Her sister was leaving her, and she knew it. The realization came all at once, then slowly, in bits and pieces. After the initial shock faded, she lost her in other ways - the emptiness, the shallowness of her breath, the feeling that she just missed a step on the stairs. This was a new beginning, they said. A new beginning full of excitement and opportunity. They had it all wrong; it was a chain of brokenness and bitter jealousy pervaded with disbelief. Time was surely tricking her because this was too much to be real.
She lay in the dark, letting her mind drink the tender quietness that accompanied her nightly pondering. The clock on the nightstand ticked off each second with its orderly chime; it gave structure and purpose to her otherwise rambling thoughts. Tendrils of information seeped from the inky sky outside the open window, floating upon the soft breath of the cool wind. Birds twittered, perched upon the boughs of young trees that absorbed snatches of their sprightly songs. This was the night, the nostalgic pocket of time that propels the mind to wander quietly, freely, alluringly.
He took the deepest breath he could, willing his weak lungs to take in the misty, fresh air. It had been a while since he allowed himself a relaxing stroll; the toll of his work and the constant demand for money had allotted to time spent in cramped studies filled with thick dust. His music normally filled his head with its ever shifting paradigms and paradoxes. Strange, to think that the world could be this quiet. The usually overcrowded streets of Paris were surprisingly calm today. Nobody was up and around at this tender time of morning; the soft sighs of those sleeping could almost be heard if he strained his ears enough. With the absence of so many, he was able to walk in peace and do nothing but think. It was as if the buildings were pools of water that reflected his image and thoughts into an achingly poignant mirage. Pondering his home and family for the umpteenth time that morning, he found himself suddenly unable to bear the silence any longer. Their absence was a haze that hung thickly over him like the omnipresent storm clouds that seemed to never vanish. The city wore a tarnished film in his mind, and only his homeland and loved ones would peel the preconceived notions away. Disgusted with the idea of enjoyment in their removal, he stalked away, unaware that he would never see his beloved country again.
He gazed at the piano, the only source of light and interest in his rather vapid life. The sound from the last chord still resonated throughout the small study, teetering piles of books slowly absorbing the tender noise. As the atmosphere drank the last tendril of music, a crashing silence fell upon him. It was times like these that made him realize how lonely he really was. The minds of others he chose to ignore and cast away, letting them shrivel like weeds in the summer sun. Friends came by sparsely, more interested in chatter and gossip than his welfare. However, he also was bothered by the attention from those who practically worshipped him, uncomfortable with their persistent and overbearing forgiveness. He did not care to bare the inner contents of his soul to anyone anyway. To an outsider, he was filled with piety, an amiable and affable spirit. But behind the gossamer web of his outer image, was a disguised and hidden bitterness that keened helplessly, a loneliness nobody noticed or could quite fill. He let his pale finger delicately trace the ivory keys, vainly trying to squander these addled emotions that crept up on him more and more often as of late. Memories mingled in his head and interrupted the silent and morose glissando of his finger until their immediacy made him dizzy. Feeling rather ill, he snatched his hand up, as if afraid it would burn on the surface of summer mornings long past. He rose with difficulty, now noticing how short of breath he was, and walked away as fast as his cramped limbs would allow, preffering to lay down in a room that did not scream quite so loudly.
He lay in the dark room, feeling it seethe and pulsate with a ferocious severity. The same sickness that had struck him moments before still made the ceiling spin slowly, although it was not quite as intense now. With nothing but the dark walls to entertain his fancy, his mind began to wander, stretch out like the arms of a young but vigorous tree before the healthy sunlight. Music of his own floated through his head and calmed him down. The captivating chords were like a river that coursed through his veins and cleared his head like nothing else could. Borne upon those came new melodies that sharply struck his fancy. Minutes, then hours slipped by, unknowing to the man who invented and constructed new chords in the waxing darkness of night. Unable to contain himself any longer, he sprang out of bed as he had not done since before the disease had struck, crossing the room in purposeful strides. In the newborn sunlight, he feverishly scratched out the song that laced his dreams and soothed him as no person ever could - or ever would.
He awoke in the early dawn, finally freed from the tendrils of sleep that had been sluggishly dragging him down. Horrors unknown still lurked and prowled deep in the recesses of his mind. He willed his eyes to drink in the soft light that pervaded the room, trying to coax the nightmarish phantasms into releasing their iron grip. What had shaken his subconscious so deeply, however, was not some normal fear of abnegation of circumstance. No, what had clung to him so tightly in the inky night would continue to embed itself into his concrete memory - for that is precisely what it was. A memory. Untarnished and glowing from within, with pulsating auras of peace and carefree, naive serenity. For a moment, when he looked out the nearby window, he saw the snow covered hills of his childhood and not the sweaty and smoggy streets of overcrowded Paris. Oh, how these memories made him weep with sorrow through the night! Nostalgia heavily perfumed the room, choking him. At the moment, the only thing passing through Paris was his desire of the place. It grew garish even as the countryside faded from the window, along with his hope of a peaceful awakening.
They sat and talked for a while, the boy and the girl. They swayed with the rhythm of the hot, crowded bus as it trundled down the gravelly road. The clouds hung heavily in the deep blue sky, and particles of dust drifted through the stagnant air. It was hot and sticky, the typical midsummer day - even though it was only late May. Voices rose around them, obnoxiously and indefinitely so.
Neither of them noticed.
He talked to her of visions and dreams with animated eyes and gesturing hands that painted new worlds surrounding both of them. It was new and improved, and his eyes shone with the light that these dreams created. She listened with rapt attention, every pore of her being drinking in his words, the words that inspired her so. It was as if an arm had gripped her shoulders, reassuring her for the first time that everything really would be all right. He showed her the way, nudging and coaxing her in the right direction, just as he always had.
Trying to distract myself from succumbing to the unbearable haze of pain, I focus on the face that is inches from mine.
Staring back at me is a boy of about sixteen, wide eyes bleary and rimmed with worry. His eyes are bright blue and reflect the sunlight streaming from a window behind me. Hidden within those eyes are flecks of the softest green, only sometimes visible in the omnipresent light. His hair is the color of coffee and tousled haphazardly, as if he had slept laying on the same side the whole night. Every muscle in his body is tense, as if he’s a coiled spring ready to burst. Through the labyrinth of sights and smells that assault me, I try to focus on his face.
I feel a light pressure on my hand, squeezing it gently. Even that small tendril of communication threatens to blot out the world in a morose world of the most acute agony. My face is stretched taut in a silent scream, begging for reprieve. Senses reeling, I feel my mind pitch into utter darkness. Relief is grudgingly given, leaving me to sink back into pools of deep oblivion. When the world explodes into light again, it is bearable his time. Although my eyes tear up from the knives digging into my retinas, I can manage with a few deep breaths. After taking a moment to gather my bearings, I realize the boy with the wide eyes is gone.
Disappointment sinks through me, although I am not quite sure why.
Sitting on the cold floor, surrounded by a hundred others, she finally felt detached. That gnawing worry, the anxiety that crept up in the dark night, was extinguished - a candle snuffed out by the freshening wind. She felt liberated, free; a tender calm gently pulled the knots that had been tightening in her stomach for months now. Now it was a secret of sorts, nobody else knew. How could she tell them? Would she sit quietly by the wayside and let the current of time wash the news ashore? No - there was still dignity and respect to think about, but for now, the only thing she had to worry about was the numbness in her foot from sitting and pondering for so long.
She sat in the dark car, trying to watch the street as it flew by. A wispy layer of her soft hair made a thin veil that partially obscured her struggling eyelids. They were trying to surface, trying hard not to succumb to the depths of sleep. Each second was a score of heartbeats, and they began to blur together blearily. She turned her iPod up, trying to let the piano carry her away on waves of sound and wakefulness. Her endeavor was met with limited success; dreams did not bloom before her, but the world was reduced to a twilight zone, only distinguished by varying shades of the softest grey.
The stars seemed to hang motionless in the sky that night. Even the all encompassing moon seemed to fade like a reflection in rippling water. The world was distorted and disproportionate; it stretched and revealed its grotesque underbelly, preying on innocent naivety. It was a symposium of sorts, with exhibits of dejection, despondence, and pain. A slap in the face for some stung in the winter air, but from others it coaxed a bitter, resonating laugh. Pessimism wallowed in corners, swelled in the flat darkness as it approached its next victim.
It was the haziest, deepest, most achingly familiar sort of night. You could stretch out your finger and grasp the sprightly sky, abound with frenzied stars and chords of the most tender nostalgia. On the surface there was absolute silence, but if you listened closely, the chords of nocturnes wound themselves intricately through the sleeping tips of grass and around the edges of the glowing moon. A delicate breath here, a sigh there from the trees that tried to reach the omnipresence of nightly songs while swaying voluptuously to them. It was as if the rain constantly fell at this time at night; the whole world was within a pocket of quiet and gentle recollections, each more precious than the last.
