No one had known. It was their little secret. Their joy. Their forbidden tryst. And yet it was the
foundations of her life and no one knew about it. She could not bear to think of him as gone and
yet she saw the life seep out of his wound as he died in front of her, in her crimson hands,
caressing the jaw that she had previously kissed. It was unfathomable to describe. Something
that no lover should experience. Her heart had ripped out of her chest when she realised she
was unable to save him. So many broken promises that they had spoken about. Promises of a
life at the coast in a comfortable cottage with a patch of garden so that he could grow his herbs
and she could grow her bluebells. Her in a sun hat whilst she prodded the soil and him watching
her sun kissed locks and thanking God for their luck. Perhaps a couple of black haired, brown
eyed figures running havoc, but it wasn’t meant to be.
No one had understood her grief for him
in the months that followed his passing. Anyone who was in her presence for more than ten
seconds knew that she wasn’t truly there, she was utterly lost. People had asked, begged her to
talk to them but she would never reveal what she was thinking, what she was reliving – after all,
it was their secret and it was the only living thing she had that kept her connected to him so she
would keep it until the day she died herself.
She could never tell them of the night that she had found him pitted in his own blood outside of
his rooms. She would never tell them of the part of his soul that only she had seen, the
vulnerable inconsolable part that she adored. She would never tell of how she had nursed him
and he had thanked her through his strangling pain and how she had stroked him when he
broke down like a child in her arms. She soothed him and in turn, he held her like his life
depended upon it and slowly their lives did depend on each other. She would go to him after he
was abused by that megalomaniac and begged him not to go again and he had told her that it
must be done and it was the only way for them to get the future they so desperately craved. She
could never tell them of their secret meetings when she was on the run and he was playing a part at
the mad man’s right hand side. How she feared for his life, how many times had she prayed that
he would be returned back to her in one piece. She could never tell them of the emptiness that
followed after his death. She could hardly admit that he was truly gone.
But then a couple of weeks after his death, she found some catharsis, though she could not tell
the others. Oh no. She could not tell him of the conversations she still had with him, how he
would tell her he loved her when they spoke in her room at night. They would think she were
mad. If she were to tell them that she could still hear him although he was dead, they would worry
and think her insane. So she didn’t tell them of his voice. It was their secret.
Three months after, her grief was still heavy and although she could hear him, she was so
desperate to feel him take her into his arms and hold her and cradle her again.
So she said she was going out and ignored the anxious glances as she walked out of the door and went to the coast,
where she thought she would find him.
She was sick of hearing him. Wait. No she wasn’t. But she wanted to see him. So she went to the coast and walked along the thick meadow hugging
the cliff until the saw him. She knew it was him. It must be. Her heart leapt. She ran as fast her
legs would take her and she stumbled on, reaching for his black figure that stood
just beyond the cliff. It did dawn on her that he was walking away from her, but she wouldn't let him
leave her this time. So she jumped.
And it was beautiful. She felt the planes of his jaw again and buried her head into the crook of
his neck, hanging on for dear life whilst he cradled her. She did not feel the bitter cold waves
consume her. She only felt him. Finally him.