After the Dagger

On November 3, a lonely woman reclines in a caramel leather chair.  With a glass of red wine in one hand and a copy of Romeo and Juliet open in the other, she faces the hearth of a blazing fire.  Watching the passionate dancing of the vibrant red and orange flames, she wonders why she still feels so cold inside.  Shell-like and hollow, she feels as if she simply exists, occupying space.  With no other distraction but flames and a worn book, her thoughts drift.

            Today is the anniversary: the anniversary of change, loss, and heartbreak.  She remembers too well the day ten years ago, the day she had wanted to surprise him.  After curling her hair and applying some mascara, she looked in the mirror.  Donning a turquoise sundress and silver ballet flats, she thought she might look pretty.  What did it matter, though?  Anytime he had the chance to talk, he told her she looked beautiful, and he meant it.  She had apologized once when he had caught up with her after a jog.  She had looked especially awry.  He scoffed and had exclaimed, “My love, your beauty outshines the moon and makes the sun burn with jealousy.”  She smiled.

            Prepared for the day, radiant with happy remembrances, she embarked upon her journey.  A three-and-a-half hour stretch on the highway seemed like a short distance to this giddy soul.  Driving with the windows down, she excited at the feel of the wind ripping through her hair, sending strands whipping her face and square, Hollywood sunglasses like ancient, magical vines.  She laughed at the tickling sensations as she sang along to the album of ol’ blue eye’s songs in her truck stereo.  Every song made the anticipation to see him grow, swelling like a motley hot air balloon rising higher and higher.  “I’ve got yooooouuuuu! under my skin.  I’ve got yooooouuuuu! deep in the heart of me.”  Her laugh tinkled into the rushing air as she sang these truthful lyrics.

            Journey ending, she parked in front of his tranquil apartment complex.  All the walls were painted with shades of forest browns, beiges, and aquamarines, giving the area a serene quality that made her feel at home.  And that is what she felt, at home.  She thought of the cliché saying that adorns all the suburban houses of middle-aged parents: Home is where the heart is.  She truly understood that statement at this moment.  Her heart resided here.  No, not in this apartment complex. But with him.  Wherever he lived, there she wished to go.

            Bursting with excitement, knowing he would be so happy to see her, that he would take her in his arms and tell her how much he loved her, she took the steps two at a time, until she neared the top of the landing.  There, her pace slowed as a foreign, pungent smell assaulted her nose.  She made a mental note to tell him the apartment maintenance needed to check the area for dead skunks.  She thought she might make a pun, and start with a “Pepe le pew!”

            She giggled as she knocked on the door.  In about sixty seconds that seemed to her like sixty minutes, the door swung open.  Her smile faltered.  A girl with long, brown hair slinked in the doorframe.  She only had on a pink silk bath robe, the hem almost reaching her mid-thigh, but not quite.  Her pupils seemed like night as they blotted out the entirety of the light and color in her eyes.  Looking past her, she saw an empty living room through the grey, murky air.

            She turned around and took a few paces towards the stair in complete, silent shock.  Standing still, she faintly heard him call, “Faryn, who’s at the door?”

            “Just some lost girl.”

            Curious, he had put some pants on and wandered out onto the top of the landing.  Seeing her golden hair shining in the sun, his heart skipped two beats.  One beat gone to love, one beat gone to terror.  He approached her quietly and snaked his arms around her petite waist.  “Babe, I’ve missed you,” his husky whisper floated into her ear.  She smelled the thick scent of whisky on his breath.  She turned around to look into the same black, night eyes, pleading for her understanding.  She longed for the deep chocolate brown eyes she remembered, that would twinkle and shine with an internal mirth.  On her, he only saw the silent drops of water sliding down her cheeks, leaving trails of sadness behind them.

            She raised her right hand and brought it upon his cheek, leaving a faint pink place where it touched.  Stinging his pride more than anything else, he dropped his head to his chest in shame.  “I loved you, Aaron,” she managed to choke out.  She turned back around, walked down the stairs, got in her truck, and drove back to where she resided.  She climbed in her bed, with her silver ballet flats still on her feet, catching the light to twinkle as she laid in fetal position and rocked and cried herself to sleep.

            She laid there for a week, only rising for water and to relieve herself, if she could manage.  After that week, she took off her silver shoes and turquoise dress, never wearing them again.  She resumed her life, and that coming year she would often have to excuse herself from class and work to cry in the bathroom.  She cried every night that year, and still cries at night sometimes.  Those pleading, night eyes still haunt her thoughts often, just as they do tonight.

            She awakes from these musings with a sudden burst of sound resonating through the house.  Who would be ringing the door at this hour of the night?  She places her paperback on the coffee table, strides down the hallway and opens the door.  He stands there, looking.  She gazes into his pleading, chocolate brown eyes for a moment, but just a moment.  She then slowly and cautiously closes and locks the door, then traverses back to her recliner and her book.  She had left her heart there with him ten years ago.  She had finally gotten used to living without it; she would not be able to handle possessing it again.  She sighs, picks up her book, and proceeds to read the wise words of Friar Laurence, “These violent delights have violent ends, and in their triumph die, like fire and powder, which as they kiss, consume.”