and accepting it as an art, gracefully, with those cartoons and movies and pizza and wine, surely they have had to have felt something. I do.
When did you write this? Was it whispered to you from a voice within the universe? Did you experience such pain on a similar level?
If so, I commend your heart, and if not, I commend your imagination, flair for true love, and the gift you have in communicating that effectively. Actually, I always commend your stout, heroic heart.
I am in awe of the ending before the end. It leaves me absolutely speechless:

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.

Even in death, true love doesn't die.
And please leave your story just as it is...
it would have been more tragic for her to know he died. He died for love, silently, with valor and hope, and yes, she still awaits him.
Beatiful tragedy.
It reminds me of a haiku I recently penned that I haven't shown you. I show you now, not to collide with your words, but because the examples you have shown here, the perseverance of TRUE love, which is a rarity, and the greatest gift of anything in life.

This is nature: life.
She might die and so might I.
This is love: the wind.

I love your soul, Chas.
Do you know that?
You are beautiful, in every way a person
can be.

[Michele]

Wonderful sad story. YOu did a great job.