There used to be six of us . . .
Now I’m alone.
George, Benny, Martha, June, Max
they were my friends, my family. Now I’m alone.
We fought, we laughed, we wept, and
we cheered. Inseparable to a man, that was us. Now I’m alone.
Alone and running. I used to be
running for my life, now I was just running so that I wouldn’t stop. Left here,
Right there. Running fast as my body would allow. A second left across the square. I stumbled, my heel catching a crack in the cobblestone.
With that brief interruption came
the tears.
I made it to the far side of the
square, almost two miles from where I started running, before I collapsed.
Sobbing and gasping against a wall. I hugged myself, if only to suppress the
trembling and shivering. My eyes burned, my lungs burned, my legs burned and
yet I was cold, my gown soaked in sweat and bile and blood.
After a moment my senses returned
and I slapped the brick of the wall. A nail broke, and my palm bled but the
pain reminded me to move. Theatre district,
Plaza of music, Masque Emporium. A friend of a friend.
I started to sprint, then to jog.
The tears still fell. They fell black, painting lines on my face and smears on
my hands. Max’s friend was not far away now. I remembered going with him to get
the supplies for tonight.
“This, my dear Meg, is the best place in the
world.” Max had said one they were in the Plaza of Music. He had such a proud
and amusing grin on his face. “The owner’s a friend of mine, we go waaay back.”
His red hair glinting in the morning sun, almost level with my eyes. So
childish, and childlike, skipping like a school girl.
When we reached the door he
winked at me and skipped around the corner, laughing at whatever face I had
made. He stopped at a narrow door along the side, right were the street began
to slope down. “Welcome to the cave of wonders!” He bowed as the door swung
open. Breaking out into a ridiculously childish grin, gleaming with joy and
pride. I’ll never see that smile again. . .
I fell forward as my right heel broke.
Bloodied, shaken, exhausted, sore, and now bruised in most sensitive areas, I
curled into a ball and surrendered to my grief. I no longer had any strength to
hold myself back. My friends were gone. My family was dead. I am alone.
There used to be six of us . . .
now I’m alone.
I heard the footsteps’ I couldn’t
move. They moved to the patter of running; I didn’t move. I heard them stop,
and could sense someone close. Still I cried, curled with my knees to my chest.
There was a rustle of fabric, and a coat was lain across my shoulder. A firm
but gentle hand grabbed my arm and lifted me up. A seconded, moved the coat to
cover both of my shoulders, and lift me higher. With a sudden shift, this
stranger had lifted me up, one arm around my back, the other beneath my knees.
My sight was blurry, and the street was dark. I smelt perfume, a strong smell
of sandalwood and vanilla. I turned to my savior and smothered my cries into
his chest.
His caring
squeeze was no comfort in my grief.
I don’t know how many streetlamps,
how many sobs, I spent marking my grief onto his shirt. But my tears ran out,
and my throat was raw before I looked around. Around me were restaurants and
store fronts boasting exotic menus and flashy jewelry. Posters for a magician
were plastered against the available space. I had been carried into the theatre
district. I turned to look at my savior.
It was indeed Max’s friend, thick golden
hair like a lion’s mane, a rich trimmed beard, strong arched nose, and deep-set
blue eyes. Eyes that were moist, and rimmed with red. He met my gaze, and his
lip trembled beneath his moustache. He had just lost family too. I moved my
hand onto his chest, all the hug I could give. His gaze dropped, and then he
looked on with resolve, with some kind of strength holding back the tears still
behind his eyes. I pulled his coat closer to me, the night was warm, but the
coat was safety. A vagrant, the only other life on the street, stirred and
shuffled forward beginning some grieving tale. He was immediately silenced by a
glare filled with true grief, blue eyes piercing the darkness.
I closed my eyes, and let my
weariness take me.
I woke up to light. Not the cruel
light of day, nor the cold light of the moon. This light was warm, and
comforting. It made its way through my eyelids and made me safe. Then I noticed
the warmth. Not a sticky warmth, a warmth that was soft. Finally all my other
senses aroused. I was in a bed, covered with a thick duvet. The pillow smelt of
sandalwood and vanilla, and the room of sweet tobacco. I opened my eyes and
looked about.
There was fireplace with a handsome
dark wood mantel done in some sweeping style, and a heartwarming fire in the
hearth. A thick but faded oriental rug was on the ground at the foot of the
bed. Beneath it polished pine wood gleamed a pale warm reflection of the fire.
A changing panel of braided bamboo strips stood next to a mighty, oaken chest
of drawers. A floral painted wardrobe stood imposed over a chipped, grey
earthenware teapot resting upon the drawers, kept warm over a candle. Piling high next to a curtained off doorway,
were stacks and stacks of books upon teak shelves. Paperbacks fighting
hardcovers for dominance. Plays jousted poem collections, and novels quarreled
with operas. The walls were just as chaotic. Playbills for every type of
production were here. Cheap thrill magicians practiced under the mocking smile
of insightful comedians. Shakespeare and Wilde conversed side by side above the
drawers. Souvenir opera masks hung above the doorway, and sheet music from a
dozen ballets papered one corner. A clock with a cracked face stood on the
mantel, marking the time as three in the morning. Six hours had passed.
A cloud of smoke appeared from the
bookshelves. I shifted and saw something that had been blocked by the bedpost.
It was a threadbare armchair and in it was a young man with a body that
couldn’t decide if it was lean or robust. Deep lines creased his forehead and
encircled his eyes. He wore a housecoat and was dressed for sleep, but his
rich, thick, golden hair was as neatly groomed as a cat’s fur. His beard was
likewise well trimmed close to his face, and his mustache neatly combed. In his
hand he held a briar pipe, one side of which had etched into its surface the
relief of a pair of masks, one laughing one crying. Placing it between his
lips, he took another long draft from the pipe and expelled a white-grey cloud
of sweet smelling smoke. All around me looked so peaceful, so diverse yet in
its place that for a moment I almost forgot what had happened. Almost.
I sat up, letting he duvet fall and
expose my soiled gown. The man turned to me, his eyes met mine and were filled
with emotion. Concern for me, sympathy for what had happened, confusion about
what had happened, pain of recent death, and grief. I felt tears in my eyes.
For half a moment we trapped each other in our gaze. I was moving to sit and he
was still moving to stand, but in that half moment we understood each other. I
had lost my friends, my family, everything that was ever dear to me, everything
ever worth protecting was forever lost. George, Benny, Martha, June and Max. He
had lost Max. This blond, bearded man had forever lost his best friend. Marco
had forever lost his little brother.
Marco walked over to me, a thousand
words written across every line and hair on his face. I quivered, wishing I had
words for what happened for the emotions I felt. He reached my side, and
neither of us could utter a syllable. He sat down on the bed and reached around
me, pulling me into a soft, warm embrace. I felt a hot tear drop onto my
shoulder, then I heard and felt a deep rippling sob. I began to cry with him.
Not a teary eyed silent weeping, not a trail of salt carving down my face. Together
we wept with the weight of our loss. Clinging to each other, because we were
all we had.
We were alone.
