The worlds are unfamiliar as she reads them out, her hands shaking on the paper that bears those very words. Tears are slowly falling from her eyes, carving trails on her too-pale face, staining her crimson blouse a blood red. But she doesn't care about any of that; no, that's not what bothers her.
Strangely enough, the announcement of death does not bother her, either. She's long since gotten over the death of this man. It's been years since she's cried for him. It wasn't as if she was supposed to have known particularly well; after all, she was a lowly maid, and he the Housemaster. There was no expected relationship beyond professional.
Of course, "no expected relationship" did not ensure a thing. She remembers the man's son, remembers raising him, talking to him, playing with him. She remembers everything about the boy because she is his mother, and he is her son.
The boy is playing silently in the other room, unaware of his mother's sobs. Even if he were to be aware, he would be unable to reach her, and she is far happier that way. Since the Housemaster's death, she's kept him away, shielded him from love in attempt to protect his innocence. It's not working, she knows. Even at eight years old, he's learning to hate her.
It's a terrible thing.
She thinks that maybe, maybe she could love the boy more if his father still lived. Maybe she would offer the protection and security her own mother had given to her. Maybe - maybe - maybe.
Maybe she'd be good at this if she could remember him.
They say that the worst part of losing a loved one is forgetting the little things. At first, you lose the sound of their voice. Their image is no longer fresh in your mind; you cannot remember: were their eyes an azure blue or a mystical green? Was their hair a luscious brown or a silvering blonde?
Over time, the tears stop because the memories stop.
Of course, they do not completely disappear. They become locked in her mind, hidden in an unaccessible vault that she refuses to open. It's been years since she's cried for the poor man because she's refused to remember a thing about him; she's let herself forget like an amnesiac. He means nothing to her, she thinks, but he does, he does…
It's times like this that she remembers these things and it's times like this that even breathing air begins to feel painful. Because she's forgotten the worst detail of all: his name. It is a poison as well as a blessing, though it may prove fatal in the end.
Considering he was Housemaster, she rarely called after him on a first-name basis. In hindsight, it makes sense, but she will never forgive herself. After all, she loved this man, gave him everything she had. She promised him a life together - a love together, one that burned so hot she could barely stand to fan the flames. But then… things were never meant to be for her, were they?
She's still crying as she rereads the words on the paper. Guilt is eating away at her heart., accompanied by a pounding, a screaming in her head that refuses to leave her; it reminds her of all she's lost. Time has stolen from her many things, but there is one thing she will never absolve: the forgetting of his name.
But it's hardly a terrible thing… she's forgotten his name, yes, but she's also forgotten her own.
Spoiler
Theme:
Your story is about a maid at a desk forgetting names.
Word count:
613
I'm surprised where this ended up. I started this story not knowing where it would go and... well, now we see, huh?
Your story is about a maid at a desk forgetting names.
Word count:
613
I'm surprised where this ended up. I started this story not knowing where it would go and... well, now we see, huh?
