Veiled [one-shot]

“Murder is born of love, and love attains the greatest intensity in murder”

Octave Mirbeau

I made three short raps on the door.

A minute had already passed, and yet no one answered. Unlike before when she would immediately open it for me.

I knocked again, and there was still no response. I shifted my weight between my feet, and waited. Seconds ticked away, a couple of minutes have passed- still nobody answered. I just settled with waiting for a few more minutes on the balcony swing.

It felt so awkward, so empty. It’s going to be the first time I’ll be visiting the Andersons’ home after that tragic night. I haven’t seen Mrs. Anderson since her daughter’s wake at the town chapel. I wasn’t able to attend the internment the morning after; it was too much for me to bear.

The door opened.

“Good morning- oh! Sir, it’s you,” the housekeeper greeted “I’ll go tell madam that you’re here.”

“Good morning, Eula.”

She led me to the receiving area, and as soon as I saw the ballerina figurine on one of the coffee tables, I felt crippling pain resurge within me. It was her favorite. I gave it to her on our first month together. I remember how she smiled at me, how tight she hugged me…how sweet our first kiss was. It all happened on the first month.

I touched the little black tutu the ballerina wore. It wasn’t the original one; the original was pink.  She had always loved tinkering with her gifts. She’d hand sewn this a few months back.

Oh, the memories plague me ceaselessly, day and night.

“Lenard, you’re here already.”

I immediately straightened up and paid respect to Mrs. Anderson, Carmine’s mother.

She was a kindly mid-forties woman, who had slightly graying hair. Carmine obviously got her eyes and lips from her mother; they look so alike, if not for the years that had started to show on Mrs. Anderson’s face. But her regal and prim bearing was far from her daughter’s happy-go-lucky personality.

“I’m sorry I was unable to go to her internment.” I apologized, eyes downcast and starting to well up with tears.

She placed a hand on my shoulder, “It’s okay, dear. I know how much it pained you to see her in a coffin; what more under a shroud?”

We went to the lanai, where the fountain and the pink rose bushes were. It was where Carmine and I usually had our conversations, where we exchanged sweet nothings through whispers, in fear that her father would hear us.

Mrs. Anderson bent down and plucked a single white rose in full bloom.

“She planted this about five weeks ago. She said she was starting to grow tired of always seeing pink.” She gave me a sad smile.

“Yes, she always complained to me before about the carnation and peonies I gave her. ‘They’re too pink,’ she says, and usually the complaints would be followed with a gentle slap on the cheek.” I said with a low chuckle.

For the past few days, I always tried to find comfort in all the good memories she has left me with. Sadly, whatever smile each memory brings would later on evoke anguish with the same magnitude.

Eula came with a tray of tea and scones, and Mrs. Anderson bid me to take a seat and have mid-morning refreshments. I knew where this was going. I’d have to mentally and emotionally prepare myself for whatever conversation we were bound to have.