Bad Prophecies (draft 1)

VI

December twenty-third, I heard a knock on my window when I was at my desk, writing.
I sighed, yet I smiled, and went to open it.
"Why are you on my roof? It's dead freezing out,"
"Please let me in, it's began to snow."
I helped him get down onto the stepladder I had to help me get up and down whenever he climbed onto my roof, which was abnormally a common event.
"Now, will you tell me why you were on the roof?"
"To come see you." He explained, taking off his coat.
"The temperature outside is below freezing, and you could have just sent me a note, or gone through the bookshop like a normal person,"
"But that wouldn't be as fun, and I'm not a normal person, I feel like we've already established that over the last 8 months,"
"I just don't want you getting sick,"
"I'm not going to get sick, anyways, can I tell you why I'm actually here?"
"Fine."
He reached into a small pocket on his coat, and pulled out a little box.
"I'm starting to wonder if my mother has some strange intuition that allows her to see what I'm doing in my spare time, because a few days ago she asked me, 'Are you getting a gift for the girl you've been courting with?' and when I told her no, she gave me this. I'm curious about what's inside it as much as you are."
He handed me the box, and prior to opening it I asked him,
"Courting?"
"It's her words, not mine." He clicked his teeth. "Hell, I don't even know how she knows about your existence at all."
I opened the box, and in it was a little charm with a dove on it.
"Aw, it's lovely." I attached it to my charm bracelet, right beside the little book. "Please tell your mother I said thank you,"
"I will,"
"Well, I was going to give you something as well, but now I feel like it might be a bit stupid,"
"I originally had no idea what to give you at all, so it can't be much stupider than that."
I told him to wait for a moment, and went to dig through one of my drawers.
I presented him with a slightly larger box, and indicated he open it.
"A book?"
"A Study In Scarlett, from the first day we met. Pocket edition."
Upon realisation, he hugged me, and when we separated, he beamed.
"I didn't realise it would make you so happy,"
"It's thoughtful, that's why. Sorry,"
"Don't be sorry," I assured him, "I expect I'll be seeing you tomorrow since my father will be at church,"
"And you won't be?"
"I don't see any point in it,"
"So, the usual tea shop?"
"Absolutely."
He used the stepladder to climb out of the window, and onto the roof.
I closed the window, put away the stepladder and retired to just lying on my bed. Doing nothing.
I thought again about what his mother said.
Courting. We weren't courting, but then again, there wasn't exactly word for Alex and I. This wasn't a preordained sense of relationship of any kind, which I think by itself made us both closer than the average pair of friends, or even pair that were courting, and it instilled in me an overwhelming sense of ease about all of it.
Between the temptations (eg. wine, narcotics), and the adventures, and the journeys we had made together, the lack of preordination is most probably what justified all of it in my head.
And maybe, for a moment, I'd convinced myself it wasn't a courtship, and maybe that was true, but there it was again: there wasn't a word for him and I.
I did constantly feeling like something was tugging on my soul, and it indeed made most of my interactions with him inept and withdrawn by the time winter arrived.

/

"I don't think she would like that,"
"But how could you possibly know that?" I nagged, "just remember the story you told me yesterday,"
"My mother adds vodka to her coffee when she's stressed, and mind you, she's fifty-four." He took a drink of his tea.
"I would still like to meet her." I said.
He set his teacup down, and sighed.
"Alright, here's a deal, if we ever make plans to marry, you can meet her,"
"That's a bit of a stretch,"
"So?"
"You know what? Fine, so long as I get to meet the lovely lady."
He looked at me with a glare in his eye that I can only describe as a display of 'why do I spend time with this person?'. I looked at him the same way more often than not.
It was snowing outside, which is a sentiment we can no longer enjoy, atleast not in December. I didn't know then that it would, in the future, carry such an odd sentiment with it that I still don't fully remember the events that made me carry it in the first place- over ninety years forward.
"An English Christmas, they say is the best Christmas," he remarked after quite a long and empty silence.
"Pardon me, I think it's just absolute malarkey they would think such a thing,"
"Why do you say that?"
"To start, it's only enjoyable if you're in the middle class or higher, if you have family that you enjoy the company of, and there's all these criteria you need to meet, and you can't really enjoy it in the simple human way. And I think that takes away the fun of Christmas. Think of every other culture and the way they orient it. It's about family, it's about simple joy, and it's about the children. And here I think think it's just a way for the elite to show the poor and working-class children that they are nothing,"
"That just makes me wonder what your Christmas was like growing up." I gave Alex a glance and shrugged my shoulders, before he went on. "As child I would regard it as whenever my father would come visit us, give us some money and some real sugar plums, and actually spend Christmas and the eve with us. It was quite nice. Now that I'm grown it's just like any other weekend," He chuckled.
"Was your father not around?"
"It's a tad complicated. On one hand, yeah, on the other hand, he wasn't supposed to be there at all so at the very least he would come home sometimes. Anywho what was your Christmas like?"
"Quite the contrary, Christmas was whenever my mother came home. There were books and carols and singing and dancing. I remember my parents always exchanged gramophone records, and I would get collectable rocks and coins, and I think one year my mother gave me this really nice biscuit that I really enjoyed. I don't even see my parents for Christmas anymore, not even in the mornings.
And of course, I don't really believe it's part of some evil capitalist regime that's destroying our world, but that is what it's gonna turn out to be, someday."
Alex suddenly pressed a palm to his forehead and sighed audibly enough for me to hear it loud.
"Oh Christ, I've just reminded myself of sugar plums," He whispered.
"What are sugar plums? I should think to ask,"
"You don't know what sugar plums are?"
"No?"
"It's only the last of the good plums that haven't began rotting in the cellar yet, rolled in breadcrumbs that were heated in a pan with some butter and cream. You'll only add actual sugar if you have any,"
"That sounds like a dish that thrives solely because of nostalgia, and not actual good flavour,"
"Exactly!"
I gave a gentle smile, and rested my head on the back of the armchair. He looked away, and I closed my eyes for a moment, breathed in through my nose and out through my mouth as I opened my eyes again.
"I need a book,"
"Just... a book?" Alex said, in a rather confused tone,
"Just a book, any book, or a piece of paper. Not right now, I'll pick it up later from my father's bookshop,"
"Alright then."

/

So when I did get back, I opened the door, locked it behind myself, and I found the part where my pa kept his English literature by women, and I lay down on the floor. It was Christmas Eve night. I was feeling it again. Dread. And for the first time I couldn't justify it to myself even, it was just there. I wanted to reach into my heart and rip out the piece of it that made me love him just to have it over with. Or, even better, claw into my brain to do the same thing. But of course, humans don't work like that, myself, being metaphysical and all that, even less so.
It was a nagging fear of having to handle it. In my eighty-eight odd years inhabiting the earth, no one had ever taught me how to be clear, open, to be honest. I had to learn every ordinary emotion and platonic gimmick on my own, and this being my first consideration of romance, I still knew nothing.
And I sometimes do wonder how humans learn to do it. They have so little time here on earth, and yet so often they either already know what to do, or they never learn what they need to do.
I was almost five times the age of a human of my maturity level, and I still did not know.
I sat down at my pa's desk and wrote a letter to Alexander, so that it could be ready to be posted the next morning.
My dearest,
I do not know exactly how to approach this letter but I think it's for the best that I don't. So Reddie once got one of the other cats on the street pregnant, I think her name was Cecil, but it doesn't matter that much anyway. She was healthy for the first few weeks, but when she was about to have her kittens she refused to get up. She wouldn't eat, or drink water, or let us get her onto a blanket or cushion. She was in so much pain that it broke my heart to be the one taking care of her everyday, and eventually we did get a veterinary to come see her and he said there's nothing we can do for her, infact it's better if we just get Gerard -the butcher- to euthanise her right now so he could perform a cesarean-
I took a breather for a moment to stop myself crying.
And we did. The (three) kittens all went to fostering by the young daughters of the boarding house lady. And I really don't know what point I was trying to make through this euphemism, but I think it's better if you just got rid of me too-
I was nearly sobbing by the end, and I didn't even post the letter. I burned it.
It pains me even now to think about it. And yes, Cecil really did die, she was one of my favourite strays.
So once I had sealed the letter, which was now damp with tears, carefully as I could with my shaky hands, I threw it into the fireplace. I then looked again at my hands.
It was one part of me where I could distinctly know my flaws up-close, it really made me angry sometimes. Now they were cold, purple and shaking. I was freezing. They showed it. I didn't like it, but I didn't do anything about it. I didn't put on more layers, or sit closer to the fire, or even miracle that I would no longer be cold, I just sat there in excruciating pain. Pretty much for the whole night. I cried for hours because of the biting chill. And you may think to yourself: why would anyone do that to themself? I didn't know then as I did it, but I think I do know it now.
When my pa came home in the morning, he saw me, and draped soft fabrics and blankets all over me, and made me a cup of tea.
"Have you just been lay in the cold all night?"
I didn't really have an answer, I was still so numb I could barely nod or shake my head. He got a handkerchief and wiped icy tears off my face, he talked to me some more but I couldn't hear him as I was still stuck in my own head. Still, I tried best as I could to be responsive while getting my strength back. I could tell already it was going to be some year.