Everything was exactly the way she had left it; the canvas, the books on her shelf, her clothes lying on the floor. Only the sharpest eye could simply discern the slight difference – was it how the objects in her room somehow held a dull tinge no matter how colourful they were? Or was it the lingering feel of death that seemed to hover all around the house?
She could see her mother sitting on the edge of her bed, her hands fiddling with a family photograph, her thoughts lost far away. In just one week after she was gone, it was as if everything had plummeted down a dark, black abyss. Gone was her mother’s vibrant, untamable hair, now they lay limply piled above her head – all the life drained out of them. What stuck her most was that, her mother’s face, with all the newly formed wrinkles and the seemingly permanent downward turn of her lips, looked fifty instead of her late-forties.
“Mum,” she reached out, wanting so much to pull her mother into her arms, hold her close and comfort her like her mother never ever did for her. However, her mother did not seem to hear or see her at all. She tried again, but her arms just passed right through the shell of her once-living mother. Oh, how she wanted to scream, shout, yell at her mother, anything to make her hear her for the final time – but what was she to scream, to shout, to yell?
And ever has it been that love knows not its depth until the hour of separation.
-KAHLIL GIBRAN, The Prophet
Her father stood at the edge of the little hill, eyes staring out far into the waning sun. Sunset had always been her father’s favourite time of the day. It was the ending of a beautiful day, so that the night could give rise to another. After all, he had said, how was there to have a beginning if there was no ending?
She would always remember the times she spent with her father. He had always stood up for her, gave her another chance when she was wrong, protect her from her mother’s wrath with her promise that she’d improve if she did not do well in school. All that he did was always in her best interests.
“I love you, dad.” She breathed, her hand passing through his shoulder expectedly.
At his feet, there lay a freshly dug mound, with a pink marble headstone at the front. Nothing much was said there, just her name, dates of her birth and death, and a word – or two words, rather.
BELOVED, it said. But there was the slightest of spaces between the E and the I, which made it look very much like BE LOVED.
A wretched soul, bruised with adversity,
We bid it quiet when we hear it cry;
But were we burdened with like weight of pain,
As much or more we should ourselves complain.
- WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
His face was buried in his pillows, muscular frame wrecked with sobs. Dirty unwashed clothes lay on the floor, obviously having been there for days. She sat by him on his bed and laid a gentle hand on his back, unconsciously patting him comfortingly the way she used to. Her heart broke seeing him like this – it was not supposed to be that way. It was supposed to be the best for the both of them. She found it strange how she could still feel pain, when she had already did the ultimate – taking her own life.
He stilled suddenly. And jerked up, his wild bloodshot eyes frantically searched for something. For what? Was it for her, perhaps? “Mel…?” He breathed, casting his eyes around to find no one else in his room but him. “Emmelline?” He could have sworn he felt someone pat his back the way only Mel did. Did it really happen? Or was he finally losing it?
She smiled, her heart leaping with genuine sparks of excitement. Finally there was someone who could feel her here. She should have known it’d be him. “Will, it’s me! Emmelline!” She knelt down and clutched his hands with both of hers earnestly, hoping and praying with all her heart that he could see, hear, and feel her. And he would know that she had not forsaken him, that she would always be by his side, that she had did it so everything would remain perfect for them, forever.
She noted, while looking straight at him, that his once glossy brown hair had lost its former luster and his face had changed a little – as if he had aged overnight. His eyes looked right into her. She called him again, but there was no response that he heard or saw her. Taking a deep breath, she laid his hand gently on her abdomen, wondering if he could feel the life resting in her, his life resting in her. As she held his hands tightly, she saw his eyes widen, as though he was trying to convince himself that he was dreaming.
But it was not a dream at all. It was far from it – because if it were a dream, Emmelline would not have committed suicide. As far as he knew, it was his worst nightmare.
He broke down into sobs again, just as she felt the heavy burden of anguish and grief consume her again – she was not surprised at the timing. They had always been connected in ways more than one.
She got to her feet and let go of his hands, which desperately tried to regain her touch but now only grasped thin air. He panicked. “Emmelline, don’t leave me. I love you, Emmelline, more than anything.”
“I love you too, William.” She kissed him on his cheek, watching him shudder as the cold air came into contact with his warm, living skin. A murmured whisper, a tender caress, a loving kiss, and she was gone.
Perhaps, she mused, she had felt the pain because it was not being inflicted on her mentally or physically, but rather, because the pain had came from her, came directly from her heart.
I love you,
Not only for what you are,
But for what I am
When I am with you.
I love you,
Not only for what
You have made of yourself,
But for what you are making of me.
- AUTHOR UNKNOWN
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