CHAPTER 1
Lightning illuminated the entire neighborhood, momentarily exposing the secrets kept by the shadows. The wind whistled as it aggressively, effortlessly whirled the rainwater. Tree branches swayed from side to side and leaves were quickly washed into the gutter lining the sidewalk. The weather was strangely fiercer than usual. A savage storm crowded the murky sky, casting a foggy mist. Thunder roared ferociously and rain poured, drowning the tight-knit community of West Haven.
Catherine Fitzgerald's sleep had suddenly been interrupted by what sounded like yelling. She sat straight up, reaching for her eyeglasses on the nightstand near the bed. The elderly widow shuffled toward her kitchen and peered out the bay window, trying her best to see what was happening at the house next door. In an attempt to avoid being branded a nosy spinster, she usually kept the shades drawn as only a miserable recluse would—but something in the pit of her stomach had begun to tug and twist. Over the years she had learned to trust her instincts, so she stood on the tips of her toes like a ballerina, eyes carefully squinted with focus. The downpour was far too dense to see through.
It was one o'clock in the morning when the widow Fitzgerald entered her kitchen. She searched through the cabinet for her prescription arthritis medication and fixed herself a warm cup of cinnamon cider. Just as she lifted the cup to her lips to enjoy the first sip, she dropped it. The china shattered at her feet, spilling its contents all over her pink cotton slippers. A piercing chill crept in and it raised the hairs on the nape of the widow's neck. Something had frightened her. It sounded like gunfire. Catherine Fitzgerald gripped her chest, fearing the unthinkable. She was certain, absolutely positive, that it had echoed from the home right next to her own.
It was 1:11 a.m. Most of the neighborhood slept soundly. At last, all was still in the LaVan residence. Nothing but dead silence remained from the chaos that had owned the last passing minutes. Malcolm could no longer feel his heart beating. The temperature all around him had gradually dropped. A peculiar numbness was rapidly taking over, climbing from his feet all the way up to his face. He tried, desperately, to lift himself from the floor, but he was unable. Strength abandoned his limbs; breath deserted his lungs. There was a significant amount of blood surrounding his body, but there was no longer any pain. The only thing Malcolm could feel was his life slowly slipping away—but death had never been a more distant thought. At last they lay quietly together, faces melted into a peaceful, painless stillness.
Malcolm's eyes were finally closed. He need not open them. He didn't have to see her face to know that she was near. He could still smell her sweet scent lingering. The end of his life was so close that he could exist only in his consciousness. Thank God emotions are better felt than spoken; even if I wished to speak, my voice fails me. If fate has found me fortunate enough to spend my final moments next to her, then I declare this the most beautiful defeat a man has ever had the pleasure of enduring. Death has finally arrived to free me; to death I am obliged.
An unfamiliar voice cried out, muffled but audible: "My God, what happened here? Someone get the paramedics in here right now! We may be able to save this man's life!" If Malcolm could have yelled, he would have. No, do not touch me! I beg you, let me go. Let me die here beside this diamond, this precious gem of mine. Is that too much for a desperate man to ask? Why? Why show me this glimmer of hope only to have it shrivel and wilt before my eyes like a thirsty, neglected weeping willow? The fault is mine to claim, believing that one sub-rosa romance could end the suffering of two people. Forgive me, Diamond.
At last defeated—tears like battle wounds scarring my face. There were still a few tears left on the cheek of her cold, precious face, too. They hadn't had a chance to completely escape the thickness of her lashes before she slipped away. She pondered: Perhaps this is what crossing over feels like. I feel such peace, but why has my mind not yet cleared? My heart is not yet frozen; there is a warmness still dwelling within me, the same warmness this man used to resurrect me when I was still alive. Yes, like being wrapped in the wing of a phoenix. Yes, there is a feeling inside still very much alive. My time, my precious time, finer than the sand sifting inside an hourglass—gone now. Oh, so many regrets; so much time wasted. How many moons have come and gone, wasted on inevitable battles, searching for some truth in a lie? How many nights have gone by restless, tossing and turning over things I knew I could never change? I will accept that this is the end; no sense in fighting. No, I refuse to fight—but I pray that death does not separate me from my memories. Please don't let me forget him, his heartbeat like a lullaby in my ear. He is still near, I can feel it. We have never been freer, like two birds too weak for the sky and yet we fly. Yes, we were like two doves flying low to the earth, but then a storm came without warning. Please don't look back, don't look back and see that you may have to soar on alone. Keep flying, please keep flying. The weight of the rain trampled down on me and I was devoured by the thunder wailing against my feathers. I could have been yours forever, happy simply crying at the sight of the sunlight rising, shining against your face. Happy simply tracing your lips with my fingertips while watching you sleep. And if we were to ever go to bed angry, I'd still wake reaching out for you. If only I could take your hand in mine; I do not wish to walk alone. If only I could admire those eyes just one more time—those eyes, nearly penetrating my soul, setting free the things I kept inside: my fears, my hopes, my weaknesses. I also admire the stars, but I will never know what it feels like to touch a star's glory. Roses are pretty, they entertain the eye, but for a lifetime with you these hands will never grip the stem of another flower. For a lifetime with you, I will never look to the stars again.
Their lives had been reduced to nothing more than a whisper spoken from death's lips, gracing fate's ear; and that fate had been sealed, not by a kiss placed ever so gently on love's lips, but by tragedy consuming an undying, undeniable bond.
* * *
The Fourth Grade
I've always loved you; can you imagine such slavery? Witnessing the likeness of an angel in a dream, but waking to the same nightmare: not having you beside me. Before beauty had a chance to grace the eye, before lips had the opportunity to speak a name so sweet, I have loved you. Can you imagine such insanity? Two strangers, lone wolves howling at the same moon—can you hear it as clearly as I can feel it? It was always you—the one. The loneliness was dark, but then there was you: light like that of a rare, precious stone.
With what can love be measured? With what can the depth of love be measured? It was a question far too complex to cloud the mind of a child, but still—there it was, left unanswered in the back of young Malcolm's head, provoking both confusion and curiosity.
It's perfectly normal for people to set goals and try their very best to eventually reach them. Most goals are the result of simple daydreaming—daydreaming that takes place in the careless, idle mind of a...
