Post by Lets_Eat_Paste on Oct 20, 2012 17:51:27 GMT -6
This is a little flashback that has been sitting in the back of my mind for quite sometime. It takes place some four years ago. I would say 'read with tissues', but it's not written well enough for tears. Anyway, without further ado:
Gwendoline watched the rain pelt the windows, pounding like little heartbeats against the glass. A month ago, she would have created stories for each raindrop as they raced each other, and she would make bets with herself on which ones would win, which ones would give up, and which ones would combine with others to create one monster glob of rain that barreled through, casing and gobbling up other, smaller droplets.
But that was last month when Gwendoline’s days were spent smiling and planning, and Torben’s were spent talking more animatedly than she had seen him and with his hands protectively caressing the life they created together. But now, a quiet, stifling hush encased the Fontaine-Blau residence and between Torben’s recent and violent nighttime tremors and her own red dreams, Gwendoline lost sleep. They spent their days as little more than ghosts, mere imprints of people, negative shells of what used to a happy couple. Now, they were living off memories of times that never existed.
The glass was cool on her cheek and from her spot, she watched the hustle and bustle of the rain-streaked city below her. At first, the city cried with her until she could cry no more. But now, it cried for her as her parched eyes blinked nothing out. The buildings that lined the street were like Torben, quiet and resolute in their stoicism, non-responsive, but shrouded in the oppressive sadness that seemed to overtake the city. And darting between them were the oblivious citizens of Paris, drenched and cold, going on about their lives as if all was right in the world, even in the apartment above them.
Suddenly, Gwendoline hated them all. If she could, she would reach down with one giant hand and tear apart the little bobbing umbrellas and flood the streets until there were no more people left. How dare they find happiness in life and leave none for her? How dare they live their lives when Gwendoline and Torben could barely find it in themselves to get out of bed?
And another thought gnawed away at the back of Gwendoline’s mind: How was she going to tell Gabriel? She had planned to surprise him on their shared birthday next week, but those plans were dashed as quickly as Torben could drive through crowded Parisian streets to the emergency room.
On the other side of her thoughts, Torben approached her slowly, cautiously. She didn’t have to look at him to see those rheumy, sad eyes and lethargic stance he had worn since that frightful day at the hospital. Carefully, he eased a cup of steaming black coffee into her hands.
“Here. Coffee.” He said. “Don’t worry, I didn’t make it.”
He sounded haggard and lifeless, even as a half-hearted attempt at a laugh puffed through his lips. But it had been more than he’d said to her in weeks, and she appreciated every syllable. Graciously, she sipped the coffee. It was awful, but the burn that slid down her throat was better than the dry, sand papery feeling she had before.
“I got you these, too,” Torben said, handing her a pack of cigarettes.
“Oh, Torben,” she grumbled, “you know I quit ages ago.”
“I know,” Torben said sheepishly, “I just thought that you could use one… considering the circumstances.”
In spite of herself, she smiled. Really, what would she do without Torben? He lit the cigarette without being asked and Gwendoline took in a deep drag. It had been Torben who urged her to quit, and now, he was supplying her with them willingly. And for a moment, the smoke filled silence between them was peaceful.
“Have you talked to Gabriel?” Torben said in the grey haze.
Gwendoline stopped and felt her heart leap into her throat with a violent thud. “No,” she managed to say, inhaling stale smoke. “How could I?”
“Gwen,” he said, leaning into her name, “he’s your brother. You have to tell him.”
“I don’t, I don’t have to tell him.” She took a shuddering breath and pressed her eyes closed to fight tears without success. “He wouldn’t understand.”
“Maybe not… this situation, no,” Torben said, touching her shoulder awkwardly. “But he understands you. Better than I do, sometimes. So what’s stopping you?”
Gwendoline’s jaw quivered as she bit at the sobbing gasps that tried to slip forth. “He has Sophie,” she confessed. “He has Sophie. I love them both, but my god! And talking to him will just… remind me of what he… what I... can’t have.”
“You can’t ignore him forever. He called last week. I told him you weren’t feeling well, which isn’t exactly a lie, you know. And maybe we could try again.”
Gwendoline looked at him, her dark eyes as wet as the world outside. She stood, turning away. How could he say that? Now? How could he stand there with solutions but no feeling? But Torben, who rarely hugged her, wrapped his arms around her shoulders and held her to him. “No, I’m sorry. You’re right. We don’t have to tell him. Or anybody. It can be our secret.” Gwendoline could feel his back shake with sadness as his tears rolled into her hair. Romantic platitudes weren’t often exchanged in the Fontaine-Blau apartment, but Torben seemed to make a much needed exception. “I love you. And we will get through this. Together.”
Gwendoline didn't know how long they stood there, embracing, with just the sound of their breathing and the rain outside. Standing there, she decided that they would, indeed, try again. Not now, maybe not in a year, but sometime. But for now, Gwendoline drank in the moment and let her cigarette, little more than an ember, fall to the ground. In that moment, she was surprisingly happy. Maybe someday she’d tell Gabriel. And maybe Torben was right: maybe they would get through this.
Gwendoline watched the rain pelt the windows, pounding like little heartbeats against the glass. A month ago, she would have created stories for each raindrop as they raced each other, and she would make bets with herself on which ones would win, which ones would give up, and which ones would combine with others to create one monster glob of rain that barreled through, casing and gobbling up other, smaller droplets.
But that was last month when Gwendoline’s days were spent smiling and planning, and Torben’s were spent talking more animatedly than she had seen him and with his hands protectively caressing the life they created together. But now, a quiet, stifling hush encased the Fontaine-Blau residence and between Torben’s recent and violent nighttime tremors and her own red dreams, Gwendoline lost sleep. They spent their days as little more than ghosts, mere imprints of people, negative shells of what used to a happy couple. Now, they were living off memories of times that never existed.
The glass was cool on her cheek and from her spot, she watched the hustle and bustle of the rain-streaked city below her. At first, the city cried with her until she could cry no more. But now, it cried for her as her parched eyes blinked nothing out. The buildings that lined the street were like Torben, quiet and resolute in their stoicism, non-responsive, but shrouded in the oppressive sadness that seemed to overtake the city. And darting between them were the oblivious citizens of Paris, drenched and cold, going on about their lives as if all was right in the world, even in the apartment above them.
Suddenly, Gwendoline hated them all. If she could, she would reach down with one giant hand and tear apart the little bobbing umbrellas and flood the streets until there were no more people left. How dare they find happiness in life and leave none for her? How dare they live their lives when Gwendoline and Torben could barely find it in themselves to get out of bed?
And another thought gnawed away at the back of Gwendoline’s mind: How was she going to tell Gabriel? She had planned to surprise him on their shared birthday next week, but those plans were dashed as quickly as Torben could drive through crowded Parisian streets to the emergency room.
On the other side of her thoughts, Torben approached her slowly, cautiously. She didn’t have to look at him to see those rheumy, sad eyes and lethargic stance he had worn since that frightful day at the hospital. Carefully, he eased a cup of steaming black coffee into her hands.
“Here. Coffee.” He said. “Don’t worry, I didn’t make it.”
He sounded haggard and lifeless, even as a half-hearted attempt at a laugh puffed through his lips. But it had been more than he’d said to her in weeks, and she appreciated every syllable. Graciously, she sipped the coffee. It was awful, but the burn that slid down her throat was better than the dry, sand papery feeling she had before.
“I got you these, too,” Torben said, handing her a pack of cigarettes.
“Oh, Torben,” she grumbled, “you know I quit ages ago.”
“I know,” Torben said sheepishly, “I just thought that you could use one… considering the circumstances.”
In spite of herself, she smiled. Really, what would she do without Torben? He lit the cigarette without being asked and Gwendoline took in a deep drag. It had been Torben who urged her to quit, and now, he was supplying her with them willingly. And for a moment, the smoke filled silence between them was peaceful.
“Have you talked to Gabriel?” Torben said in the grey haze.
Gwendoline stopped and felt her heart leap into her throat with a violent thud. “No,” she managed to say, inhaling stale smoke. “How could I?”
“Gwen,” he said, leaning into her name, “he’s your brother. You have to tell him.”
“I don’t, I don’t have to tell him.” She took a shuddering breath and pressed her eyes closed to fight tears without success. “He wouldn’t understand.”
“Maybe not… this situation, no,” Torben said, touching her shoulder awkwardly. “But he understands you. Better than I do, sometimes. So what’s stopping you?”
Gwendoline’s jaw quivered as she bit at the sobbing gasps that tried to slip forth. “He has Sophie,” she confessed. “He has Sophie. I love them both, but my god! And talking to him will just… remind me of what he… what I... can’t have.”
“You can’t ignore him forever. He called last week. I told him you weren’t feeling well, which isn’t exactly a lie, you know. And maybe we could try again.”
Gwendoline looked at him, her dark eyes as wet as the world outside. She stood, turning away. How could he say that? Now? How could he stand there with solutions but no feeling? But Torben, who rarely hugged her, wrapped his arms around her shoulders and held her to him. “No, I’m sorry. You’re right. We don’t have to tell him. Or anybody. It can be our secret.” Gwendoline could feel his back shake with sadness as his tears rolled into her hair. Romantic platitudes weren’t often exchanged in the Fontaine-Blau apartment, but Torben seemed to make a much needed exception. “I love you. And we will get through this. Together.”
Gwendoline didn't know how long they stood there, embracing, with just the sound of their breathing and the rain outside. Standing there, she decided that they would, indeed, try again. Not now, maybe not in a year, but sometime. But for now, Gwendoline drank in the moment and let her cigarette, little more than an ember, fall to the ground. In that moment, she was surprisingly happy. Maybe someday she’d tell Gabriel. And maybe Torben was right: maybe they would get through this.
