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witticasterHalf-finished death stories that I'm worried I'll lose if I don't save them already.
Julius' premonitions were half-true, he realized late into the evening of that first, horrible night alone, for someone did die on the date he'd dreamt of a decade ago. Once he realized it, he could not stop thinking of it, of the way Kay had laughed and promised to write it down so they could check in ten years, make sure they were both still kicking. Her smile was bright in her memory, spreading broad and toothy over her face as she promised not to let him die if she could help it and sealing the deal with a kiss.
There was, he thought suddenly, a damned good story in there somewhere, and he would rather jump out the window than write it himself.
She had looked entirely herself when he woke, but with a strange, slight cast to her face, as though she'd put on too much powder. Pallid, he'd thought; perhaps she'd caught Philippa's cold. When he slid an arm around her and she didn't curl near, stretching like a cat against him and looking up at him with sleepy dark eyes and hair sticking out in every direction at once, a sliver of worry had pierced his chest.
Nothing had woken her, and a panicked call to the operator followed by the arrival of the physician was merely confirmation of what he had known with certainty within two minutes of waking. And in the long wait between the phone call and the knock at the door, he was in a state of mind only to pace back and forth, occasionally looking to her still form, her head tilted down toward one shoulder as it did when she tried to look more modest than she felt about something. Nothing to do but walk the same length of carpet and wonder
And so it was--of course--that Philippa peered in around the slightly ajar door, her hair a dark halo of unbrushed waves, and asked, "Something going on, Dad?"
She'd put the scrap of paper in the bottom of her jewelry box, weighted down by earrings and bracelets, he suddenly recalled; he had watched her write it out himself. Followed by this realization came the need to look at that damned date, to prove to himself that he had dreamt of it, when Philippa was two and their lives had seemed to stretch on infinitely into the futures they had written. In one swift movement, his nerves jangling, he got up and strode to her chest of drawers. Resisting the temptation to upend the entire thing upon the surface of the bureau--he was not so crazed as to abuse his wife's things so, and particularly now, when she would never have the chance to reprimand him--he picked up each bauble with care and set it out.
They would all go to Philippa when she was old enough for such things, of course, but he thought, upon lifting out a delicate chain of gold and garnet and feeling his heart clench, he might keep a few things past that point. Kay had been fond of this bracelet, and he, likewise; it was the first Christmas present he'd ever given her, full of folly and desperate to impress.
And there, beneath a silver-coloured brooch from her youth, was a folded bit of white paper. Setting it aside, he heaped the jewelry back in its case as methodically as he had removed it, then picked his prize back up and returned to the bed to examine it by the light of the lamp.
It was folded in half, torn from the corner of whichever manuscript they'd been looking at that night, and inside was scrawled the date and the words and here we both are beneath. He stared at the handwriting, nearly taunting in its sloppiness; it called to mind every inch of her, the way laughed and the d
And then I killed Julius in the New York part of the Lucetiverse, because killing people is all I can manage right now, I guess.
Julius died on a Thursday.
Kay woke early, yawning and groggy, to the cool, still sensation of his arm draped over her waist and the sunlight glancing sharply off her face. Julius, she'd murmured good-naturedly, nudging at his shoulder, and received no incoherent rumble in return, half greeting and half complaint that they were awake already, though not in so many words.
Julius' premonitions were half-true, he realized late into the evening of that first, horrible night alone, for someone did die on the date he'd dreamt of a decade ago. Once he realized it, he could not stop thinking of it, of the way Kay had laughed and promised to write it down so they could check in ten years, make sure they were both still kicking. Her smile was bright in her memory, spreading broad and toothy over her face as she promised not to let him die if she could help it and sealing the deal with a kiss.
There was, he thought suddenly, a damned good story in there somewhere, and he would rather jump out the window than write it himself.
She had looked entirely herself when he woke, but with a strange, slight cast to her face, as though she'd put on too much powder. Pallid, he'd thought; perhaps she'd caught Philippa's cold. When he slid an arm around her and she didn't curl near, stretching like a cat against him and looking up at him with sleepy dark eyes and hair sticking out in every direction at once, a sliver of worry had pierced his chest.
Nothing had woken her, and a panicked call to the operator followed by the arrival of the physician was merely confirmation of what he had known with certainty within two minutes of waking. And in the long wait between the phone call and the knock at the door, he was in a state of mind only to pace back and forth, occasionally looking to her still form, her head tilted down toward one shoulder as it did when she tried to look more modest than she felt about something. Nothing to do but walk the same length of carpet and wonder
And so it was--of course--that Philippa peered in around the slightly ajar door, her hair a dark halo of unbrushed waves, and asked, "Something going on, Dad?"
She'd put the scrap of paper in the bottom of her jewelry box, weighted down by earrings and bracelets, he suddenly recalled; he had watched her write it out himself. Followed by this realization came the need to look at that damned date, to prove to himself that he had dreamt of it, when Philippa was two and their lives had seemed to stretch on infinitely into the futures they had written. In one swift movement, his nerves jangling, he got up and strode to her chest of drawers. Resisting the temptation to upend the entire thing upon the surface of the bureau--he was not so crazed as to abuse his wife's things so, and particularly now, when she would never have the chance to reprimand him--he picked up each bauble with care and set it out.
They would all go to Philippa when she was old enough for such things, of course, but he thought, upon lifting out a delicate chain of gold and garnet and feeling his heart clench, he might keep a few things past that point. Kay had been fond of this bracelet, and he, likewise; it was the first Christmas present he'd ever given her, full of folly and desperate to impress.
And there, beneath a silver-coloured brooch from her youth, was a folded bit of white paper. Setting it aside, he heaped the jewelry back in its case as methodically as he had removed it, then picked his prize back up and returned to the bed to examine it by the light of the lamp.
It was folded in half, torn from the corner of whichever manuscript they'd been looking at that night, and inside was scrawled the date and the words and here we both are beneath. He stared at the handwriting, nearly taunting in its sloppiness; it called to mind every inch of her, the way laughed and the d
And then I killed Julius in the New York part of the Lucetiverse, because killing people is all I can manage right now, I guess.
Julius died on a Thursday.
Kay woke early, yawning and groggy, to the cool, still sensation of his arm draped over her waist and the sunlight glancing sharply off her face. Julius, she'd murmured good-naturedly, nudging at his shoulder, and received no incoherent rumble in return, half greeting and half complaint that they were awake already, though not in so many words.