I
t has been exactly two days since I last saw that February winter scene. Standing in front of Laura’s burial marked the end of my old life and the start of a new one. The dark grey thunder clouds cramped the sky and my breath was a visible cold steam. Miniscule specks of snow fluttered down from the sky and dampened the dull grass. The dying winter trees cast long shadows across the silent cemetery, bowing for the fallen. Old graves scattered across the area, the only evidence of the corpses’ acts of shameful abandonment of the living. The gates rudely travelled along the sides, trapping me in this grim library of bodies. The only noise I could register was the faint sound of my hollow, shaking breath and the slight chirp of a morning bird further up the moor.
unearthly, yet comforting connection, her life-like form substantial enough to keep me going. At least then I would be able to feel her once again. She was so arrogant to leave me without her touch.
Lover’s Trace
Perhaps if I had been less overwhelmed with the agony of my anxiety, I would have appreciated the tranquil scene but naturally, my only focus was on the slim coffin that lay next to the daunting, unnatural gap in the mud. The coffin was cramped with delicate carvings all along the side of the oak wood and a simple bronze plaque on top was inscribed with my love’s initials. I believe she always preferred the simpler things. Perhaps that’s why she liked me. I was waiting on the coffin, transfixed, waiting for the performance to happen: for an angel to come down and gently lift Laura’s delicate body out of her cage and bring her back to me with all the grace in the world. God would call out her name through the miserable grey blanket and I would once again be happy. Content. Perhaps, like in the many stories Laura hoarded in her study, she would rise pale-faced and haunt me as a ghost, an 1 5
But when the coffin stayed closed and I felt no angelic touch I had to compel myself to remember that those are just stories and our lives are nothing but real.
The graveyard, thick with icy mist, recreated itself once again in the garden of our isolated manor. The flowers, once flamingo pink and soothing blue, were now withered and wilted. I suppose I wasn’t the only one in mourning. I tried desperately hard not to imagine the nostalgic image of the beautiful woman with a patched shawl, a pale yellow dress complimenting her rosy cheeks and hazel eyes, so full of interest and complexity. Her soft hands clasped around one of the many novels she praised. Her upright posture a sharp contrast to my bent-over frame, weighed with the weight of my worries. Her blonde curls bouncing with every movement, matching her tanned skin that never held an imperfection. Reality, in its evil self, heavily settled once more and my fantasies were quickly wiped. Did she not realise the consequence of her actions? Was her body so fed up with life I now had to suffer? The ghost was nothing but a cruel demon of my mind, sent to force me to move on. However the feelings she left weren’t misery or depression or loneliness. All I felt for her was raw resentment for her actions. God, I could never hate her, but
