Ripples of grief

Chapter 16

She watched the shadows waver as the tree began to shift in the wind, glancing around toward the window. Toward the cruel, mocking pieces of threadbare furniture. Towards the ground where the tow widows gazed. It seemed unsure. As if it were simply a wound of needle and thread, and the fraying strings of flesh were cast aside in favour of a needle passing through, before righting it again; they stared at it with intense distrust, as if they knew what was to happen to them. And they were just waiting. Watching. The wind was warm as a breath, cold as a final, sickly cough of warmth before the air grew grey and hollow. The tree was just another elaborate disguise to hide the shame of a tear over a corpse, or perhaps over one last letter before the memories began to perish, decaying with time as the hand faded, the thorns dropping upon the ground – the petals fell too. The two figures stood beside each other noticed it. Their silhouettes of ink wavered. And so did the lights behind. Their shadows upon the ground were limp recreations with no purpose, and yet the strings flashed before them, they were contorted over the looming, vile figure that could so easily emerge from beneath the hissing vipers – once again they wavered, beginning to twitch in anticipation as the faces turned to foreboding terror. There was a meal before them, and they could devour it quickly, or they could twist with the rhythm of dancing lights; an unsuspecting shudder, simply a brush of the wind. She thought of all of them. Watching, eyes like an owl's as it hunts. Disdainful malice lay within the chambers of darkness, and she thought of them again, a flash in her mind. A cough from a son. A silhouette fading away with gun in hand. A father gifting only a last curse, a last thorn upon a rose. The veil of shielding light wavered still, the vipers seeming to hiss, raining anguish upon the last ember of hope – the ripples of this grief spread far; into the gaze of those staring, flicking shadows as they loomed over every mind, ready to snatch away every trace of joy, choke the smile from your face and leave a trail of blood behind, ashes. But they were just shadows, she murmured. Just futile apparitions of shadow wavering in the breath of cruelty.

Frayed threads of green and brown began to still, a bandage over grief swiftly burning away and leaving an echo among the caverns and chambers of sorrow – you could put a curtain of torn seams and talons clawing at the veil to flee the eternal anguish of the shadows and the dark, but it could burn away as easily as the brittle, flammable wreath upon the table, candles flickering with shudders of anticipation. You could place many layers of ink-stained cloth over a grave and those protruding fangs could always so easily devour it in flame as the vipers wished, strike at the cruel recreation of a smile and watch as the glint in your eye returned, and tears fell upon the ocean of light you had once flooded out the winds of daggers with. A single match lit, and they watched the frayed threads part, the shards of a single urn beginning to shatter – ash spilt, and a grey ear emerged, before recoiling back into the quivering, throbbing shadows. Shards of an urn began to emerge, shattering their image of a perfect façade; dirt covered it once again as they both gazed into the cracks between the seams to see a face, they wished they could burn it to ashes, and choke out the embers of it – how it had tormented them. And yet as the wind stirred the soil of shadow, they sensed the sinister crimson dripping from fangs, the talons clawing away at earth – they could hear the corpses scratching away at their grave as the wind revealed more and more, peeled away the branches that buried it in shadow and plucked gems from the soil. Slowly the dull façade was blown away into the winds of time, breath lasting eternity but minds falling before they could utter goodbye. A hand with talons emerged, and they could only watch. The wrinkles told hollow stories, no voice to speak loving words, no father to hold the hand of a child as they stumble through life. Every ember is simply buried, a seed ready to grow through the cracks of shadow within a perfect curtain of dread. They had known that the rabbit's ears were to claw at the soil, peel away the layers and find hidden treasures within the soil, the eye of a serpent, ink-black and blind, twisted yet full of humanity. They had known that if the shudders of light could be only a veil peeled away by those talons. Perhaps they both knew that the shadowed, moonlit forest they wandered among in lamenting melancholy, tainted scarlet with malady, was a place above. That if they wished those talons could pluck them from where they stood and plunge them into the darkness of a forest, more insidious, bleaker, crow feathers littering every surface.