The Immorality of Paint
epilogue
>i was listening to Agnes Obel's album Aventine at the time. Its almost been a fond companion when re reading old and new chapters. I know what you mean. I have songs that invariably remind me of certain stories, every single time. If the story is at a painful point I can't listen to the song in question :P Anyway that is beautiful music. I'm very very okay with that being the soundtrack to my story. <3
Thus concludes my 'probably about 10k' story, at 21,526 words. It's been lovely. Thanks to everyone who gave feedback.
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Jan. 5th
Callum,dearest Callum,
I am writing this from Portsmouth, before I board the ship. It has been two days since I last saw you, stolen moments in my rented room and yet more than I will have for months on end, and I'm feeling sick already over your absence. Is it my absence? Either way it consumes me. Promise me you're coming back this summer. You've told me a hundred times, but tell me again, tell me a hundred times more so that I may believe it. Is there any way to come earlier this time? Come in May. Stay until September. Stay indefinitely.
I've been thinking -and I'll be honest with you, I have been thinking about little else, from the moment you disappeared around that corner- maybe you could give classes to the tourists. There are bound to be some bored wives and daughters in need of entertainment who fancy themselves artists. Take them outside, let them paint; tell them they're making progress and then come back to me at night, every summer, forever.
…Such are my flights of fancy. A man can dream. And dream of you I do, always have, all these years. Come back and remind me that you are more than that, that you're flesh and blood, that you have breath and pulse. It's so easy to believe I imagined it all and you're no more than a spirit, haunting my days and nights and every thought; so easy to think my memories are simply ever more daydreams. They look so much alike. Come back so I may see you, hear you, touch you, and convince myself that I really am this blessed.
It is torture, this blessing. Come soon and end my suffering.
Yours,
always,
always,
-R.Callum reads it again, then a third time, and then folds it back into the envelope, knowing full well he will look at it again before the night is out; will fold it, unfold it, read it and hide it and read it again, until the corners are dark with his fingerprints and the paper starts tearing along the fold. Yours, always. Always.
He holds the small envelope between his fingers, caresses his name with a careful thumb; the bold curve of a C, the little swirl on the O in P. O. Box. The first of these letters, sent in October, is already falling apart.
Always.
There is a muffled voice, and a knock, and he stands a little too quickly; slides the letter in the inside pocket of his vest and runs a hand through his hair, composing himself. "Come in," he says and pretends to be perusing his bookshelf, for something or other. He doesn't know what.His mother sticks her head through the door. "Aunt Helen is here," she says, "did you not hear?"
"I'm sorry, I'm coming. I must have been distracted." He smooths out his clothes, feels the outline of the letter through the fabric. "You know-" he says and follows her out into the hall, "I might go to Spain again this summer. Mr. Willesby thinks there might be a way for me to earn a little money." Yours, always.
"It is darling," she says with some emphasis, "-just darling how much he cares for us. We are the closest thing he has to having a family, do you think? I thought it was lovely, having him here for New Year's Eve. And that wine of his, I've grown rather fond of it. It is quite good."
"It is," Callum agrees. And he follows her down the stairs, with Rafael's words safely tucked away, right over his pounding heart.