"Will you marry me?" His words which never got the chance to be spoken still replay in my head like a broken cassette player, permanently stuck on 'repeat'. Every time I close my eyes and draw a deep breath, I swear, it's as if he never left. There were nights were the wind was so cold, but the moment his lips parted, I'd feel warmer than ever. Those butterflies you got over a pointless first crush? That feeling never left. I suppose, after all, I did feel something - something. But I don't know what. If only I had time. More time, more time. But, if I did, I may have not come to the realisation. I might have dragged him on. On, and on. At the time, it was all just fun to me; I thought he was just joking around, all these months, talking about our future together. I stopped crying the instant that he left, but I can't recall where, or when, or how. I began as being completely emotionless. I had to forget. It was destroying me. I had to banish every memory he and I had ever made, if I wanted to still remember who I was, if I wanted to actually continue with my life. Every, single person warned me that it was a narrow line I was walking. That I'm 'too young' to feel. If that was the case, then why do I know that I'm just not the same? How can he make, every, little, thing, regardless of how big or small, seem better? Why, do I somehow link everything I see, hear, smell, and touch, to him? Wherever I go, wherever I went, I see him, I saw him, one way or another, even if he was not with me. I don't know if I loved him, or the idea of him, or if it was just lust. I have no idea. I don't know if right is left, if up is down at the time being. I don't know if black is white or if sugar is salt. I'm all over the place, but at the same time, I feel like I'm nowhere. I feel hopeless. Like a fly trapped in a spider's web. He's the spider. And the web is his past. His story. But the spider's web is beautiful. It glistens in the light and it's so intriguing and mysterious. That's probably why I got trapped. That or I wasn't even thinking straight then, and when I just found myself caught in it, it was too late to turn my back.
It's as if I'm fighting myself. On one hand, I never want to forget his face, his voice, his scent, or his soft touch which I could still feel, tingling on my skin, long after we broke contact. I don't want to forget his laugh, our first kiss, us. I want to remember our story, make it burn into my brain. On the other hand, I want to forget it all. I want to forget his sweetness, his limitless generosity. I want the mischievous smirk and glint in his eye when he got an idea, to be erased from my mind. I want all his perfect imperfections to be left behind. Nobody is perfect, but in my eyes, staring into his deep blue pools, he was. On one hand, I need to leave, now. I need to run away before the sour ball in my throat evolves into fat tears to stream down my cheeks, as a never-ending river flowing through a valley. But what I want and what I need are two very different things. I need a break. I need to escape. I need to hide, climb to the tallest peak of the tallest mountain and scream until I have no voice left, until my lungs burn and gasp for air. But I want to stay here. I want to stay here forever. Let the grass grow and wilt beneath my feet. My tears to freeze on my cheeks in this very place, and his voice to never stop replaying in my head, for however long I may live.
It's so quiet here. The wind is a whip of blackness among the gusty trees, disturbing the few limp leaves, causing them to crack and rustle. Every tree here looks dilapidated. All of them are dull and faded, not a single one showing the symbolic peace of nature, or life itself. The grass is patched. In some areas, you walk on dry earth, a few meters forward, you are on the darkest of green, a meter to the left, and the grass is dry, rough, a pale green-yellow colour. Large, hard and rough stone-cold ornaments scattered on the ground, sometimes radiant flowers are placed carefully next to them. The sky seems to be permanently overcast with threatening clouds, soaring amongst them are black blotches in the air, the menacing black birds occasionally screaming, abruptly breaking the silence. Sometimes, when I'm not the only one here, it's the opposite of silence. You hear wailing women and children, sometimes just the uncontrolled, heavy, hitched breath of a grown man, or soundless weeping of an elder. I come here every day, at sunset. I don't leave until nightfall, when the moon symbolises a crystal ball floating on cloudy mist. Every Saturday evening, I delicately place a white rose with nurture and care, on the iron-hard ground in front of the particular stone. I've been coming here for about three weeks now, even the first day coming here, it was as if there was a path, a ribbon of moonlight lining a distinct rute, which wasn't really there. I somehow knew exactly where I was going, between the countless silver rows and reedy trees. But every time I see the carved stone in front of me, in the flesh, every time I can't help but collapse on the ground, and stay there until it's dark and I can't read the words on stone in front of me. That's when I can leave. When I can tell myself that it's not true, that it's just a story, and there's nothing in front of me to tell me otherwise. Until then, the scene that I can only wish was a bad dream runs through my mind, time after time, until I feel like my skull is going to explode.
"Do you need a ride home?"
"I would, but I'm not too sure that's the best idea. My parents are probably already considering the idea of murdering me because I'm so late. Thank you for that, by the way. I'll call you later if I'm still alive."
"Come on. It'll be faster than by foot."
"I'll take the bus to the stop close to the house. There's a stop where I can hop on over there." I point at the stop where a bus is approaching, then turn to him. "I'll see you tomorrow, at the park?" two firm hands rest on my shoulders and the two most beautiful blue eyes meet mine.
"Always. Just don't take the bus. I want to show you something." I've never been able to say no to him. You could call him my weakness. Every Saturday evening we meet at the park. Through the years, it's become a tradition since it's where we first met each other being a couple. When I first saw him on our first date, he was beside the entrance holding a single white rose.
"None of your usual detours though. Okay?" His lips curled into a smile as he entwined his hand in mine, we walk towards his motorcycle. He helps me onto the bike, my hand still in his. He motions for the helmet,
"Don't bother. That thing hurts, it cuts into my forehead."
"Don't be fussy. Come on."
"Gosh you can be stubborn. If you make me wear the helmet, I'll take the bus. It's only just pulled up, so I won't miss it." As he sighs, a streak of his dark hair flops down to cover part of his left eye. He puts on the helmet without fastening the strap, and before I know it, the crisp winter wind whips and lashes at my face.
About ten minutes has passed, we're driving down a narrow road clear of other vehicles, he claimed this was a shortcut and once we turn right on the crossroad, it'll be a matter of minutes to arrive home. It feels as if he's gaining speed every minute, it's rather unsettling; our surroundings are passing in a complete blur.
"Hey, could you please slow down a bit?" I could see his hands tensing on the bar.
"Do you love me?" His voice wasn't in its usual, confident tone. He sounded stressed, his voice broke between words.
"Of course I love you! But slow down! Please!" His hands tensed on the bar even more.
"Only if you hug me." As I throw my arms around him tightly I scream at him to slow down to the point that my voice cracks.
"Put on my helmet. Now."
"I swear to God that if this was just a game for you to get me to put on that thing... Slow down!" I lifted the helmet off of his head and fastened it securely under my chin, it dug into my forehead but at this moment in time, I don't care. I'm petrified. He'd usually stop his little games the very second he'd notice I was even the slightest bit upset, angry, or scared.
"I love you too." His voice was raspy and broken up. As I use the last of my voice to yell at him to stop, I notice a small tear roll across his cheek. I want to ask him what's wrong but my care is greatly overthrown by feelings of fear and anger. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. I try to speak but nothing comes out, I'm taken aghast, completely horror-struck when I notice we're hurdling towards the cross roads, ahead of us is the oncoming traffic. In that moment, I realised, that my world as I knew it, was about to shatter.
The verdict was complete brake failure. The only personal item that the paramedics found on him was a small deep red velvet box in his jacket's inner-pocket. Inside it, a diamond ring with a note neatly tucked under;
"Andria Hartwell, will you Marry Me?"
