Wilting (Part 3 of a not-so-short story)

       The sky was gray and the snow that began to fall the night before had stopped. The ground was a cold, white blanket and the trees were bare and brittle against the monochrome background; but even the beauty of this scene was not enough to calm my nerves. In the bleakness of the surrounding, I could imagine my human-like reflection: my coffee brown eyes, and lemon yellow hair would look even warmer than before.

“Will it work?” I asked myself. “Only one way to find out, you would say.” I said in reply to my own question. Turning, I found a polished shard of broken glass. True enough, I did not find my reflection.

I sat on my sepulcher, waiting for Luke as I reviewed the plan through my mind once again. A million thoughts raced and all the possibilities of what might happen haunted me; the selfish and the selfless sides of my mind were at war. Either way, I know that I will still need to leave her--make her forget. Things would be simpler if there were no feelings attached: a plain good bye would do. Then I think to myself, ‘Let’s not hope too much, Malcolm. There is nothing attractive about a cocky (eternal) 19-year-old who strangely finds graveyards a suitable place for a rendezvous.’

“Elliot,” I muttered. Somehow, hoping he would hear and console me. I raised my voice a little. “What if she doesn’t feel the same?” I tried to imagine his reply.

Then it hit me: I knew I need not worry about the pain she might feel. The answer will come in the form of a night: a marvelous, bitter-sweet night. The more I think about this perfect solution, the more I don’t want to do it. I wanted to believe that there was no answer. I did not want her to forget.

“I’m so selfish. I love her, but I…” I found it impossible to continue the sentence aloud. “I thought of the dance, but I am having second thoughts.”

“What dance?” I suddenly heard Luke say behind me. I turned on my heels and faced her.

“Luke,” I stuttered. She wore a navy blue trench coat and black boots. Around her neck was an ashen gray wool scarf. Her blue eyes looked like the stolen summer sky. To put it simply: she was stunning. “I meant to say the dance…of fate.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said the familiar glint of curiosity ignited her eyes. She walked up to me and laid a hand on the sepulcher—my sepulcher. Neither do I, I wanted to reply.

“The dance of fate is living, young one.” I nodded at her. She furrowed her brow a little.

“You make me sound like a child. You mock me—”

“None of my intentions!” I said jestingly. “It just crossed my mind.”

We started walking around the graveyard. Staying put in one place was making her cold; of course I had to pretend I was too, so we started to go around.

“Quite ironic though, Henry,” she began as she walked a little bit closer to me than usual. “You think of living when you dedicate yourself to watching the dead. You surround yourself with the dead.”

“Now you make me sound so morbid.”

“Such is the truth!” she smiled. “For everyone, I mean.”

“Thank God,” I smiled back. To my dismay, she broke eye contact.

“S-so why did the dance of fate suddenly cross your mind today?” she asked to the headstone of Gabriel Kirk 1855-1903.

“I don’t know,” I answered the snow on the ground. “I am just pondering on the life…the past lives that had happened here.” She stopped walking to admire the grand mausoleum. “It’s a past time of mine: to imagine how these people lived their lives.”

She nodded and stepped even closer to me, her leg against mine. “You have said that.” Here, she was brave enough to gingerly hold my hand—my cold ghost hand. “And it is a nice past time. It is rare to find people who spend time for the forgotten, people who spend time to think about something other than themselves or this selfish world.”

We continued to walk around like that, making silly little comments about the snow and later, just feeling the other’s hand as we let the silence fill the cold air. Perhaps this was one of the best things I loved about her. She was unafraid to show little signs of affection. She was not ashamed to make advances.

After a few moments, she stopped and clutched my arm. For a second, she looked surprised that I wasn’t bothered by her touches. Actually, I was. I enjoyed this moment far too much for sentiment. She broke the silence between us. “What do you think his story is?”

“Whose story?” She nodded at the sepulcher before us. It was mine. And I was afraid.

“W-why would you want to know?”

“Well, this is where we first met,” she began. “The least we can do is thank the good man for letting us meet here every day. I think it’s just right to think about what his life could’ve been. Don’t you think so?”

“Alright then,” I said as I lifted her by the waist and made her sit on top of the broken wall. God forgive me, she was so fragile in my hands. What more when she finds out of the truth? “His name is--was Malcolm Churchill.”

I lifted myself up and we both faced the sepulcher. I displayed a calculating look as if trying to make up a suitable life story. “Well, his past is much like what you said that day. I had the same story in my mind.”

“Really?” her blue eyes glistened, questioning me. Later, the azure orbs were turned to the sepulcher.

“Oh yes,” I said. “But there was something different in my version.”

“What?” Now I have the freedom to tell her the truth. The remorse was evident in my voice from then on.

“He was indeed greatly misunderstood, but why do you think so?”

“He…was confused by the choices in his life?”

“Exactly,” I muttered. I couldn’t meet her eyes. “He was indecisive with love.”

“L-love?” I saw her grow a shade pinker from the corner of my eye.

“He had many lovers,” I said, almost ashamed. “A handsome man and a favorite among the women of his time for he was smart and kind. He had good friends who always supported him. He had everything,” I couldn’t help but look at her as I said it.

“No one has everything,” she says. “Where is the flaw?”

“Indeed, he had everything and yet nothing,” I drifted in my thought for a while. “He lacked the only thing that made life bearable. He did not have true happiness.” Here she remained silent and felt bad for me. She pitied me. (The dead can feel when the living sympathizes for him.) “He loved too much. Or at least, what he thought was love. He had a bad habit of lying to his mistresses.”

“That’s…” Horrible? Revolting? Detesting? “So sad…” I glanced at her in disbelief and awe. Thankfully, she did not see my reaction and went on to say, “He must’ve been very lost in his own mind. His environment could’ve made it worse.”

“Yes,” I said. “He found no mistress to be his wife. He died alone, and with his lies.”

“Well, now I think it’s awful that he lies,” she said. My hear—hopes started to sink. “If he died alone then it must mean he never stopped lying till his death.”

Here’s my chance. “Well, what if he lied to protect the ones he loved?” She looked at me strangely. “It is true. We sometimes get stuck between a rock and a hard place when we need to make decisions about our love. W-we sometimes lie to the ones we love, for their sake.”

“Henry.”She looked at me with a mixture of bewilderment and sadness. “Are you trying to tell me that you’re lying to me?”

I couldn’t help but smirk a bit as I raised a brow. “You think I love you?” She blushed a bright pink at the statement as she tried to compose herself again.

“W-well I—”

“You?”

“I…I still think that lying is wrong in all perspectives. Especially when one does not ask for forgiveness,” she stuttered, still a little pink. I smiled and broke eye contact.

“Then that makes us hypocrites, don’t you think?”

“In what sense?” she asked offended.

“Your statement!”

“I will not ask forgiveness for a lie I did not tell you,” she said confidently.

“Are you sure?”

“I have no reason to lie to you,” she said.

“You’re afraid to hurt me? To fool me?” I asked slyly.

“Yes!” she exclaimed immediately then hesitated after glowing a shade pinker. “No. Yes? Oh, Henry stop doing this.”

“But if you knew something important, would you lie for me? Would you lie for my sake?” I pressed, chuckling at her reactions.

“Alright, yes! Yes, Henry!” she said, her eyes burning with a familiar flare as she held my gaze. “I… I care for you more deeply than I should.” Here, she turned her head away. “Why are you asking me this, Henry?”

My friends were right. There are uncalled feelings. Now I have no choice. With a weak, bitter sweet voice, I replied. “I just wanted to know what I would be missing.” She looked at me with the same sorrow.

“I’m not leaving ‘till February, Henry,” she said softly. “We have time.”

I looked into her eyes, feeling the first stage of heartbreak all over again. We have much less time than you think, I said to myself. “There is another dance I wanted to tell you about.”

“What is it?” she asked. Half glad I changed the subject.

“It is a special dance the town does every December, Luke,” I began, trying to act happy as I tell her of the night. “It’s an old town tradition held at the square. There will be lights, music and dancing on that eve. The townsfolk will dance with everyone; man and woman, children and the elderly, even the good and the bad.”

“That sounds fantastic,” she beamed. “When is this?”

“It’s tomorrow night,” I said. “Now, I ask if you would like to accompany me to this dance?”

Her blue eyes sparkled and her smile was heaven. “I would love to.”

I spent that sheer minute of quiet thinking about the dance and strategizing how I was going to tell her everything that I’ve been hiding. Or would it be safer not to tell? No. That’s the worst kind of deception. What sickens me more was the fact that she, the virtuous, cunning and innocent young woman that she was, would be forever tainted by this impure memory of a ghost she loved, and she could not remember any of it even if she tried.

“Is this why you kept asking me if I would lie to or for you?” she said meekly. “Did you want me to lie so I could sneak out to your make-believe dance tomorrow night?”

I looked at her. “No, Luke. I did not lie about the dance.” Maybe she thought of this because the townsfolk do not make grand preparations for that night. “I asked you those things because I wanted to make sure my…heart did not deceive me.”

“In what?” she said in a whisper.

“That you might have loved me.” At this point, I was aware that she was inching closer to me. What struck me as strange was the way I returned the gesture. “All this time, I feared my affections would be unrequited.” She slightly shook her head.

“They are not,” she whispered. I couldn’t help but cup her cheek to stare back at the celestial heaven before me. With our eyes filled with infatuation and want, I started to feel her breath on my lips. Did she notice the lack of breath from mine?

“It’s getting late, sweetest Luke,” I whispered back. I knew I couldn’t kiss her. Nothing was as terrible as the untimely kiss of death. But tomorrow night, I might just have a chance again. I slowly began to pull away from her but she remained. It was getting dark; I could see her eyes almost glowing like blue flames against the dimming background.

“I do not mind staying in the dark,” she said still inching closer. “Even if this is an old graveyard, I am not afraid.”

I held her cheek back, giving her an assuring look. “But I am, Luke. I am afraid for your safety here.” I leaned in and kissed her smooth, soft cheek, so that she won’t be so disappointed tonight. As I pulled back, I see her white smile grow. I grinned back. “I will walk with you till the gate.”

There was a stillness between us again as we walked towards the exit of the graveyard, but this time, it was less gauche. This time, I was the one who took her hand.

“Tomorrow night?” she asked as we reached the large iron wrought gates. I gave her a nod and a small smile.

“Tomorrow night,” I replied as I bent down and kissed her hands and wrists.

“Where will I see you?”

“I will find you.”

“I can’t wait,” she chuckled. Then she looked at me with curiosity again. “What’s the matter? You seem unhappy.”

“I’m unhappy because you are leaving me again.” I wasn’t lying, though I was grieving much more than her departure for that night. She gave me a sympathizing gaze.

“You know that I love you, right?” she began with her nonchalance. “Then the more you should be confident that I will keep coming back.”

I just nodded, thankful for the shadow that hid the trickle of a tear down my jaw.

“Farewell for now, Luke,” I said as steadily as I could.

“Farewell for now, Henry.”

The trickle soon became a river as I walked back to my mausoleum. I watched her disappear down the hill with the gravity of guilt and sorrow that clung to my soul. “Pars maior lacrimas ridet et intus habet,” I said to myself. ‘You smile at your own tears but keep them in your heart.’ Of all famous Latin death quotes, this was the least that I wanted to remember. Now, it makes no sense. I did not smile at my tears. And I no longer had a heart to keep it in. 

***

  I paced aimlessly as my form began to lose its solidity; the vibrant colors of my hair, eyes and skin crept to fading hues and the black suit slowly turned gray by the second. Later, I was just like all the other ghosts: a misty gray human-like figure.

I looked around me. Fellow ghosts were already preparing for tomorrow eve’s occasion. They were happy; the children and the elders sang the song as they cleaned up their own graves:

“Rich man, poor man, come away

Come to dance the Macabray.

Time to work and time to play,

Time to dance the Macabray.”

With a sigh as I finally arrived at my mausoleum and sat down on the concrete bench, I continued the song…

“One and all will hear to stay,

Come and dance the Macabray.”

“All must dance the Macabray,” I hear my friends sing in unison behind me.

I remained quiet after meeting their eyes with a sad glow in mine. I knew that that alone was enough to tell them what happened. No wonder it was a rule not to interfere with the living, it causes too much pain all over again.

“It is quite ironic,” I began in a low voice. “ ‘One to leave and one to stay/ And all to dance the Macabray’? Was this song invented for situations like mine?”

“It is but horrible timing, Malcolm,” Elliot said. “You did the right thing. She had to forget…”

“It was you or her life,” Charles nodded.

“Indeed.”

***