There used to be six of us

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.