1961 (a short story)

Current mood:curious

Present

Looking back, glancing over his life.

The past and the regrets.

Quiet and calm, he holds the gun to his temple and pulls the trigger, he holds her picture to his heart as the blood stains the pillow, his head falls backs.

Clutched to him, she is frozen in time and memory.

She is not his wife.

Past

A string of pearls encircle an ivory throat. She stands in front of the hallway mirror, gazing off into space and time, dreaming of nights long since forgotten in the abyss of memory and life. She tries to tear her eyes away from the pearls against her skin, tries to forget the reason they will never be her own. She looks into the dark blue eyes of a stranger, her doppelganger and twin, but a complete stranger. Her hand, coming up from her hips, falls back from those white drops of sand and lies placidly against the fabric of her skirt.

A voice calls somewhere in the distance, she turns from the mirror and another hand comes up to remove the pearls that now threaten to strangle her. She tears them away from her skin, the string breaking and pearls bursting from their captor’s hands to scatter on the mahogany floor. She doesn’t even stop to pick them up and, instead, runs away from the voice and out of the house. She tries to erase the image of pearls hitting the wooden floor, tries to un-hear the sound of them tinkling and the voice calling.

She loved him.

Past

He stands next to the reverend performing the ceremony, flanked by four gentlemen in black tuxedos. He watches his bride, on the arm of her father, float down the aisle. She is beautiful. Long, silky, blonde hair flowing down her back, tiny violets entwined in twin braids tied behind her head. She smiles at him, a timid smile, a rosy blush deepens across her face. Light blue eyes flick from the floor to him, barely meeting his gaze. As she turns to receive a kiss from her father, those eyes never leave his, blazing and bright.

He takes her hand, facing her as his performance begins. This will be his most brilliant of pieces. He feels her tremble, watches her lips move as she repeats the words given. He stares at her lips, not comprehending, refusing to understand what she says. He parrots the same words, a smile plastered to his face. He hears his voice and doesn’t know who is speaking. Cold metal is produced, he slides it along her finger. Such a sexual act, he thinks. He thinks of another girl as they kiss and turns to greet his audience as they are pronounced man and wife.

He doesn’t love her.

Present

She reads of his death in the newspaper. She knows, without looking, he is survived by a wife and three sons.

She reads how he was clutching her picture.

She drops the newspaper, her hands shaking and her heart reeling.

She looks over at the softly snoring figure beside her. She smiles warmly, recovering from shock a little at a time. She snuggles closer to the man beside her, withering and wrinkled hands entwining. She knows she made the right choice.

She sheds a tear for the man who lost her.