Epilogue--Dawn

Epilogue—Dawn

… … … … … …

Her fingers, thankfully warm beneath her thick black glove, wrapped themselves around the latch and pushed the iron-wrought gate open. In the streetlight, the shadows seemed weave in and around the gate and its décor. Anala had always wondered why he had a wolf as part of the gate’s design. She had asked him once but he took little interest in her question, choosing instead to focus on poking fun at her untamable, messy curls. Well, whoever the architect was, Anala thought as she walked up the cobblestone path through the front yard, he had an interesting imagination. She turned back to look at the wolf; that evening, the leaping of shadows made the wolf seem as if it was dancing. For some reason, it intrigued her more tonight than it had on other nights. As she rang the doorbell, however, her intrigue gave way to anxiety. She nearly considered turning back and just mailing him the materials but before her foot had finished its full turn, the door swung open.

“Oh,” Damian said. He neither smiled nor frowned, just stared at Anala in mild surprise.

“I, uh, came to give you these,” Anala said hurriedly. Maybe if she were quick, he wouldn’t invite her in. She handed him the large, overstuffed manila envelope.

‘The Kuwait report from Ambassador Clarton,” she explained as he looked at the envelope, confused. Damian’s confusion cleared but he continued to gaze at Anala thoughtfully.

“Oh,” he said again, “thanks.”

“And this,” she said and pulled out a small, neatly-wrapped package from her purse, “Merry Christmas.” He accepted it wordlessly but as she turned to leave, he spoke.

“Want to come in?” he asked. Anala bit her lip.

“No, thanks,” she replied, knowing full well he was going to protest. His pondering eyes didn’t leave her face.

“My aunt sent some of her homemade apple pie this year…at least come in and try some. Or take some home with you. It’ll be quick, I promise.”

 Several minutes later, Anala found herself sitting at his kitchen island, a half-finished slice of pie in front of her.

“You can open that, you know,” she said, nodding to his gift. Damian put down his fork and began to rip apart the metallic red wrapping paper.

“It’s not much,” Anala said between bites, “but I thought it’d suit you.”

Damian stared at the snow globe he unwrapped. It depicted a typical winter scene at a park—snowball fights, mothers and strollers, snowmen. But at the center of the scene sat a solitary man on a park bench, reading the newspaper. Damian’s face broke into a small smile as he fingered it and turned to Anala.

“I didn’t get you anything,” he said quietly. Anala waved her hand.

“Don’t worry about it. The pie was delicious.” She put down her fork but Damian got up first.

“But I do have something for you.” Anala frowned as she watched him leave. What did that mean?

“I was cleaning my attic out yesterday,” he called out from another room, “and I found this.” With that, Damian reentered and dropped something in front of Anala. Her mouth dropped open in shock as she tentatively reached out and touched the worn-out notebook in which she had written in during her imprisonment.

“You still have this?” she breathed.

“Yeah. I was going to give it to you after holidays…” Anala ignored him and continued to gaze at the notebook in wonder.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered suddenly, “for what happened last week.”

Anala snapped out of her reverie and to her displeasure, felt her cheeks turning red. Damian noticed this and felt a new wave of guilt. He had done so well in the past year and he felt ashamed that the restraints he carefully put up and maintained came crashing down at the government Christmas banquet… Bloody mistletoe, he thought bitterly, holiday cheer isn’t always a good thing.

“It’s fine,” Anala whispered.

Sensing Anala’s discomfort, Damian abruptly changed the subject.

“I’ve ripped out the last entry, though.” Damian nodded to the notebook. Anala frowned. The last entry had simply been song lyrics. What would he want those for?

“Why?”

“It was addressed to me. I didn’t think you’d miss it.”

Realization dawned on Anala’s face. The last entry, in truth, was actually something she’d written on the final page of the notebook, deducing that Damian wouldn’t see it until after her death.

“So you’ve read it then?” It wasn’t really a question so he didn’t answer. Anala picked up the notebook, examining it closely.

“Thanks,” she said finally, “but I don’t really want this now. That part of my life is over.” She slid the book to him and he raised his eyebrows.

“I don’t want it either,” he said. Anala shrugged as she stood up to go.

“Then just throw it away or something.”

Damian felt a rush of affection sweep through him at what she had said. He watched her wrap the maroon scarf around her neck and slip on the black gloves he had bought her for her birthday. Nodding her “goodbye”, she began to walk towards his front door. Slightly dazed but incomprehensibly happy, the words were out before he could stop them.

“I love you, Anala,” he said so quietly, he wasn’t sure if he himself had heard it. But Anala stopped in her tracks. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to turn around and face him—her legs felt immovable all of a sudden. What was she supposed to do? Turn around and run into his arms? Profess her undying love to him in return? The thought of that scene—happy, clichéd, sweet, fluffy, classically romantic—made her feel queasy. The whole situation had gotten out of hand. She knew it had been a bad idea to come here tonight. Unsure of how to react, Anala took a deep breath.

“If I could just have that last entry I wrote,’ she said mechanically, still not facing him, “I’ll be on my way.” She turned around and was not surprised that his face was expressionless, his eyes emotionless. As his eyes dully bore into hers, Damian reached into his coat, pulled out a piece of paper and dropped it on the kitchen counter. Sighing, Anala walked over and crumpled the paper into a ball inside her hands.

“Thanks,” she said and began to walk towards his front door once again, fully aware that he was following her. He unlocked the door and held it open for her as she stepped outside onto his porch. She winced at the biting cold and as she took a step towards the street, her heart suddenly infiltrated her mind. Give it back, a voice in her head hissed urgently, do something. Biting her lip again, she turned around to face him.

“On second thought, you can have it,” she said and pressed the paper into his palm. The second their hands made contact, something in Damian’s dark eyes seemed to give away. Letting the paper go, he wrapped his fingers around her hand and pulled her back into the house, shutting the door behind her.

“You’ve thrown it away—” Anala began to say but was silenced as Damian’s lips pressed onto hers. She closed her eyes and for the first time in months, she thought of what she had written on that last page and as her thoughts strayed, she did not notice her lips kissing him back or her fingers tangling themselves up in his hair.

       

        That last page, unknown to both of them, had gotten caught in the gate by the wind. It hung and waved precariously from the wolf’s paw and through the dancing shadows, it was almost possible to make out the words…

 

        Damian—

        For once, I’m actually writing to you, rather than just writing to myself because I’ve grown quite tired of explaining things to the darkness, in its shallow and impersonal form. You’re more personal to me than this black air because you exist outside of my mind.

        Today, your fingers betrayed your existence as a Party poster boy. You know what I’m referencing here. Instead of hurting my body, you’re hurting my mind. And it’s working but not in the way you want. I’m not disclosing the secrets of the Lords. No. I’m welcoming death like an old friend.

        I’m falling asleep now. I can feel the black air closing in, ready to overwhelm and consume me, and before I succumb to its numbing power, I want to say one last thing: Your life would mean nothing if you’re nothing but bits and pieces of Party ideology. But if there’s anything you could take from the time we spent together (almost seems like a romantic line, doesn’t it? The irony!), it’s that words are powerful and it’s easy to get caught up in them. Words can so easily mask true realities—words with their connotations, cultural associations and picturesque imagery. It’s easy to hear them and just let them blanket your eyes. But that’s not what you should do. Words construct ideas, ideas construct men. Some dead white male—I can’t remember the name—once said that we are limited only by the boundaries of language. So you’ve got to listen, Damian, for the real words out there, the words that say something and weed out empty language.

        I don’t know why I care this much—why should I care this much? What’s it to me if you continue on your idiotic path of blindness? You’re an intelligent man. This cannot change. Intelligence is innate: you’ve either got a knack for something or you don’t. You’re also cruel. This can change. Violence is learned and can be replaced by new things you’ve learned. I suppose learning is like flipping through the stations of a radio and when you hear a song you like, you turn up the volume. Guess who’s the radio?

        Anala