The World Without Colour

Chapter Ten

To feel your soul being pulled from one world to the next is not a sensation the dead feel, only one who is giving a second chance of life.

I awake with a gasp, arching my back into the air and curling my hands in towards my wrist. My body seems to lock in that position as I gulp in the precious air I had felt deprived of.

My vision blurs but it soon adjusts to the flicker of oil lamps. Above me a deep velvet canopy suggests that I'm in a master bedroom of the country Manor.

Gentle hands ease my body from its locked position and I instantly find it easier to breath.
My hands grope at my throat, looking for any sign of the knife but it was untouched.

"Alex?" I blubber out. My body begins to rack with sobs.

My Father leans over, his face sunken and painted with worry.
He strokes my hair.
"No Victoria, it's me" He whispers.
A lump formes in my throat. I'm alive. Is this what the good Lord had intended?

"I'm sorry" He sobs, his face scrunching up with sadness and regret.

In the back of my mind something told me he wasn't there when I needed a father, that he didn't show his love but my heart told me to forgive and forget, that we'll turn over a new page a write a new chapter.

I jump up and wrap my arms around him and bury my neck into his sweat soiled shirt.
"I forgive you" I whisper back and plant a soft kiss on the temple of his head.

He envelops me into his comforting arms and squeezes me so hard I might explode.

After a moment he gently pulls me away and smiles softly. I smile back, drinking in every detail of his face.
The big, brown eyes and slightly upturned nose we both share. The wrinkles that crease his brow and the greys that streak his hair.

"Who's Alex?" He asks softly.

I open my moth to answer but close it again. He wouldn't understand, would he? He'd think I've gone completely mad.

"It was.. He was in my dream"

I smile sadly to my self.

# # # # # # # # #

I grew to learn I was found unconscious for quite some time in the attic. They thought my heart would give out but I woke up and grew strong once again.
Aunt Layla told me that Purgatory was restored to its former glory and that Alex kept his last promise. Yet, he could not pass over anymore for when the world was dying in had create a tear in the fabric of dimensions.
When I gave my self to the heart the tear closed over.

I think about him every day and wonder whether he does the same, wherever he is.

Father and I moved back to London on my sixteenth birthday, just after Aunt Layla passed away. We buried her next to Alex. Something inside me told this is what she wanted.

Father passed away due to illness some years later, but we were happy. He told me he loved me every day and I believed him.

I never married, nor had any children all though I do say I had regretted not doing so.

Growing old alone was a sad and wearisome task.

When I realised I was to old for London Life I moved back to the country Manor. It was untouched.

Memories flooded back to my senses. Both good and bad memories, of Alex, mother, father, Layla, the shy maid and window upstairs.

It wasn't until a warm Summers day, in the warm, stuffy conservatory did I have a sudden whim to go up to the attic.
My legs were frail and weak and were supported by a walking stick much like Aunt Laylas.

It took much of my energy to reach the top but it was worth it.

A small window let in rays of light but the room was still dark, the dust mites floating serenely around the room.

The mirror in which I crossed worlds sat there, the same way it was the on that life changing day.

I slowly walk over and wipe the dust away. It was not I that I saw, but young Victoria Waters. I smile softly to my self as a wet tear rolls down my wrinkled cheek. He is still holding onto the pieces of me he knew.

I turn around and slowly pull the canvas sheets off of the paintings.

Colorless paintings of Alex stare back at me.

I go the art supplies sitting casually in the corner and pick up turpentine.
My time is short, death is inevitable.

I open the tin and drench the canvas with the liquid. The smell assaults my senses and makes me feel slightly woozy.

I dig into my cardigan pocket and pull out the matches I'd use to smoke my tobacco. I look up towards the slanted roof.

"I'm coming, Alex" I whisper.

I strike the match across the cardboard box and drop it onto the canvas paintings.

The flames erupt instantly, the heat intensifies and the dancing fire consumes me.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading guys! I hope you all enjoyed my short-ish story!

Don't forget to comment, fave and follow! Xxx

Also I will like to thank my friend @zaraghkavanagh for poking many plot holes into my plot line and for making this story possible xxx