Symphony of Lilacs

46. Broken Symphony

Soft wind blows into the library, the white chrysanthemums in a vase lamenting with it. Though, it’s not the flowers that draw my attention. It is the small music box sitting on a round table next to the window, accompanied by a sand clock.

Voices clatter all around me from the outside world: Henry, Belle, Mother, Father too and even Mathilda's soft laughter, as if they are all enjoying the pleasant weather— which seems to be utter nonsense. This a dream, a figment of my imagination whirling and twisting around my ankles. Nonetheless, my feet keep padding towards the music box. The curtain swirls by the wind even more.

My fingers touch the cool, metallic music box, inspecting it like a telescope. A floral pattern glides and swirls on its surface.
It has no lock, only an enclosed lid. Lips pressing into a thin line, I try sliding off the lid.

Dead end.

Putting more pressure into my grasp doesn't help either. Sighing I put it back on table and balance both my knuckles on the table, its smooth wood somehow scratching them. The vase of white chrysanthemums keeps watching me. Though, the hourglass on the same table remains responsive. The flecks of sand keep falling from its upper bulb to the lower one. Only a small amount of sand remains, but it vanishes quicker as a snap of two fingers.
As soon as the last speck of sand drops, something clicks.
The lid of the music box flies open, a symphony spreading. A screeching one. But it does not have a porcelain toy popping out of it. Instead, a photograph the size of my hand lies on the cushioned surface, a cushion that is blood red. Trapping it within two fingers, I pull the photograph out and the lid shuts itself.

This isn't possible...

But then my attention shifts to the contents of the monochrome photo.

Both of my siblings sit on a sofa, smiling into the camera. Though Isabelle’s right hand is clasped around her left wrist, as if grasping a secret. Henry almost looks as translucent as a ghost, his smile withering like the old photograph in my palm.

Mother and Father stand behind them. Mother’s gaze is in an entirely different direction, while Father's head is completely turned to the right. No surprise there, but the two people in between my parents and siblings make me furrow my brows.

Mathilda sits cross legged in the centre with my siblings, facing the front. The faintest of smiles tugs on her lips, but her head is tilted slightly to the right. One hand of hers is wrapped around her waist, while one is touching the man’s palms on her shoulders.
Behind her, I stand in the middle of my parents-- hands on her shoulders, head tilted downwards, not even looking at the photo.

The photo drops— sashaying to the floor— a befuddled wave shoots through my mind. It twitches at the edges, and a shattering resounds.

Why are the drums of hell beating in my ears...

I crack open an eye, one hand still on the side of my head.

The vase of white chrysanthemums lies broken, as if it's fallen from grace, each shard and petal separated from the ruined porcelain. Everything else becomes leaning into a blur before something like rain crackles, crackles like splinters that send me whirling and whirling into some damned clouds. I try grasping for something— anything— but my palms don't even get drenched from the cloud's water.

My eyes slowly crack open, only to find black dots swirling around my vision. I almost pull at my hair before focus comes back to me, everything blurry becomes as visible as daylight.

I find two boys— both around fifteen years old— holding each other's hands in the library. They seem content, innocent even, as if they've never been plagued by any sorrow or grief, and madness or illusion. Perhaps, they could've stayed that way, if one of those boys wasn't an old version of me. Dorian Shaw, that was the name of the boy beside younger me in this memory. Despite my head still spinning slightly, I manage to vaguely smile.

Both of the boys lean in, their lips almost touching. Sirens start ringing in my ears.

Oh no. Footsteps echo. Oh no, it's happening, it's happening again...

"Matthew..." Younger me jumps away from Dorian and so does he. Father stands in the doorframe of the library, his mouth agape.
Younger me still has his hand clasped around Dorian's, is still trying to hide the faint redness on his lips.

I feel like I've morphed into the shadows when Father adruptly leaves. Dorian and younger Matthew whisper a few words to each before the latter stands and runs after his father. Something drags my feet, I don't know what it is, but it is not by my will.

Younger Matthew finally catches his father's arm, pulling him back. He breathes heavily, as if the entire world of the air will not be able to satiate the panic arising in him, settling in his bones like a fever for now and forever.

Father slowly turns around, his eyes almost like slits. "Never do that, neither in front of me, nor behind my back." Father grabs younger Matthew by his wrist, the boy fighting back the bile arising in his throat.

I don't quite remember what happened next to Dorian or me. He had left long before Father released me that day, that day when he watched my every movement like a prisoner, that day when Dorian and me became strangers to the same woes we fought back tears against.

For now, all I can see are the clouds coming back, taking back my memories with them, taking back my woes, my sorrow, my grief. For once, I'm actually thankful to them. One voice pulls me out of the haze, though: her voice.

“Matthew…”

The voice doesn't even seem like one. It's so detached, so far away. So out of reach. Still I wade through the confusions, through the fog— because that voice is the memory of a symphony I know. A symphony, if broken, will shatter me as well.

We're in some sort of a church— Mathilda and I. Bittersweet light weeps across the stained glass windows, rain with sunlight.
Mathilda looks outside the window, standing the far left corner— while I'm in the far left.
Despite my coat, a chill sweeps through my spin. Mathilda is only wearing her peacock blue cloak. She must be even more cold than usual

“Tilda… love…” I try calling her, wrapping my arms around myself. With each step, the cold grows thicker and thicker. “Tilda…” Reaching her, my thumb runs across her cheek. All the while, my own pulse dies down.

Slowly, so slowly, she turns around. Her lips are cracked, her mind elsewhere while her body here. A raindrop plummets on the window, staining its reflection on Tilda's cheek.

“Tilda…” At my saying her name, Mathilda holds onto my hand. The both of us inch closer, our shadows joined just by one physical gesture. We remain like this even as the clouds come, dissolve and envelope us.
It's only reality that separates us when I wake up, but only momentarily.

So we have another manipulated dream.
I know it may seem pretty weird, but I assure you it'll all make sense by the end.

For now, enjoy as if I fück with Matt's mind even more & how that affects his future decisions :)

Also, did y'all know that it's been an entire year since SOL was first published? My baby is officially a year old.
And I'm so glad that I get to celebrate it with y'all ♥️

Anyway, have y'all been reading anything lately?
I recently finished The Astonishing Colour of After and it's frigging amazing. It describes depression & grief in the most beautiful and respectful way ever. It's honestly a writer's dream to portray an issue they're passionate about so eloquently.

It's almost midnight here, so signing out.
Love,
MS Zame