"In Which Fairytales End"
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"O, to be sure, we laugh less and play less and wear uncomfortable disguises like adults, but beneath the costume is the child we always are, whose needs are simple, whose daily life is still described by fairy tales."
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Leo Rosten
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7 Years Ago...
Berlin, Germany
"I love you. You don't know how much I really love you," she whispers, her voice rasped and her words halting.
"Back at you, darling," he grunts, the years of acclimation to their home clear in his drawl. She lifts her head from his chest, her expression clearly sullen and lips pouting. She looks at him pointedly.
"Even after so many years, you still can't say it directly,"' she scoffs, her voice humorous yet hollow.
She rests her head back to his chest, breathing in his cool minty scent. By now, she can imagine him rolling his eyes — as he had always done when she's in one of her 'moods'.
She sighs, burrowing her face deeper into his chest.
He groans before mumbling what could be heard as "I love you."
Almost like lightning, she lifts her head to face him again. "What did you say?"
"I didn't say anything," he grumbles, his eyes looking away.
She frowns, pouting again. "Of course, you didn't."
His eyes flicker at her frowning face and mumbled a what-the-heck before saying in a clearer tone. "I love you."
She turns to him disbelievingly.
He turns away.
She narrows her eyes and scoffs. "Fifteen years of marriage, and you still can't even look at me when you say it."
He doesn't respond.
"I love you, too,"' she softly whispers, tears welling in her eyes.
He surprises her by facing her again, his face serious and his eyes determined.
He lightly strokes her cheek.
She turns her cheek and gently kisses the thin papery skin of his palm.
His gaze searched for hers, and when they locked her in, with every bit of his last remaining strength he whispers, "I love you."
As he gazed at her awestruck expression, he felt what he has sworn he had always felt.
Like a clock, its tiny little gears changed course, turning further and further back into time, until suddenly it stopped — to that exact moment they had first met.
The first glance of the eyes as they felt their souls connect.
The prickling sensation as sparks flew from the very ends of their hair from a simple touch.
Each tinkling sound, like music weaving the air into its own private melody. And then the gears went rolling again — back to their original course. Like a montage of fragmented memories, of images, of sensations, and of sounds.
All leading back to her.
All about her.
With him.
Together.
Silently, he hums a lullaby he made just for her a long time ago. He watches each crystalline tear that flowed down her cheeks in wonder and bittersweet regret.
He caresses her face, savoring the fine-lined satin-like feel of her skin while brushing away her tears.
She caresses his face too, stroking the soft silvery tendrils of hair that frame his weathered face. He smiles.
So does she. Or, at least she tries to.
He urges her to lean closer until his lips brush the tip of her ear.
Softly, he whispered the words he had saved especially for her. Words that carried with them his final breath. Words for her and her only.
"Thank you for choosing to love me each and every day for the rest of my life."
Even in his final moments, he wanted to give her what remains of himself. Of his existence.
And then the gears finally stopped.
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I watch as my grandma keels over.
Her old and weary knees shook from the impact, while her arms never left their tight embrace over the man she had always loved. The man who was now lying lifelessly on the sterile-white sheets of the hospital bed.
My grandfather.
I listen as the doctors discuss his time of death and back to my grandma's heart-wrenching cries as they fade away over time. It's in these moments that I felt so helpless, so useless. It's in these moments that I feel so disconnected to everything around me.
My only consolation was my dreams. But I doubt even this would take my mind off of everything that happened.
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I turn my attention back to my grandma as she stands motionlessly with her eyes closed. I stretch my arms and wrap them around her frail figure, letting the blanket cover us both.
I think back to the countless conversations we had shared in the past. The sleepless nights were spent listening to her stories after stories, watching her talk animatedly and reminisce about her younger days.
I recall her telling me about her life with my grandpa. How it was kismet for the two of them. I recall her telling me that someday, someone is going to look at me too with a light in their eyes like I'm everything they've been searching for their whole lives.
I like to believe that it would happen, someday.
Just as everybody does.
Wouldn't you?
The moment you knew something monumental was going to happen once you saw that person, and suddenly, it wasn't just your eyes that would meet.
Your soul sees theirs, and you find itself saying, "Oh, there you are, I've been looking for you. Complete me."
And just like that, everything seems to move in slow motion before something causes that moment of impact. Everything centers on that person until the moment you meet in the middle that the aftermath of the impact seems to gradually fall into place.
Exactly where they should be.
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September 13
2:00 AM
Averill, Manhattan, NY, USA
Or at least until they reach the age of sixty or seventy* where they finally had enough of each other, and all that's left is the hope that one of them finally pulls the plug or be diagnosed with Alzheimer's so they could forget ever meeting or being married to each other.
Because let's face it, this is reality, and in reality, there's no such thing as a 'happily-ever-after'.
Hmmm... yeah. That sounds way better, I conclude, barely a few pages in the first chapter before I move the novel to trash.
How that got in my 'recommended' reads, I don't know.
Okay, enough procrastinating for now. I toss my phone aside and plant my laptop on my lap.
TICK... TICK, I click the mouse, opening a file from my folders
The tapping on the keyboard goes on, its soft but subtly striking sound echoing in the nearly vacant room. Just outside my room, a muted hum from the vacuum cleaner being turned on could still be heard despite the thick walls and French windows in between.
VRRR... VRRR... VRRR, the vacuum goes on with its annoying mono-rhythmic noise.
The sound goes on, getting louder and louder, as I struggle to concentrate on the screen before me.
Verdammt! What kind of people would vacuum by the pool at 2 a.m.?
The sound goes on, getting louder and louder, as I struggle to concentrate on the screen before me.
Verdammt! What kind of people would vacuum by the pool at two in the morning?
It's ridiculous!
Of course, I had to ask for the obvious.
Chances are likely, you have never heard or met the Darrells (unless you've grown up in my town), and you're better off not to. They were the epitome of an elitist and authoritarian household, known to breed cold-hearted, deceitful, avaricious machines clothed in human skin.
Blessed with attractive features and charismatic natures, the Darrells value perfection and public perception above everything else.
They were also my family.
My aunts, in particular, were always obsessed with having everything spotless from the ceilings down to their collection of fine china. It wouldn't surprise me if they insisted on vacuuming the driveway or their perfectly manicured lawn.
What's that? A shred of leaf on the grass? (gasp) Unforgivable! It simply isn't done! Maria, vacuum it, pronto!
I can just picture one of them threatening to fire some poor live-in staff if they find a speck of dirt on their precious ornaments.
I clench my jaw, my teeth grinding at the irritating noise. Even as I wore my headphones, they still couldn't block out the noise. I swear the guy who sold this to me owes me my 50 dollars back!
I tap furiously on the keyboard, hoping to drown the noise with work.
Okay, where was I?
I scroll to the upper part of the page, scanning the last few paragraphs.
Right, back to the reality part.
Stretching my fingers, I close them and crack my knuckles. I listen in satisfaction as my tired joints pop. I shake my head from side to side, trying to get some cricks out. I rotate my shoulders, loosening up some tensions from last night's overnighter.
Yup, that should do the trick!
I aim my finger at a key. It wasn't long before I found myself at a rhythmic pace again that I began to get lost in my work...
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"She treads quietly to another side of the room where a dim single shaft of light flows through a tiny frosted window. Huddled into a ball, she sits under the sparse light, the thin ream of paper on her lap. In her left hand, she shakily hovers the pen's tip on the fine surface of the paper, uncomfortable with the strange feeling of writing. Delicately, she adds pressure to the tip, watching in fascination as the ink follows every stroke of letter.
"A light scuffle echoes throughout the room. She freezes."—
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Suddenly, the screen goes blank. And, all hell breaks loose.
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Not exactly the ideal first chapter, am I right?
What do you think? Should I still go with it?
Feel free to comment with your thoughts and if you don't agree with me, maybe press the like button?
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PLAYLIST
(in order)
La Vien Rose — cover by Laura & Anton
Warm — Ósk
Fancy — Iggy Azalea
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*[F/N]*
At least until they reach the age of sixty or seventy... — a nod to Barney Stinson's "Freeway Theory"
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Copyright © 2017 Lei André