wither

IV

I'd let the thought - of whether I was willing to reveal that it was me who sent all those anonymous letter or not - pace back and forth in my mind, after having two long days to do such, and I'd finally surrendered. I'd managed to convince myself to see the dark side of the moon throughout most of my life, the bad route things could always take, to the point that I seemed to forget that the moon has a more evident, more beautiful, side.
I couldn't bring myself to think that maybe, there was a one in a million chance of being with her in a happy end and I let myself miss it purposefully. Things could always turn bad as well as good, and there is no way of knowing without trying.

I tried to quit smoking for the day, so that my breath doesn't smell like a cave on fire. And from the chest under the bed, I pulled the bottle of cologne that I'd saved for a good away. I loved the smell of it, for a reason. Smell is a form of regaining memories, and the smell of that cologne had been linked with many events that had made me happy.
I'd dressed myself with something outside my lazy attire, yet simply, without seeming like I was trying too hard. And with a few sprays of the golden liquid, I was a renewed person.

On the display window of the antique shop along the way, I caught sight of a magnificent necklace with a dangling pearl held by a chain of gold, and I was instantly captivated by my imagination of her wearing it, it looked as though it was designed specifically to fit her. The owner seemed to grow somewhat uncomfortable with me eyeing the piece through the glass, with unknown intentions. As I walked into the shop with aims to get the necklace, I felt as though a dozen tiny explosions took over my chest, of nervousness and perhaps some happiness. The owner was growing more suspicious and unsettled, seeing me reluctantly walk in with an ear-touching smile that I battled to hide.
Of all the things that I'd ever done, this was the most urge-driven, thoughtless action.

I spotted the hydrangeas welcoming me from the corner of the fence, and I could feel my racing heart in every inch of my now feeble body. Legs made of strings, and a body that was picking up heat like an atom bomb. The rush of warmth to my head has almost made me dizzy, and I could no longer tell if it was nervousness or pure felicity.

Before I could get to the old fence gate, I couldn't help but notice how the trash can was overflowing discarded flowers, in perfect health that would make one wonder what was the reason for them to be thrown away by her. As I took a closer look, I noticed improperly torn large pieces of paper amongst the flowers, which turned out to be every letter I had ever written to her when I picked up one of the pieces.

In a part of the second, the blood froze in my veins. The heart rush and the river of emotions didn't fade away in gradual waves, it disappeared as though it was never there, leaving behind a heavy emptiness. I was suddenly void of all all feelings, for a little, before the last traces of joy were washed away sadness that weighed my body down entirely. I had pictured a number of things going wrong, but never could I imagine to be disappointed in such a crushing way.

Only a few things can hurt as bad as the quick replacement of hope, especially when not anticipated. That had driven me to the edges of collapsing on my knees into tears, some miracle kept me up on my feet, perhaps it was just being lost in how to react.

I watched her as she walked out of the garden, with a plate of chocolate chip cookies in her hands. She was returning the silent look I gave her, except mine had a million questions she refused to answer. For the few moments where we locked eyes, it looked as though her eyes had departed sleep for centuries, and they carried a glimpse of anger, anger that she could do nothing about. But in a way I could only explain as illusion, that anger wasn't meant for me, she too had be disappointed as were I when I stood before her. That was the anger that comes with disappointment, it grows from the sadness.
A couple of bruises were peeking shy from under her sleeve on her arm, the looked to be only a day or two old, a mark that signaled that her arm was held in a tight grip. That was the answer to all my question, yet it wasn't a satisfactory one, but one that pulverized my heart to dust.

Not a word was said. She walked away like a silent slow movie, heading to the church, leaving me behind as though I hologram of a figure - not real, never was.
Hope was for the foolish.