The 'Mentalist' Association

And the Memory is Agony and is Joy

And the Memory is Agony and is Joy

By @Mareear (Twitter), Italy

A special thank you to butterflygirly99 for beta reading this story.

Fear grips your heart so hard it makes you think you won't survive to this new, terrible, and wonderful test.

You made uncountable mistakes in your life and you still pay the price of some of them, in spite of your trivial attempt to redeem yourself.

You got a second chance, at the end. You know you have to consider yourself amazingly lucky for this. Most people will never get one...not ever, or simply, they're unable to see and appreciate it for what it is.

It has taken to you more than an endless decade to realize that you must be extremely grateful for all this time you were given.

Do you remember the first time you found yourself in a situation like this? You were young, happy. Full of hopes that were real and alive.

And yet, that time too the fear had seized you, making you powerless.

You're panting, gasping, you can't breath. Minutes seem like ages, your memories are like a tangible reality, hanging right in front of you.

Leaning on the hospital's wall, you wait.

Years ago you had waited for someone, anyone, to tell you that Angela was fine, that she had had a strong and healthy child. That you could go to see her, to meet the fruit of your love.

Now, it's not enough the anguish of not knowing if she'd live, if there would be complications, maybe because of you, because you waited so long to show her your love.

Now, there's another matter that's eating you up inside.

Who is gonna be the little creature that the woman you now call wife will give birth to?

Would it be a little girl, like your Charlotte? Or perhaps, a little baby boy.

Will it have blond hair, matching your own or maybe dark hair, just like its mother's?

It's crying, will it have the same pitch, the same rhythm of the girl whose death was your fault? Maybe not.

"Mr Jane?"A nurse looks at you with sweet concern.

"Uhm?"

"Your wife, she's waiting for you in the room-"

"21, I know. Is she ok?"

"Yes sir."

You run the little distance that parts her from you but before opening the door you stop abruptly . You want to cry.

And if the baby were like her? Would you ever be able to love her without seeing your mistakes every time you'll look her in the eye?

You have to be strong Jane. For you wife, for your Lisbon.

Your heart is beating furiously while the creaking of the door announces your presence.

You see Teresa, her gaze alight, alive, clear,looking happily at you. She's happy.

This picture of joy reminds you of the day when you promised her to love her until dead would tear you apart. She loves you.

You and only you, when you don't deserve love.

You would like to tell her that you love her before everything else but the words die in your throat hearing a little, soft crying. She's a girl.

You hear it in the way she sobs, that she has her mother's voice.

You smile at you wife and she sees that you're afraid. She's learned to love you for what you are, the good and the bad.

You know she's a bit sad knowing that's not your first time in a situation like this. That she's not the first.

She dreads to think that maybe, maybe you wish to go back to that night, to not say those words, to not unleash his fury on your women.

And it's true. There's no point in lying to yourself, often you dream of erasing your actions. Inevitably, erasing her too.

And your heart clenches realizing how terrible the thought is. Because you love her.

She doesn't say anything, lowers her eyes. She's not disappointed, she's not angry, she's not even sad. Just, aware.

And you love her because she doesn't hide it.

"Are you ok?" A breath of words that barely comes to her.

She nods and smiling, she looks at the little being she has in her arms.

You approach to the bed, your knees almost too week to hold you up.

And then you see her. Her face small, livid, her features are sharp just like Teresa's ones that you adore.

Her tiny hands stir incoherently. The second she's aware of you she stops.

You hold your breath.

For a moment it's just you and her.

You can't see the color of her eyes, she's too little, but you know they'll be sea green just like yours . Just like Charlotte's.

And in that moment, looking at the little girl the woman you love hold in her arms you understand it doesn't matter.

That Eileen is another girl, another life, another word to discover.