Eleonore

The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.

– Robert Frost

**

“Someone hold her, please! She’s too sick to take all this.”

I heard her shriek, growing panicky with every second that passed.

“Here ma’am, give me your hand.”

A calm voice rang in my ears.

“Ma’am, please.”

She begged.

She adorned white clothing. Complete white. Hair tied in a clean bun, pinned with a white piece of one of those Florence Nightingale caps, formally pleated white pinafore and plain white ballerinas.

Her subtle tone made me comply as the middle aged lady in her late 30s held my hand and helped me get up.

The world was spinning. I could see my whole life flashing in front of my eyes in a reverse traversal.

A drive I wish only ended on the note where my life actually surfaced for the first time on earth. I couldn’t wend my way any more from here.

What it was going to be, not even an iota of the word clue met my senses.

With my hitched breathing, I controlled the endless tears that I could already feel brimming in my eyes as the nurse ushered me to the recliner in that massive room—a place that now looked like a slaughterhouse with every single thing scattered all around.

Flowers.

Photographs.

Coffee mugs.

Paintings.

Colors.

Candles.

And his watch.

**

“Slowly, she had surgery only two weeks ago.”

My mother shrieked once again as her worried voice constantly came my way while she continued talking to the local sheriffs.

With another jolt of realization hitting me, I clenched my fist, while the nurse held my other hand and finally made me sit.

“.. Ma’am, please. Please control yourself. You are too weak. Your stitches are still fresh, you need to relax and not take stress.”

Her words made sense but my own senses were too stubborn to fathom anything now. I could feel the bitter pain forming once again in my stomach as I touched my torso, the stitches and wounds still feeling fresh.

I was ready, however, to go through that pain once again, maybe forever, with a tenfold more magnitude, if only I had the assurance that it would compensate for the pain I was feeling in my chest.

The void that I suddenly found myself enveloped in. An ambiance and turbulence I found myself ensnared in out of nowhere, where the stakes were higher, and everything that once seemed vibrant, joyous and wondrous, was now only wrier.

I shut my eyes hoping against hope that this would pass, not as a bygone but as a dream. But the mighty me could never comprehend that I was only a victim of human tendencies like anyone else—of wishful thinking.

“Its homicide ma’am”

“But there’s no weapon.”

“Once we find the murder weapon, we can..”

I could hear the sheriffs talking, saying something to my mother. All of which was vague, incoherent and unreservedly unavailing to me. My affable conscience today had no ounce of emotions left, for the only person who I had reserved all of it for, was lost. Lost in the oblivion’s curse, somewhere. 

Lost and gone so far, that my human efforts couldn’t suffice in going against the fate’s design.

Nothing of me remained, really; From now on and forevermore.

Feelings—no zilch of it.

Empathy—No ounce of it.

Sanity—No iota of it.

Nothingness—A plethora of it.

It was something that now came in abundance, of course.

“Mr. David Saunders. Age 26. 6^th Frazer Street, Manhattan.”

The mention of his name hit me like a gust of a powerful wind—something that had the capability of affecting me, moving me, resurrecting me, and also killing me.

A flood of tears streamed down my cheeks as someone who I longed, craved, loved, desired, cared for, lived with, now remained only as an entity, which was the new “duty” of the police officials.

 “Time of death 18.30 hours. No murder weapon found. No wounds on body.”

“But someone definitely broke into the house. Motives of stealing or not, I’m not sanguine sir. But the crime scene suggests it was a thief.”

And once again those chains of words halted me to a point in life from where I saw no light. Miles and miles from where I stood, I felt trapped in a dungeon, with no definite end, where I couldn’t run no matter how worthy my pace.

“He’s not coming back”

The deepest layer of my conscience whispered in a hush tone. But the impact was so loud that I could feel every cell of my body dying, turning me into a lifeless soul.

Perhaps, “dying a thousand deaths,” wasn’t a shibboleth after all.

Because every word against his existence dragged me to those gates of insanity from where there was no point of return.

The pain didn’t fade and so didn’t his countenance from my mind that my sight had fondly settled for two years ago.

The ache was malignant and so were the thousands of memories which dated back to freshman year in college, to being enemies, to friends, and finally lovers, from the last two years.

I don’t know what pierced me more. The fact that Dave was never going to come back? Or the now established fact that someone killed him and snatched him away from me.

The idea terrorized me like nothing else.

“Oh my Sarah!”

My mother ran up to me and hugged me, while I buried my face in her bosom, my tears knowing no bounds and the ache in heart surpassing all perimeters.

“Everything will be all right, sweetie. I promise. Please don’t hurt yourself.”

She tried to pacify me. But didn’t I say it before? I lost everything.

I lay callous as my mother tried beyond her abilities to console me, and cajole me to believe that this was not the end. That everything could once again be good.

I wish she knew I surpassed the age of bedtime stories and hunky dory endings.

“Sweetheart, I’m going with the sheriff to his office. They need more information to start with the right investigation.”

She said. Her tone reflected her sorry feelings, perhaps looking at my indifferent reception for every word that came my way.

Maybe she understood it like no one else.

Losing dad in a plane crash when I was only two wasn’t as easy on her as it was on me for my lack of human comprehension about destiny and life that time.

She lived through the harsh times and brought me up.

But two days ahead of my engagement day and my fiancé is murdered with no trace of reason—this was harsher on me than her, and she knew it.

“Marice will stay with you,” she said pointing towards the nurse who stood just next to her.

“I will be back in an hour, sweetie. Please, please, I beg you. Please control yourself.” My mother urged to me.

I sat in silence as I saw the retreating backs of the officials along with my mother leave the mansion while the tall French doors remained open, letting the cold breezes in. I shivered as they touched my skin, while my mind shivered at the thought of all the conjectures I had reached in the past few minutes about my life, and everything else.

My stomach ached as I touched the thick layer of bandage that had stayed there for over two weeks now. I could feel the blood pumping in my veins and the stitches hurting bad from all the tension that I witnessed in less than 12 hours, both physically and mentally.

My wounds suggested I was alive. There was life in me.

While everything around me suggested, I had died long ago.

“Water”

I uttered softly, my voice barely audible to me.

“Yes ma’am, just a moment.”

The nurse replied politely as she rushed towards the kitchen to bring me some water to drink.

The deafening silence reflected the abominable lull that now clouded this house, the same place which once used to be full of laughter, silly fights, iffy arguments, sweet nothings—and so much more.

**

“Mrs. Sarah Saunders”

“See? Sounds better!”

“No way! I’ll rather remain Sarah Reeve than have that weird last name!”

“Oh yeah?”

“See you already have the hots for me, so you can drop the fake anger, Sarah!”

“Fake anger? Na-uh”

“I can’t believe I’m going to marry such a brat who forgot his girlfriend’s 25^th birthday.”

“But the same brat apologized, like a 100 times, got you flowers, your favorite Gucci dress, concert tickets for your favorite singer, and… well, a pool of never ending love from himself.”

“Cut it short, Dave. Bragger, bragger, go and waver!”

“Okay, enough. I know how to make it up to you.”

“Where? In the land of Narnia?”

“Whatever missy”

..And he scooped me in his arms as he shut the bedroom door with one kick, throwing me in the bed.

“You!!”

“You cannot get away with everything, alway-“

“Mmmmmm…”

Our lips were sealed.

Just like our hearts.

Every single thing was a part of our lives together, everything except giving up on each other.

“I love you, little Miss. Sarah Reev-“

I shushed him as I placed a finger on his lips while his sight met mine, puzzled.

“Mrs. Sarah Saunders.”

I whispered softly against him, as his face displayed my favorite lopsided smile, something that I had always fallen for instantaneously every time I saw him.

“I love you baby.”

“I love you too.”

.

.

“Ma’am, here. Water.”

And that beautiful reverie was broken by the most powerful imposter—reality.

The staircase, walls, lights, windows, curtains—everything looked so different now. As if nothing of it resembled the aura that it possessed until last night. When David was there with me, planning our wedding card, talking about the wedding venue and guest list. 

He had been equally excited if not more planning our engagement detailing two months ago and now that our wedding was the same slot away, he was all geared up for the arrangements. Perfection was beyond doubt his middle name.

I trembled at the thought of the list of things that now ended up broken. My dreams, my love, our promises and Every. Single. Thing.

I resisted the unstoppable tears in my eyes, as I held the glass of water but somehow the meaning of resilience defied me.

Fighting against my own self, I sipped the water from the glass and looked at the nurse.

“This isn’t cold. I need cold water.”

I said softly.

“Oh! I’m sorry ma’am. Excuse me for a moment, I’ll get it for you.”

She said, apologetically.

“No, wait.”

I stopped her. I didn’t intend to though, but it came out from my mouth spontaneously.

“You be here. I’ll get it.”

“But ma’am, you are unwe-“

“Please. I want some time alone.”

I interrupted and told her, in a tone less polite.

With everything that was happening to me, talking etiquettes were the last on my morality list.

“Umm, okay.”

She complied, having no choice.

I faced difficulty in getting up as I flinched in pain, more from the mental pain that I was going through rather than the pain from the accident that happened a fortnight back.

Marice assisted me as I finally managed to get up, and struggled walking slowly towards the kitchen.

As I took each stride, memories came haunting me.

My eyes darted frantically as I seemed to fail in recognizing my own house, the same place which I had decorated with my own hands.

**

“Peach color for the side walls!”

“No, blue.”

“Peach”

“Sarah, do you plan to turn the whole house into shades of pink, purple and peach?”

“No! But you certainly want to transform it into BLUE!! Men, how predictable.”

“Oh, really? Look around, it looks like a doll house!”

“DAVID!!”

“Ugh. Okay fine, you can have your peach color. But every time you can’t win me over with that puppy face, get it?”

“What? Reply now and stop smiling.”

“Stop it I said. Fine, I know how to stop it.”

“What? No!!!”

.. And I had run away, like every time, with every end of our silly fights.

I could picture every memory of it, happening right in front of my eyes, in the same kitchen, near the same counter. Preparing breakfast together every morning, criticizing each others’ culinary skills, and then running in the whole kitchen as if it were an open ground.

A light chuckle escaped my lips as I lived those priceless moments once again. That was humanity for me.

Joy

Fights

Teasing

Anger

Jealousy

Passion

Sex

Friendship

And all of it was now dead.

He was gone, and so was a part of me.

.

.

Lifting the hem of my long skirt, I watched my steps as I walked ahead of the counter, carefully avoiding the shredded pieces of glass that lay scattered on the floor.

Our paradise was ruined.

Our wonderland was slaughtered at the hands of fate.

Our dreams were crushed by the reality.

It was just numbness that welcomed me with open arms and embraced me in its ever perennial viability.

It wasn’t comfortable though, but still inviting.

After all, there was something that was ready to accept me, and not condone me for sins I never committed, for people I only dearly loved and ended up having lost.

Wiping the tears with the back of my palm, I took a step forward when my eyes landed on something that I had admired all of my life, more than life per se, something that lay down there against the wall, sporadically after the probe by the police officials.

Art.

“His paintings”

I gasped.

The strokes of the brushes

The blend of colors

The abstract

And..

The trademark signature of his below every masterpiece that he created.

I agree that emotions left me.

But human mind never fails to baffle a human, really.

Because when a surge of those absconding emotions overwhelm you, they come as a bandwagon, like a hurricane. A whirlpool that has the ability to drown you deep, deep underneath its currents.

And here I was.

Baffled, and battling.

Nostalgia

Agony

Misery

                       

Helplessness

**

“But I never wear maroon, Dave. I don’t like the color, and besides, you made me look fat in the painting. See?”

“Such a spoilsport! I think you look completely ravishing in my painting. I made it, you should thank me for making you look ultra gorgeous, missy!”

“Drop the narcissistic grin, Sir David. I don’t look like that.”

“Are you questioning my art?”

“Your ART !? My my! Look who’s boasting with the honorary title of an ‘artist’?”

“You! You will never stop tantalizing me, will you?”

“You know what you signed up for, Mr. Saunders.”

“Besides, on a second thought, the painting isn’t that bad after all. BUT, and mind this ‘but,’ I do not wear maroon.”

“Ugh! You pampered missy! I’m an artis-“

“Yeah, Mr. Beeeeeeg Arteeeeest?”

“Jeez, let me finish?”

“Okay, go on.”

.

.

“I’m an artist, Sarah. I like manifesting my imaginations into my canvas. I pictured you in maroon last night. And I made it.”

“.. Hmm”

“.. What, no words to counter attack my reasoning, Miss. Reeve?”

“Say something. What are you thinking?”

“.. Nothing. I.. I like it.”

“.. You do?”

“Mmhmm.”

“.. I see. Well, if that’s true, then I hope.. You will like this too.”

“DAVE! NO!”

And he splashed the whole bottle of maroon paint on me.

Our laughter that seemed an event of ages ago echoed in the pin drop silence that now adorned the place.

.

.

I sighed as I slowly opened the door of the refrigerator, pouring four ice cubes in my glass of water.

.

.

This was it now. Me and perpetual series of haunting memories—both good and bad.

I looked outside the kitchen window and could see the backyard of our house that was now blanketed by yellow tapes that deemed the once jovial place that bloomed with congeniality as a “crime scene.”

.

.

Standing near the sink at the counter I glanced at myself in the mirror.

How much I irked him at the idea of having a mirror in the kitchen.

But he would always give in. He had no choice. He loved me.

Or so I thought.

I wish I were dead too.

Tracing the bandaged dressing on my stomach, I recalled how we survived that deadly accident. Our car was speeding at the highway and Dave found that the brakes weren’t working.

We ended up badly wounded, critical. But still we made it.

We both did.

.

.

I would trade my soul to have died in that accident. With him.

At least we would have been together, if not alive.

.

.

Perhaps fate had other plans.

.

.

I gazed at my own reflection, trying to find out any puny similarity between who I used to be and who I was now. But I found none.

My eyes unblinking, I could see the reflection of his artistic manifestations too. Those paintings, he devoted his days and nights into. Creating and drawing, “manifesting what was there in his mind,” as he put it.

.

.

A smile tugged at my lips, as I saw the reflection of those paintings even more keenly.

Tall woman

Long ebony tresses

Accoutred with maroon

Wearing a mesmerizing sapphire necklace

.

.

.

All the paintings had her. Me.

Each one of them.

Was it really me?

.

.

I looked at the glass of water in my hand, the chilly water droplets brushing against my skin, while the traces of ice were all gone.

As if it never existed.

**

“The paintings, Dave.”

“The woman in the paintings. Who is she?”

.

.

“How could you, Dave?!”

“How could you?”

.

.

“Did you not flinch?”

“Ever?”

"I'm talking to you, Dave!!"

"ANSWER ME!!"

.

.

The ice was all melted.

The one in the glass.

And, the one inside his body.

One satiated my thirst for cold water.

And one satiated my longing for chastisement for betrayal.

“No weapon found. And it shall never be found.”

Ice melts. 

Ice cube, or an ice knife.

Wrath doesn’t.

Though the world must not know; and it will never know.

**

A/N: Not proof read