Even the Clocks Stopped, Page 2

  My affairs are all in order; the lawyers have their instructions on how to proceed with everything else.

  If I never said this often enough, I love you. You have been my strength through the dark days, my inspiration when everything seemed hopeless, my friend, my sister, my voice of reason. I am sorry for the pain I have caused you. You always said that sorry comes too late, see… you were right yet again. You have always been right.

  Eternally yours,

  Leila

  With trembling hands, I clutch the letter, re-reading it through blurry eyes. An unexpected calm settles over me like a worn-out, tatty old blanket as I read it for the fourth time. Determination and renewed strength found in the unlikeliest of places; your last words to me. I hear your voice clearly, feel your presence strongly as I get up and throw the first of the items onto the fire. One by one, each item finds its way into the incandescent pit, the fire flickering and glowing against the fast-darkening sky. I watch as every tangible trace of your existence disintegrates before my eyes, the heat-seared edges curling inward before falling away and becoming one with the fiery coals fuelling this pity party of ours. I watch as a breeze lifts the tattered remains of charred paper and scatters it to corners unknown as the fire crackles and sizzles excitedly, its hunger growing with every new morsel it is fed.

  I peer down into the near-empty box; your Miss Sixty t-shirt, an Evanescence CD and my pile of manuscripts stares back at me as if in relief that they have been spared the fate of their fellow box dwellers. I come close to being weighed down by the heaviness of my sigh as I lift the heavy stack of haphazardly bound papers to leaf through them briefly before tossing them onto the hungry flames as they hiss at me to be fed. You had always believed in me, inspired me. Everything I had ever written was because of you, for you. They were always for you. I watch as years of work go up in flames that lick out at me in seeming gratitude for having its newly found appetite sated. I close my eyes as a gentle breeze caresses my face, feeling the untamed heat warm me to the core as I listen to the sounds of the shore, as every sound, every scent, every delicate nuance invades my heightened senses and strokes my soul like the hand of a consoling lover.

  I watch the dancing flames, my mind awash with thoughts of you, of how easy it always was to be around you, be a part of you. I curse the disease that has taken you from us, but I fear that you would chastise me for my abhorrent thoughts. Through my tears, I see your smile; I hear your softly spoken words. “This life is fleeting, my friend. It is the one that lies ahead we should be living for.” How did you get to be so young, yet so wise?

  I am hit by the realisation that no one who ever loved you would ever be the same again, not with you taken from this world too soon. Not Nick, your trusted friend and companion, the one who illuminated your dark moments with his sense of humour, drama and flair. Not my brother, Alex, who loves you with an intensity that most people only read of in novels of passionately undying adoration. Not your husband, David, who has loved you for a lifetime, only to have you ripped away two seconds after your lives together had begun. Not your mother, for whom life was always about you, about living just long enough to see you fulfilled. Not me.

  ~*~*~

  As I leant in and touched the wooden base of the trophy, his eyes snapped open and I had to struggle to keep my balance as surprise knocked me back, damn near making me take a tumble right on top of him. Would it not have been poetic if I had cracked my head and we were found in some horrific deathly embrace? I can almost see you smiling, Lei. As ghastly as that image may be, you have to admit, it would have been rather comic.

  So I stood there in horror, his flat eyes staring up at me, pleading with me. He opened his mouth a few times, but that moment has such a blurry quality in my memory that I cannot be sure how many times he tried to speak with no sound forming. I was thankful for that one blessing. As much as my heart was filled with hate in that moment of dread and conflicting emotions, I cannot be sure that I could have ignored the pleas of a dying man. So I stood there, Lord forgive me, I just stood there and watched him take his last breath.

  I cannot tell you how many seconds passed, but it felt like an eternity. An infinity of anguished thoughts and fucked up emotions. I refuse to dwell on the ‘what ifs’ and the ‘should haves’; it served no purpose at that time, so I doubt that it would now. I eventually lifted the trophy from its resting place beside his now lifeless form, cleaned off every trace of the role it played in a very unfortunate series of events and placed it back in its empty space upon the shelf. Then I left the apartment, your bag tucked under my arm.

  ~*~*~

  I reach into my jacket pocket, the neatly rolled sheet of paper rough against my fingertips. I am not sure if it is the cool May winds or if the angst-filled day has finally caught up with me, but my hands tremble visibly as I undo the silk ribbon tied around the scroll. Neatly penned words reveal themselves as I unroll the handmade parchment paper. My last words for you. It took me eight tries to get the paper to be exactly the way I needed it to be, just the right texture, colour and scent. As the breeze whips the parchment, my senses are treated to the delicate aroma of patchouli and cedar, yet one more thing that reminds me of you. Unshed tears blur my vision, causing the dark words to dance before my eyes, like ever-elusive nymphs dancing circles around a star-struck child, always appearing to be within reach, but never close enough to touch. The paper floats softly on the light wind, lifted by the currents of the fire beneath it before wafting gently as it loses its fight with gravity. Dark spots appear on the page, spreading outward as the fire starts to consume it from the centre out. My gaze lifts to the ocean, to a ship on the horizon, its blazing lights making it appear like a star lost and alone in a serene black velvet sky. The sea craft becomes a grounding beacon for me to focus on as the words dance their way off the page and into my heart. As the vessel starts to disappear from my view, the words to the poem I had rendered to memory on the very night it was written rush out toward it.

  Hands warm mine with a gentle touch,

  I lift them, touching my lips to each palm in turn.

  A wistful smile playing at the corner of my mouth

  As I remember…

  Your perfume lingers in the room,

  Modest, yet exotic; it suits you well.

  The fragrance subtle, still it overwhelms me

  As I remember…

  A wisp of your jet-black hair

  Had fallen across your beautiful face.

  I brush it back with trembling fingers

  As I remember…

  Leaning in, I touch my lips to yours.

  They are warm and soft,

  My breath catches in my chest

  As I remember…

  I stroke your cheek adoringly,

  You look so peaceful, so serene.

  Tears threatening to spill

  As I remember…

  I know that I should leave,

  You need your rest… You need your peace,

  But I find it hard to let go

  As I remember…

  Hand clutching yours one last time

  Before I reluctantly let go.

  I rise from your side,

  As I remember…

  Tears flowing freely now

  As I turn to leave.

  I cannot take that first step

  As I remember…

  I turn to gaze upon your still form,

  Desperately needing to burn your image into my mind

  Like a tattoo branding my consciousness for all eternity,

  So I can remember…

  One last slow deep burdened breath

  As I wipe my tears and step through the door.

  I have to be strong for them,

  But I will remember…

  As the last of the flames dies, I stand and lift the box back onto the trolley, along with the remaining oil. The walk back up to the house is an easy one, the almost weightless trolley now moving effortlessly up the cobblestone
path. My heart feels a thousand times lighter as I return to lock the doors and make my way back to the car with the t-shirt and CD tucked under my arm. One last time, I look in the rear-view mirror at the house you used to call your home, before popping in the CD and setting off on the long drive home.

  We never spoke about that day again. David never asked about what had happened on that fateful day, not even years later, after you two got married. It was the one thing none of us ever spoke of again. For that, I am eternally sorry, my friend. The guilt of that one irreversible action haunted you for the rest of your days; I should have helped you through it, and I know that now. Sorry always comes too late.