Aquaphobia
Originally published in Dark Lake Publishing’s The Theme is Revenge anthology
A house is always more than a house; a picture, more than a picture; and a dream, more than a dream. These were the thoughts that railed through my mind as the carriage shook along the cobbled streets of London. A sheet of fog hung from the roof of the world and dripped a murky rain onto the heads of those below. Pedestrians turned to watch me as I passed – I felt inhuman then, a curiosity to be stared at, discussed, my purity and worth weighed against a calloused scale.
Above me, the sightless eyes of innumerable windows had a clear view from their vantage point, each one concealing a glimmer that might’ve been a cat, an ornament, a nosy child, or something else. I leant back and closed my eyes, playing at death, until the driver knocked at my window: ‘sorry to wake you sir, but we’ve arrived’. His eyes swam beneath a stream of rain, the bags under his eyes drooping under the weight. Stepping onto the dreary pavement, I turned to collect my bag from the rack, but was brushed aside impatiently by the driver. He lifted my trunk with a grimace as I wrung my hands with impotence. I wasn’t used to being looked after, and I wasn’t sure I liked it much.
As the weather greeted me in its icy embrace, my breath caught in my throat – there he stood: Henry, my lifelong friend, previously separated by a continent and a lifetime but now, only by mere feet and my own cowardice. Silhouetted against his open door, the light streaming from behind, he was just as I remembered – tall and narrow, in a fashionable suit that would’ve hung from my frame like a tablecloth, but which clung to him as though it were desperate to trace his body with fingers of fabric. He looked remarkably like his home: the thick, straight lines of each window mirrored his prominent glasses, his eyes glittering within the glass. He smiled in the rain-soaked half-light with his rows of perfect teeth, straight and white as the façade of his house. He rushed forward and embraced me firmly, unaware that his expensive attire was getting wet.
‘My old friend’, he began, his breath wafting a cocktail of whiskey and cigar smoke into my nostrils. Had it come from any other source, it would’ve made me gag; but from him it was a familiar smell, one that assured my senses that I wasn’t dreaming – I was home, I was really home. I embraced him in kind, ‘my friend’, I repeated, ‘my old, old friend’.
‘Watch it’ his smile widened, an affectionate thump brushed my shoulder and I staggered back slightly, ‘not too old to whip some respect into you’. In truth, Henry was scarcely three years older than me, but his easy self-assurance and playful arrogance lengthened the gap between us into decades.
A thousand conflicting emotions, left to fester for so long, melted away in moments. It was as though I’d never left his side. We stood admiring each other for I don’t know how long – each taking in the other as though searching for something secret, something hidden, but being content with the surface all the same. It was only when my body gave an involuntary shiver that Henry’s reverie shattered:
‘My god, you’re freezing’, he said, ‘let’s get you inside, I bet you’ll want something to eat’.
I didn’t. But then I realised, I had no idea what time it was – I might’ve been offered breakfast, lunch, dinner, or a midnight snack. I thought it best to play along. I would ease into the rhythm of life again, I thought, I’ll learn to be human again one day at a time.
1: ‘A Light like Razors’
The house was like stepping into a flash of lightning – the shadows and rain were washed away by bright glowing bulbs; the cold halted on the threshold as flames licked from an open fire. Though I was grateful for the warmth, my fingers, nose and cheeks burned, my eyes watering in the light. I found myself longing again for dark corners, to observe without being observed, to exist without apology, in the comfort of discomfort – that paradox that chases fear away with the numbing sensation of frost. The opulence of the place had me feeling oddly exposed, so I was glad when my friend led me into a comparatively small and subdued dining room, and we began to be served a series of meals by Henry’s sole servant – a kind-hearted but strict man called Albert.
‘Good to have you back sir’. The old butler’s deep, rasping voice had no warmth in it, but it was achingly sincere. This was a man for whom there is no pretext; he was as he was for himself alone. As I looked at the high-stacked plate, I still couldn’t decide which meal it was I was eating.
All the same, I cleared away the mystery meal with a hunger I didn’t know was there, Henry smiling all the time, Albert’s stony face watching with tacit approval.
‘Sorry’ I began, wiping my mouth, ‘long trip’.
‘I should say so’ Henry’s smile widened, showing the dark gaps between his white teeth, the lines around his eyes contracting into a spider’s web, his lips curling into two pinkish gashes. Despite his handsomeness, Henry’s was not a kind face; it was intimidating, somewhat harsh, and with a hint of menace. That such a face should belong to such a man has always been a wonder to me.
‘Tell me’, he continued, ‘how was…’ he searched for the word. An expectant pause permeated the room. ‘Travels. How were your travels?’
‘Oh, interesting’, I lied. My exile had been an ever-spinning wheel alternating fear, self-loathing, regret and guilt-ridden boredom. ‘Italy was nice; I spent a great deal of time there’. This, at least, was true. ‘The forum was exquisite. To think, centuries ago it was a centre of life; Piccadilly square with togas, filled with love and laughter and heated arguments, now silent except for the bustle of tourists. There’s something quite beautiful about decay, isn’t there?’ Henry said nothing but let me continue: ‘and I saw such wonderful, terrible paintings – ancient gods devouring their own children, starving mariners clinging to a splinter of wood in a raging sea, hell captured in sickening colour, reduced to a single dimension and yet stirring with depths I could only dream of.’
Only when I finished my tirade did I realise how much I’d spoken. I hadn’t said so much in years. ‘Sorry’ I began, but Henry interrupted:
‘no, no, I’m fascinated. I remember the way you used to get about any old sketch or daub of paint. It’s good to see you’ve not lost it.’
‘You always hated it’, I retorted, ‘you called Raphaelle and Da Vinci, ‘dull old men long since dead drawing things that could never exist’’.
‘Yes, well’ he had the good manners to pretend embarrassment, ‘I was younger then. And I was always fond of your work’.
A comfortable silence hung over us. It was good to be home. Concealed in the dining room, just him and I, with Albert busying himself in the other room, my world had shrunk back down to a size I could comprehend. Nothing existed outside of us, neither the future, nor the past.
But Henry, as is his nature, shattered my illusion: ‘actually, I’m glad you brought it up’, he said, ‘I’ve been thinking about gainful employment for you, something that would utilise your talents. It hit me only this morning – portraits! I know it’s not your usual style, but there’re many facetious and vein upper-crust types in my social circle – myself included of course – who’d jump at the chance to be painted by a master, just recently returned from an extended study around Europe. You could really make some money, and a name for yourself, eventually’.
My heart sank. The soaking chill I thought I had left outdoors seeped into my soul and froze me from the inside out. Henry played with his food, the knife handing loosely between two fingers as he stabbed at his plate, listening expectantly but with a practised facade of disinterest.
‘Henry I… I can’t. You know that’. The words carried the frost in my heart into the room, but Henry paid it no attention.
‘I know what you’re thinking, but everything’s in hand. Things have changed since you left. People barely remember what happened. To most, it was all a mere bad dream.’
How callous he sounded. His own blood, and he didn’t mourn, he didn’t even seem to care. An old wound of anger reopened, and a hatred that could only be born from love began to boil over in my heart.
‘She will remember.’
He ceased his fidgeting and fixed me with a steel gaze. ‘She’s dead. She’s been dead a long time. And besides…’ he hesitated, ‘it wasn’t your fault’.
I stood abruptly. Sweat dripped from my temples as my hands shook and my mood blackened like frostbite. ‘I’m tired, I should go to bed’.
Henry stifled a sigh, poorly. ‘Okay’, he said, ‘let me show you to your room’.
2: A Kiss at Midnight
I didn’t sleep that night, but I did dream. The room Henry had prepared for me was suffocatingly huge. He led me there in silence, bid me a curt goodnight, and closed the door. The electric light flashed a futile haze over the dull embers in the fireplace, high windows lacking curtains reflected my image in negative against the grey sky. Laying in the too-soft bedding, alternating between shivering with cold and near-fainting with heat, I stared into dark corners. Family portraits watched over me in the twilight; harsh-faced men in military uniforms with despondent women sitting as if in captivity by their side. I must’ve drifted off eventually, because in the early morning – or perhaps late at night – a figure entered my room.
At first, I thought it must be Henry or Albert, but the figure was slimmer, lither and more elegant in its movements. Its arms swung listlessly in a discordant rhythm. It was like the shadow of a willow tree blowing in the breeze. There was a smell of damp, and I heard wet feet splash against the wooden floor. The figure approached my bed and leant over me. A woman, with long, wet hair, a blackened auburn in colour. Her face held a sickly white pallor shining like a dull moon, or a choking sun. Utterly expressionless, she leant down and tenderly kissed my legs. Her lips were horribly wrinkled, and I shivered at her icy touch. I wanted to scream, to jump up and throw her off me, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even lift my head to look at her. I could only stare at the ceiling, and feel the slime coat my legs with every caress. I willed myself to wake up, to scream, but the dream would not end. That is, until I heard a hiss, a rasp, like horse laughter. It was the voice of an old woman, but the unashamed giggle was more akin to a child. The noise came with a watery gurgle, and then came the pain. Teeth sunk into my flesh, and I finally cried out.
When I regained my senses, I felt damp sheets cling to me, caked in sticky sweat. A dream, only a dream. I got up to wash myself off, rinsing my legs over and over, thinking of that rotten kiss, the tender bite sinking into my ankle. It was then that I found the mark, one that could’ve only been made by human teeth, and on the floor, a trail of slimy, foul smelling water, leading out and into the hallway. A strange impulse compelled me to follow, and as I did, I was led to a narrow stairway leading to an attic I never knew existed. The trail led up the steps. I slipped several times, an image of Henry discovering my half-naked corpse in the morning, my neck broken, came unbidden; but at last, I emerged into the attic room, the air close with dust.
- The Woman in the Attic
Feeling for a light source, I quickly came across an old lamp and lit it with the matches close by. The light cast shadows throughout the room, revealing a city of cobwebs built on high mountains caked in snow, rushing streams with sunlight playing on the surface, the faces of men and women and children at play, and strange creatures of myth stampeding red-faced heroes of old. The paintings were magnificent, their vibrant colour undiminished by decades of neglect. But there was one that stood above all others – a portrait of a woman, taking pride of place at the centre of the procession. Her retinue of false faces stared as I approached her, and she met me with a strange smile – wide and warm, but with shining, almost jagged teeth that evoked a hint of threat that thrilled me. Her damp hair clung to her shoulders, as if she’d been swimming in the lake behind her, her skin pale and blotched with red, feverish life. She was utterly unique, and exquisite – not in the mere, dull sense of ‘beautiful’. She was raw and terrifying, my mind screamed at the sight of her, and I knew that this subject, as much as the hand who had put paint to canvas, was the true artist. She was flesh and blood trapped behind a wooden frame. Her obvious sickness thrilled me as much as the strength of her arms and jaw, the weight of her gaze. I could’ve flung myself at her feet, hoping to contract her weakness, as well as her strength, because it was clear the two were one in the same. I felt as though my mind and body could stand no more of the torrent of emotion that was drawn from me like blood from a vein. I turned away as one does from extreme heat, but as soon as my eye left her face, I ached to return to her, a strange revolt in my body forbidding and compelling me all at once. It was like attempting to thrust my hand into a blazing fire, with only my base, animal fear keeping me safe from the flames. It was too much to bear, I had to escape. So, silencing the painful longing in my heart, I fled from the house.
4: The Living City
The sky was a deep red, the sun veiled by thick clouds. It looked like early morning, but the bustling streets told me it was later. After deciding to walk off my nightmare, I quickly became lost. My memories were completely out of step with the undulating nature of London’s architecture – what I thought was a turn into an open square, instead led me to a cul-de-sac of high walls; when I turned back to retrace my steps, I found myself in a completely different part of the city, all but one route blocked by inexplicable, looming buildings that seemed to have grown out of the pavement.
Funnelled by the bucking city, I was drawn into bigger crowds than I’d experienced in years. There was no anonymity in this sea of people – they were the water and I the oil, tainting the current with my presence as I strained against faceless bodies. Pushing through the crowd with unknown strength, I finally escaped the pull of the human river. Sitting down on some nearby steps, I held my head in my hands and willed myself into oblivion.
I slipped into a timeless realm, willing my breathing to slow, my senses to recover. At length the sweat dried on my clothes, my breath lost its fire, and the cacophony of the city shattered into shards of horse’s hooves, ringing bells, and human voices. When I lifted my head back into the waking world, I could take stock of my situation – the forest of brick blocked my path, the river of bodies flowed in one direction, and I knew then the only thing to do was return home – return to Henry. I cast myself back into the undulating hordes, and was amazed at how easily I existed now I’d allowed the current to take me. I imagined falling into deep water, letting my limbs go slack, inviting the darkness into my lungs, and before I knew it, I was looking into Henry’s disapproving eyes, relieved that my adventure was over but with a renewed fear towards a future that for a moment I was sure would never come.
5: An Uninvited Guest
I’d always found it difficult to differentiate between Henry’s gifts and his punishments. Outwardly, he explained that if I were to attract clients, my personality would need to be as steady as my hand, my wit as colourful as my paints, and my attention to detail as sharp to the quirks of my subject’s personalities as much as it was to their physical features. So, he’d put together a party to ingratiate me into London society, and drum up some business. It all made perfect sense, yet as I struggled to charm my way into the inner circle, my hands gripping the glass between my fingers so hard I worried it would smash and cut me to ribbons, I thought I could see Henry flash a sinister smile in my direction. A mocking from within me mimicked Henry’s voice, saying: ‘see, what did I tell you? You’re nothing without me. So don’t you ever think of leaving again.’
When I walked over to him, there was no sign of the rueful smile. There was only the easy aura of irreverent kindness I’d always loved.
‘So, how do you like them?’ He asked, clasping me on the shoulder, ‘dull as dishwater, I know, but this particular soap scum happen to hide gold beneath the dishes’ he whispered to me conspiratorially, flashing a grin. I felt taken into his confidence, brought behind a wall he had erected to protect me. I felt he’d set me apart from all others, whom he deemed far less than my equal. I hated the harsh dismissal of our guests, but I couldn’t help but smile at his flattery.
‘Yes’, I agreed, ‘not my usual choice of dinner companions, but they seem friendly enough. I’ve had a few offers already.’
‘Empty promises. A copper thrown your way to pacify you and inflate their egos. But we’ll get them, don’t worry, we’ll get them.’ His iron grip made my shoulder ache, and though I was glad when he released the pressure to continue to ‘grift the clientele’, I found myself rubbing the bruised flesh he had held in his fingers moments before.
For the first time all night, I stood alone. Henry had previously waited in the wings, playing host and introducing me to the best and brightest – ‘the best credit and the brightest coins’ he had said – but now it was his time to shine, and when he did, he was nothing less than a celestial fire surrounded by frozen rocks. All eyes were upon him, and I was grateful for the time to recuperate.
But there was one who didn’t flock to my friend’s side as he sang snippets of tunes, made jokes that were crude and bitingly satirical, and showcased his party trick of reading whole sections of complex prose in mere seconds. She stood by a tall mirror, gazing at herself quizzically. There was no vanity in her self-admiration (if that is what it was). She seemed genuinely curious about her appearance, as though she’d never really noticed it before, or had perhaps forgotten about its existence and was surprised at its sudden resurfacing. Instantly intrigued, I approached her – something I hadn’t voluntarily done all night – and found that I recognised her. It was the woman in the painting. Her hair was in the same style and colour, her dress identical; but the eyes made me certain – raging with life and sharply intelligent, they were eyes whose lifeforce could withstand any alteration, into paint, into sculpture, into photograph, and even, I suspected, death. I imaged her lying in the grave, her flesh having long fled her bleached bones, but with the eyes still staring, immortal and shining.
I could barely restrain my wonder as I made my introduction. Her eyes flickered into mine, her lips curling into a knowing smile, as though she knew something of me but wished to conceal it. I told her my name, and she didn’t seem the least bit surprised:
‘yes, I know you’, she said, her voice deep and rasping, smoky as the cigarette that burned in her hand, ‘you’re Henry’s friend’.
I admitted as much and asked her how she liked the party.
‘It’s rather dull, I’m afraid. But of course, you know that. I can tell. You’re not one of Henry’s little sycophants, you’ve got more sense than that, and more love for him.’ As with her portrait, she instantly enraptured and terrified me. She processed much of Henry’s casual charm, his playful cruelty, his rare and sincere strain of flattery. She professed to know my work and to see a bright future ahead of me. She was herself, and nothing more, for that was more than enough and infinitely more than anyone else I’d ever known.
‘I was an artist once’, she continued, her face taking on a painful reverie, filled with deep nostalgia for a lost love. ‘But that’s no longer possible. Still, I’m a great admirer of the arts.’
‘Tell me’, I asked, ‘have you ever sat for a portrait?’
‘No. Never’ she replied, sharply, ‘thought I did paint myself once. Perhaps you think that’s vein – perhaps you’re right – but if so then it’s my vanity. Few people understand how important image is – not your looks, but the idea of you. One has to be very careful how it’s wrought in colour, or music, or writing – even more so if it’s left to someone else. For me, my trust for others can only stretch so far. My image is mine alone to shape.’
‘But, if you were an artist, didn’t you paint others?’
She laughed, a careless, slightly sinister laugh, ‘well, I can hardly be held accountable for the foolishness of others, can I?’
Her coldness thrilled me as much as her warmth and charm. I wondered where Henry had met such a woman, and how I hadn’t noticed her before now. With fear and longing in my heart, I knew that to capture such a subject would be to create something more than a painting – it would be a gift to all of creation to have not one, but two of her, inhabiting the world in different forms.
‘But’, I began, choosing my words carefully, ‘you’re so incredibly unique. Don’t you think, if you found the right artist, you might enjoy a portrait?’
Her thin eyebrows raised, ‘unique, am I?’ I couldn’t decide whether her response belied modesty at a compliment, or anger at an insult, ‘and I suppose you’re ‘the right artist’’.
‘Well…I…I’, with a look she had annihilated my courage with ease.
‘Oh, come now, develop some arrogance why don’t you! Arrogance is only a detriment in the talentless, which you certainly are not.’
My throat was filled with icy water, I couldn’t breathe, let alone speak. I could feel her compliment pushing me away, and I felt the opportunity I had dreamt of slipped from my grasp.
‘But no, I’m sorry. I cannot paint anymore, and I will not be painted myself. But you will do great things I’m sure’.
She left abruptly, leaving me with a word in my throat and an ache in my chest.
Noticing a lull in his performance, I grabbed hold of Henry’s arm and led him into the hallway.
‘Where are we going? What is it? Is everything okay?’ The lines on his face contracted as he grasped my hands in his, his eyes imploring. I was glad to have him back, separated from his performative cruelty.
‘Who is that woman?’ I said, pointing in the direction of the mirror.
‘What woman? He replied earnestly, and when I followed his eye, I saw that she was no longer there. Scanning the mingling groups of partygoers, I couldn’t find her anywhere.
‘The woman, the one wet from the rain, auburn hair, a dark blue dress’.
Henry’s colour faded, I could see he knew who I meant – he must’ve, for no one could forget her, I was sure. ‘I don’t know who you mean. There’s no one like that here’, he lied – a rare thing for Henry.
‘Oh, come on Henry, I was just speaking to her you fool!’ I’d spoken more loudly than I’d intended, and I could see from the corner of my eye Henry’s guests casting furtive glances at us, sharing furtive whispers.
He gripped my shoulder again – this time the pain was one-dimensional, his eyes flashing with anger. ‘I tell you, there’s no one here who fits that description. Now why don’t you stay out in the hall and calm down while I try to rebuild your life for you.’
Incredibly, he had shed his skin of his anger the moment he crossed the threshold, and he was back to charming the upper-crust of London in moments.
I stared dejectedly after him, regretting my outburst immediately, willing away my weakness and the tears pricking behind my eyes. Until, that is, I saw her again, stood exactly where she’d been before, in front of the mirror. That was when a sudden dark inspiration took root in my mind. If she would not sit, I would simply sketch her from afar, and create a composition from that. It wouldn’t be nearly as good as the real thing, but even a facsimile of perfection would be better than the genuine mediocrity I’d achieve with any other sitter. I hurriedly collected my pencil and sketchbook and returned to my furtive position in the corridor, ready to draw her from the threshold. Before I could begin, however, I looked up and saw her – still stood in front of the mirror, I noticed she’d stopped regarding herself, and was instead looking at me from inside the glass. Her eyes cut me to the core, her face a fixed mask of rage, disbelief, and hurt.
I couldn’t speak. I could move. I couldn’t breathe. My pencil hovered above my paper, her eyes boring into mine. I wanted to run, I wanted to scream. Then she turned and walked towards me. Whether she wanted to slap me, scream at me, or slit my throat, I knew I could do nothing. I waited for her to cross the room as a condemned convict awaits execution. As she got closer, I noticed the sound of her footsteps, far louder than the din of the party conversation, and yet no one seemed to notice. Her hair sprang into tight curls, writhing like snakes, and I realised she’d somehow gotten soaking wet. Still, the guests drank and ate and spoke inanely, as this drowned banshee strode inexorably toward her victim, her bare feet splashing against the wooden floor. She was close now. I could smell the damp, sickly scent, see the whites of her eyes gleam against her clammy skin, her wrinkled lips.
I want to scream. I want to scream. I want to scream.
Then, all in an instant, she merely brushed past me, lightly, politely, and walked out of the front door, into the rain. The shriek escaped my lips as she slipped into the streets, and the party stared at me. Silence reigned, until Henry stepped towards me: ‘what the hell do you think you’re doing?’ But then, when he noticed my shivering, the terror in my eyes, his voice softened, his eyes welled, ‘what’s wrong?’
It was the last thing I saw before sprinting into the rain, sketchbook in hand. I twisted and turned, losing any pursuers, until I found the object of my search. There she was, sat on a bench by a lake, the moonlight dazzling the water and exquisitely illuminating her unmistakable features.
My paper was speckled with rain, my fingers numb from the cold. But this was my only chance. I sketched out a lip, an ear; her noble nose, a blazing eye. All this my hand wrought in an instant, hungry for more. But before I could satisfy my thirst, a scream broke the night. She stood up, her hands at her face, her mouth gaping wide in a horrendous scream. I thought of going to her, but when her hands opened, they revealed a ruin – a hateful visage of imminent death, a grotesque rendering of a person missing a lip, an ear, a nose, and an eye.
6: Homecoming
She sprinted into the night so fast I couldn’t follow. I searched all night, long after the sun had risen and the rain had subsided. I must’ve run for miles out of my usual haunt, but when I surveyed my surroundings, I realised I’d been led back to Henry’s house. The guests were gone, the place seemingly deserted. As I trod up to my room despondent and exhausted, I noticed the trail of water once more leading to the attic. On an impulse I would’ve killed in its infancy if I could’ve, I followed. The lantern was where I’d left it, my fingers so damp and numb it took me some time to light. When I finally sent the shadows fleeing, I noticed the room had changed. I was appalled to find the paintings had been defaced. Features were missing from each figure, not painted over or cut from the canvas: simply, gone. Lipless women mourned in their frames, men without ears stared impotently at the ground, children cried as their noses fled their faces, and everywhere, the once happy figures stared with single cyclopean eyes at me, accusing and furious.
But the portrait of the woman was worst of all… I crept towards it as if to a sleeper, but when the light illuminated her face, I screamed again.
A hideous collage of stolen lips smirked with menace. Mismatched ears parodied the human form, a sharp nose cut into the centre of her face, and one eye – filled with fire – mirrored another, darker orb, misty with rot, cold in its stare, and I knew I was not forgiven.
Before I could do any more, the stairs behind me creaked. I spun around, lifting the lantern high, shouting, ‘who’s there?’
‘Me’, Henry’s voice, softened into a whisper replied, ‘only me.’
I lowered the lantern and stared dumbly at my friend, almost the only friend I’d ever had, if it hadn’t been for her. The mask of experience on his face had disappeared, revealing the boy he was underneath.
‘I see you’ve found her then’. It wasn’t a question, or an accusation, merely the statement of a lamentable fact.
‘Yes’, I answered.
Henry climbed the final steps into the attic. His usual flowing gait was gone, replaced by jerking motions like photographs caught in a sequence.
‘I couldn’t forget her, no matter how hard I tried’, he explained, ‘but I couldn’t bear to see her every day. So, I locked her up here’. He gestured to the portrait sadly, looking everywhere but at her face.
‘I visit her, as much as I can’. He ran a finger over a nearby frame, avoiding the picture within, caking it in dust. ‘How did you know she was here?’
‘I followed her’.
Henry said nothing, his face was a pained mask, his eyes looking everywhere except at me and the paintings.
‘I’m sorry for what I said before. I could never forget her. She was my sister. She was a part of me, the better part of me, in every way.’ He smiled sadly, ‘but I hoped you’d forget. I know you loved her, just as I loved her, but I got to remember her as she was – her smile, her humour, her infinite kindness and her talent. But you… I’m so sorry.’ The tears broke through the dam of his composure and drenched his cheeks. ‘You saw her die.’
I remembered. My mentor, my friend, my idol. She was teaching me to paint, as she often did, by the lake. And then… I don’t know. I was afraid to swim. That’s when I saw her thrashing wildly in the deepest part of the lake. She howled like an animal – I heard her wild screams, the imploring cries for help that’d never come. She’d always been so brave, a constant friend, ready to stand by me with a quick wit and quicker temper, all levied at the adolescent enemies of mine and Henry’s young world. But we aren’t who we are at the end – we’re something baser, something lesser, something far less true.
Henry sensed my thoughts: ‘that wasn’t who she was, you know that don’t you? Our last moments aren’t all that important, it’s how we lived, that’s what should be remembered’.
‘I failed her, Henry, I failed you’.
‘You can’t swim, if you’d jumped in then I’d have lost you both. And there where would I be?’
‘But you did lose us both’ I admitted, for the first time, I could finally admit it. ‘I ran away. I couldn’t stand it. The questions, the inquest, the implications. I ran away and left you on your own, and that’s why she’s come back to haunt me. I couldn’t save her, I know that, she does too, but I could’ve saved you Henry, I could’ve saved us’.
He embraced me, our arms interlocked, our faces close. I could smell him again. ‘You still can’, he said, ‘it’s not too late, you still can’.
As he led me downstairs, I looked back at Lucy’s portrait – her face had changed again. She was human once again, her features intact, an easy smile on her face. Her eyes looked after me with love, her hair dry, with a smile I’d forgotten for far too long.