Symphony of Lilacs

52. Stuck in Clockwork

Tell her about him.

The clock incessantly ticks between Mathilda and me. With its growth, the scraps of paper on Mathilda's table lessen and lessen. Even those papers stare back at us. It's been five days since Father and I talked. The two of us withdrew into our isolation rooms after the challenge, awaiting a decision. The problem is that neither of us know what should the next step may be, or even when. My head shakes, gaze pulling itself to the lack of ink blots on Mathilda's sleeves. "You haven't been writing these days..."

Tilda tilts her head. "How do you know that?"

I quote, bending forward, "You have never told me when you have got your hair cut, but I have had senses to perceive it."

The corner of her lips lifts. "Great Expectations." Mathilda's chair drags against the floor, as she stands up. Of course, she walks to the book shelf. And of course, I follow her.

Tell her.

I lean against the wall, while her fingers caress the spines of the books, stopping on a particular one. Just like me. As if we're both entranced by a lighted candle.
"I've been thinking about it, the last stage of Pip's expectations." She continues, "You know the original ending."

My arms fold across my chest. "You mean how Dickens changed it to make the ending vague after Lytton's advice, of whether or not Pip and Estella stay together."

Tell her.

Mathilda pulls the book out of the shelf. I reach over and touch the cover, our fingers barely meeting across the border.  "I often think about it, how Dickens later changed it." Our eyes meet, hers piercing into my soul. "Were they truly ever meant to be, if their author didn't even consider it first? What's the point of a reader wanting them together when fate doesn't?"

The clock ticks between us again, forging a distance in the small room. When I try reaching out again, Mathilda snaps the book back into the shelf. She walks past my shoulder; "Would you rather fall from grace or stay on holy ground?" I take hold of her hand. She looks down at our hands; Tell her; I merely nod.

Tell her.

But when I do try, the copy of Forever a Vow near the stack haunts me. Memories of thin, paling hands clasping its binding fidget through my senses. I gulp.
Something possesses me with that phrase, shaking me to the core. Even when that passion makes me take leave from her. Outside the apartment, a few people avert their gaze and turn over to whispers when I note their staring. I wish I could have the sky falling on them. As my visits grow fewer in the next few days, so do the ink blots on her hands and sleeves.

"Never do that in front of me nor behind my back."

Almost two and a half weeks have passed. Each day passes slower than its predecessor as thoughts attack me when least needed. Each day passes with taunts from those blasted manipulated dreams. Each day passes with the reminder of how... I acted around Father during our last conversation. I haven't answered to my siblings' queries, nor have I visited Tilda as frequently as I used to.