11th July 1929 Thursday
A heavy sense of dread weighed down on me as I awoke from my slumber this morning, the alarm clock trilling and dancing at 6.am sharp with the dusky blue sky lighting up the room. It was that perfect balance between light and dark where shadows are bruised on the walls but the light illuminates and softens the outline of the furniture. My White shirt and jacket hanging on the wired hanger on the door and the trousers folded over the wooden chair in the corner against the bookcase all ready for the dreadful day ahead. God knows how many times I cried in the night since I got the news of Leonora''s passing from TB. It hit me as badly as a bullet in the chest and left the same impact.
How could God do this to me? Take away someone I loved dearly from this world when they should have stayed to grow old. That foul demon called death strikes again to take away precious young ones from this plane and to let them fester to the lowest of the low. I hate him, and for what he does to mankind. Making us age, wrinkle and weaken.
Didn’t God want us to live forever in the garden of Eden?
Didn’t he want us to live in bliss?
I’m not saying I''m a man of god. I’m more a man of science than anything else. But I hold strongly that death must be some sort of flaw in natures design. Especially when it comes to the perishing of Leonora.
Sweet Leonora.........
I remember when I first saw her standing in the glow of the dimmed candle lights of the Halloween party last year. Her skin translucent, her hair glossy and the fake blood at her lips not a match to the crimson red lipstick painted on her cupid bow mouth. I was dressed as the devil, her as a vampire and together we made quite a devilish couple so to say. We danced to the band and exchanged addresses and never a week went by without a letter from each other.
Of course, as the letters became less and less frequent, it became apparent her illness was beginning to take a turn for the worst. I wanted to rush to her straight away, take her in my arms and cure her of her ailment like some prince in a fairytale. But alas, life is no fairytale and I was advised to keep my distance from her so as not to catch the fatal disease. In her final letter to me she confessed to me her anger at death, cursing his name every time she wrote it down in the letter. How she felt like she was being robbed of all her lifelong dreams by his insatiable greed. How as a young girl she created a scrapbook of all the cities she wanted to visit when she grew older and now it will remain on the shelf in her bedroom, collecting dust until someone in her family finally gathers up the courage to toss it away. She had a sister who was getting married and now will never get to go to the wedding and be a bridesmaid. She confessed that she had always hoped that we would get married ourselves once I’d be able to move down to the city permanently, how she never got a chance to kiss my lips and confess her love in person and hold my hand in hers,Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
Life a capsule of dreams and death the devourer of unfulfilled wishes.....
The bed and breakfast owner Mrs. Lyttle complemented my attire as I walked down past reception. She offered me breakfast but I confessed I was not hungry. She was a pleasant lady, her back bent with age and her skin loose and crumpled like just washed sheets. Liver spots adorned her and a thick hair grew triumphantly out a large mole on the corner of her mouth.
I couldn’t help but wonder which one was best. To die young and beautiful but with your life wishes never achieved or to grow old and hideous but with a lifetime of good memories to help you get to sleep at night?
The previous night before I worried that the razor cut on my jawline might be a little too noticeable but even the magnified sight of Mrs. Lyttle couldn''t even spot it. I hope I never have to wear such ugly glasses one day.
“You must eat dear or you’ll faint. Don’t think because your young that you are invincible” she said, waggling a knobby finger at me. I wonder if she ever considered she looked like a crone from some bedtime story that parents tell to scare her children to be good. I wonder if she was handsome in her younger years. I wonder if she missed the face from her youth that stared back at her in the mirror...
“I’m good Mrs. Lyttle, I''m afraid one doesn’t have much of an appetite today of all todays”
“And whys that Ruden?”
“I’m burying a good friend today” I didn’t want to confess to Mrs. Lyttle that it was someone of much more significance that was meeting hallow ground. I sometimes feel that the more draining aspect of grief is the large amount of sympathy disposed on you by fleeting strangers that you don’t care much for. It weighs much heavier than a broken heart it seems,
Still though Mrs. Lyttle gasped “oh dear” and stretched out her cold hand to mine. The stark difference each of ours sent shivers down my spine. My veins were barely visible whilst hers were bloated and were moldable under my touch. How on earth do they get like that?
Why do they have to get like that?
I tried my best to disguise my disgust but I was eager to free my hand from her tight clasp and seemed she was determined not to let go despite me attempting loosely to wriggle my hand free. Her looks may have aged but her vigor most certainly hadn’t.
“Well I hope you''re not a pall bearer or else I will be forced to get some food down your gullet.”
“I’m afraid not, I’m merely just a pen pal wanting to stay to say goodbye one last time”
“Well that’s very nice dear”
I wonder how long she had left, that old hag? I wonder why Leonora full of life and endless years to live could be able to succumb to death before old frail Mrs. Lyttle? Life may be full of little twists but death seemed to always know how to keep people second guessing.