The Shadows Bring The Starlight {Finished}

[CPericardium]

To readers, sorry for the delay. The next part is taking a long time because there are a lot of screenshots I have to take. And because of real life things. And also because I don't want to write it at night. I will update tomorrow once I get the last few shots.

Thank you again Eld! I'm glad to hear you're learning things from the story. I'm pretty much incorporating every passing thought I've had this week, whether I believe in it or not, in this story. And that is why this is a character study and not one with a grand arc.

I mentioned Melissa having siblings in Part 1 and 3, but you're right about it being related to something later. I deliberately made her father handsome (which is kinda creepy of me.) because not all intelligent people have to look nerdy like Melissa. Hahaha! Not that there's anything wrong with that.

I think if I spent less time describing things and let the screenshots do the trick, I might be faster. :p

[Rhoxi]

This continues to be interesting; I'm enjoying it. Hopefully Melissa can get some of these ideas rambling around in her head sorted out.

[CPericardium]

Part 7

Beneath the frescoes along the walls was an iron latticed grille suspended over the doorway leading to a shadowed corridor. Melissa briefly wondered why it was open.

With her palm on the wall panels at all times, she meandered through the corridor, poking her head into rooms to see if there was anything of interest.

There was not, until she reached the last room on the right hand side. The faint thrum of a dirge seemed to float out into the hallway.

She quickly dismissed it as a hallucinogenic side-effect of too much coffee. The actual room was dimly lit and her eyes were not entirely adjusted to the darkness yet, so it took a few seconds before she registered it.



It was the glowing moon-face of a hovering entity.

The fleshy creature was broad shouldered, tall and white as bone, save for its cloak of black that whirled across the floor when it swiveled and rose at the sound of her footsteps.
 
It stared right at her.

~

“Are those pants what all the cool kids are wearing now?” Melissa asked. She kneaded the wall beside her as she yawned, taking care to avoid a place where the wood had splintered.

Melissa may not have liked leaving their spacious palatial loft in Bridgeport, but she gave their new home in Twinbrook this: it had a treehouse.



Finding it during their inspection of the garden shortly after unpacking the furniture, her parents had warned her not to climb up into it, for the ladder had been rickety and notched. That had been fine with her. Not only had it looked like ground zero of a tornado, but she’d imagined there must be parasites and decomposing animals inside, and entire colonies of termites and spiders. She had been right, but her brother and father had been less content to let it lie. 

Over the holidays and weekends, while she moped in her room, they fixed it up. They replaced the rotten planks and retiled the roof. They scraped off the fungus nestling in the corners of the ceiling and the daubs of moss speckling the walls. They fumigated it upon discovering a nest of hornets in the rafters. After several misguided attempts at building a ladder and three or four visits to the hospital, they gave in and bought a sturdier one from the local hardware store.

And by the time the fresh coat of paint was dry, they didn't give it so much as a cursory glance again.

“Don’t you want to come up too?” she had called to her brother, from her perch. It looked so different from what it had been and she couldn’t help herself from plodding around inside just to hear her sneakers squeak on the floorboards. Theo had shrugged in reply, saying that going at it with a screwdriver and hammer was more fun than sitting in it. “The journey is more meaningful than the destination,” he had posited, sagely stroking his stubble. Then he’d retreated to the basement to play Skyrim.

Shaking her head at his folly, she had stretched out her legs and basked in the beams of sunlight that filtered through the planks. I don’t want to leave, she had thought, rolling with the unrestrained pleasure of a kitten batting at a ball of yarn.

Not a day went by that she didn’t visit the treehouse.

As time limped on, and the schoolwork piled on, she went there less and less. However, when she was depressed or needed a neater studying area, Melissa still liked to clamber up the ladder, sleeping bag in tow, and spend the night there. Her father even assembled a desk inside it for her to use.

The crickets got so grating at night, though! One night, she got in a mood, dusted off Venus’s old music box with the ballerina inside and took it up with her. Serenaded by the discordant lullaby of babbling insects and sped-up, high-pitched Tchaikovsky, she lay on her back and counted prime numbers until her eyelids drifted shut.
 
So it came to be that she was here on a drizzly Friday evening, squinting at Lord of the Flies and winding the music box up during the part when Simon was in the glade to set the atmosphere.



It was hard to concentrate with her brother prancing around in his admittedly splendid trench coat and admittedly much less splendid trousers. Tattered, frayed, and full of holes, they were the epitome of crude.

“They're more than cool,” Theo responded, preening. “They’re stylish. You... wouldn’t know.”

“And looking like a homeless tramp who covered his legs in glue and sat in a pile of leaves is the final word in fashion.”

“I could live in a sewer for a week and come out looking like a rock star. Know why?”

“Because you can’t buy class in sewers?”

“Because I am a rock star.”

Giving up on trying to read, Melissa sighed. “What are you doing up here, Theo?”

“Glad you asked!” He snapped his fingers. “Seeing as you’re going to be staying here for the night, it would be remiss of me to let pass an opportunity to tell you a bedtime story, little sis.”

How old does he think I am? “I’m not a kid anymore, Theo. Ghost stories don’t scare me.” Images of cocooning herself in her quilt after a few particularly disturbing tales of headless horsemen and mysterious white figures flitted through her mind. They were replaced by confidence that she could take whatever he threw at her, now that she was an adult.

“I wouldn’t expect them to. You’re the one who looks like a ghost, Red Eyes.” He folded his arms across his chest and raised his eyebrows. “Just saying, I have a story that will have you sleeping in Mom’s and Dad’s bed for a week.”

Melissa narrowed her eyes. “Try me.”

Theo waited until she had turned off her mantle lantern and was sitting cross-legged on the wooden floor. He slipped a torchlight under his chin and switched it on, illuminating his spectre-pale grin.



“In a bayou town not unlike this one, a young woman leads an idyllic life. She is bosom buddies with everybody in the neighbourhood. She has a rewarding job in a private law firm. She has a dashing, faithful young husband who loves her more than anything in the world. She has everything she’s ever wanted except for one thing: a baby.

On their second honeymoon, when both of them have a steady income, she tells her husband what she wants. He agrees to try.”



“Hold it!” Melissa waved her arms. “ If you’re about to tell me the type of stuff that’s in the magazines under your mattress, you can stop right there!”

Theo glared at her. “What – no! What kind of brother do you think I am? And stay out of my room!” Pacing around more rapidly, he continued.

“The first one doesn’t make it.

She and her husband are devastated, but as they stand over the ashes of little Noel, they resolve to keep trying.

The second one, little Quentin, doesn’t make it either. Nor does the third one, or the fourth, or the fifth.

A string of miscarriages, each one far bloodier than the next, leaves her weak and bedridden for years. She quits her job as a paralegal – even if she can somehow make the long daily commute, she can’t stay on her feet for very long without collapsing. Her friends and relatives do their best to keep visiting her in the hospital, but her ravenous need to have a baby alienates them. Even her family can no longer tolerate her self-pity. The number of people in her ward dwindle until the only one remaining by her bedside is her husband.



“Do you want to keep trying?” he asks. His youthful good looks have faded, as has his faithfulness, and all that is left is an old and weary man. “I don’t want to keep trying. It kills me to watch you get so excited and only end up hurt every time we try.”

“We’ll try again,” she says, in a firm tone that will brook no retort. “This one will make it. I know this one will make it.”

The next one never makes it.

Her husband storms into her hospital ward, his skin pulled tight over his forehead. “We’re not going to try anymore.”



“We will try again!” she insists. “We’ll have a girl. I know it.”

“No,” he says.

She begs him to stay, but just like everyone before, he goes away.



The divorce makes her almost penniless, and with the little money she has left, she is forced to move out of the bungalow to a seedy apartment which she shares with three other people. They're always on the streets, panhandling or begging; they're struggling to pay rent as she is. There are only two beds and two dining chairs. They store their clothes in a single tremendous wardrobe. The electricity gets cut within a week of her arrival. It is by the quivering penumbra of the candlelight that she cries herself to sleep, dreaming, in anguish, of a baby girl inside of her.

Finally, in the summer, she has little Lucy.”

Theo picked up the music box on Melissa’s desk and cranked it up as far as the key would go.



“What are you doing?”

“Any good story needs ambience, Melissa.”

The music tinkled gently. Entranced by the delicate twirling of the miniature ballerina figurine, they were still for a minute.

Theo erupted back into his story, with a campy deep voice.



“She is too addled with joy to question the miracle. To her relief, the doctors find no abnormalities. When people ask her who the father is, she tells them the name of her ex-husband. And each time, she smiles to herself, because she knows little Lucy is a special gift from God.

The next few weeks are ecstasy.



Lucy is healthy and glowing, with a little pink nose that snuffles and a little pink mouth that gurgles. Her amber eyes glimmer with the promise of a new life, a new beginning. Little Lucy is her angel, her spring flower, her silver lining in the storm.



The mother has a reason to live now. Her parents are thrilled with the news and mail her cheques for the child. She engrosses herself in her studies so that she can complete her degree. These sessions are interspersed with frequent checks on little Lucy, because nothing can lift the mother’s spirits like the sight of her baby’s rosy, dimpled smile.

It was one of those halcyon evenings that she winds up being alone in the apartment. Her roommates have been out since early morning and she's glad of it; she enjoys being the one to look after Lucy, to feed her and change her diaper all by her lonesome. Lucy is hers and hers alone after all. Lucy can't form proper words yet, but the mother is still charmed by her voice, her bubbling beautiful voice that speaks at a pitch only her mother can hear.

Her mother sits in the living room reading, satisfied by her last check that Lucy has been fed and bathed and swaddled comfortably in a cotton blanket. She's humming a dissonant tune that her baby made up the other day, when she hears it.



Clear as day, she hears the ear-splitting mewling of a baby in distress.



A fleeting draft prickles the skin of her neck.

Little Lucy is a good baby, a quiet baby. Little Lucy never cries.

Something must be terribly wrong.

The mother drops her book with a hard clatter, jumps up and darts to the bedroom.



Where’s the baby?



Where’s little Lucy?

Her muscles tense instantaneously. Counselling her rational side, she suppresses a shriek and launches into a painstaking inspection of the bedroom. Under the crib, on the bunk beds, inside every dresser drawer.

No Lucy.

The windows are closed. The doors are bolted. Lucy must have somehow figured out how to escape the crib, and how to crawl, and how to open the door...

She must be in the living room.



The mother squints by the feeble light of the candle, shaking. There is nothing. She can feel the empty expanse all around her. She can feel the cold.



A dark amorphous haze sweeps across her peripheral vision. She whips around, and there is little Lucy, lying in the centre of the carpet.



Running to pick her up, the mother almost whoops with relief. Nothing to fear. Her baby, her treasure, is safe.

But as soon as she has Lucy in her arms, a chilling fog descends over the living room.

It's the middle of summer.

Holding Lucy protectively, she backs into the wardrobe, her stomach clenching.



The curtains are billowing, even though there is no wind.

There’s something out there.

There’s something out there and it wants her baby.

Wrenching open the wardrobe doors, with Lucy gripping her shoulders, she pins herself to the back of the wardrobe.

The doors of the wardrobe slam in her face.

The mother pushes the doors, pushes and pushes but they won’t budge. She and Lucy are trapped.

Sweat beads on her face. The wardrobe is full of clothes, jackets and belts and shirts that slither across her face and obscure her vision. The air grows heavier by the second. Her laboured breathing reaches a fever pitch, and in a panicked frenzy she fumbles to peel the cloth from her baby’s face. What if little Lucy suffocates?

The rattling starts.

Lucy is bawling, a ceaseless, razor-sharp cackle that burns through the mother’s ears with nightmarish intensity. Instinctively, the mother clasps a hand over her mouth. Lucy’s breath whistles between the cracks of her fingers as she wrestles her own tiny arms out from under the blanket and scrabbles at her mother’s face.

Though terrified, the mother holds on, murmuring low words to pacify her little flower, her light in the darkness, we’re going to get out we’re going to get out don’t worry my darling we are – 

Suddenly Lucy’s throat constricts, denting grotesquely as if being crushed by unseen fingers, and then with a sickening crunch she bites into the mother’s palm, all the way to the bone, more hungrily than furiously – as a dog would ravage a slab of meat.

The mother jerks her hand away with a cry in agony. A flap of flesh dangles from little Lucy’s gnarled lips and her tongue judders against the roof of her mouth, spitting pink foam and burbling gibberish. The sound of wet sucking, of rasping and clicking reverberates through the wardrobe. Her pupils roll back and forth, dilated, piercing as marble.

No, the mother thinks desperately, you can take me, but you can’t take her. You can’t take my baby. I won’t let you.

Tenderly, she unravels the blanket around little Lucy and wraps it around her little pink mouth and her little pink nose. She cradles her tightly against her breast, kisses her sweet little head and waits for the thrashing to stop. The muffled gasps beneath the cloth are like a second heartbeat, rising and falling, rising and falling…

Little Lucy goes limp. The wardrobe stops rattling.

Now it can’t take little Lucy.

Clutching the motionless blanket, the mother slumps to the floor.

They find her hours later. Weeping and hysterical, she looks up into the eyes of her horrified roommates. You killed her, they say, aghast. You killed little Lucy!

No! she wails. It killed little Lucy! It killed my baby! It killed her! It killed her! It killed her! She cries over and over, pounding her fists on the floor. She shows them the jagged stripes down her face,  the crusting black holes in her palm, but they don’t see anything but her naked skin. They only see her bruised eye sockets and her flailing arms and her jaw locked in a soundless scream.

They take her where she won’t be a danger to herself or anyone else.

She’s safe here. There is light all around, and the walls cushion her head when she falls.



But sometimes, out of the corner of her eye, she can see a shadow slide past and leach into the floor even though there is nothing around to cast it.  Sometimes, when she’s curled up, foetal, she can feel a hot wind between her fingers as if there is something breathing there.

Sometimes, she can hear the unmistakable crying of an infant.
 
She pays it no heed.

She knows it can’t get her here, like it got little Lucy.”



The song of the ballerina oozed to a halt, but Melissa could still hear its trilling, savage echo.

“Are you trembling, little sister? Getting chilly?” Theo slipped the torchlight into his trench coat pocket without turning it off.

Melissa tucked her forearms under her knees and yanked her sleeping bag closer. “No,” she said brusquely. “I’m j-just trying to find a pulse. That was such a – a boring story.”

“Really? I thought it was pretty scary.”

“It wasn’t scary at all.”

Theo smiled. “Ah, well. Heh heh. I guess I’m not as great at telling ghost stories as I am at guitars.”

“I’ll say you’re not.” Melissa leapt up. She plucked her spectacles off her nose so that everything would be blurry.

“Good night then. I’ll leave you,” he said, turning the door knob and starting down the ladder, “alone.”



“Yeah…” Melissa felt her shoulders go rigid as she listened to his staccato footsteps die down. The ballerina continued to spin. “Thanks. Good night.”

[Luna]

Claps hand for 2947 words that you put in there. This was such a feat compare than the last update which has 895 words. I guess that you're really enjoying yourself all this time, so I wouldn't worry It's funny when you put so much realism in Sims world with thing that exist in real world, i.e: you even mentioned about Skyrim for a gamer like myself, I also familiar with what you mentioned about And always its nice touch to make your room is decorated. I liked the screenshot where Theo told Ghost story and you put that book beside her.

[Magpie2012]

Totally enjoying this! I might not comment much because I'm more of a "lurker" but just know that I think your writing is really cool!

[Eldridge]

Haha, it’s funny when I stumbled upon your story there always new words added to my dictionary and new things for me to learn about words and it’s fun to find out because I love this story. I won’t even bother seeking out the subjects that I hate especially mostly because of the teacher. It seems that you’re having fun playing with words there. You even make me to check my Oxford dictionary to find out what is that all about and when I found out I just say “ooh, I see” and finally understand why you chose those words as usual… 

I just wonder if you did that on purpose for seeking the words that fit into your story to add so many things. If that what makes your progression quite slow, maybe that’s can explain why, I salute you for take your time to improve the quality instead the quantity. I also love the details that you put in the screenshot just like the first time that I saw your story, that’s deep for add more feel and touch and it’s always neat to describe something that can’t even describe with word alone and the building that you used for Mellisa tree house just perfect, I love to see there’s a similarity.

I love that you mentioned about Tchaikovsky which I quite familiar of his works. Great taste for music choice, and he died on my birthday which is 6 November, one of my favourite is Slavonich March, in B-Flat Minor, Op. 31, I love the darkness and mysterious feel at the beginning and imagine about a disadvantage situation or a situation when us didn’t have any choice but to fight against all odd and Symphony No. 6 in B Minor Pathetique - 1 mov which has similar thing in common.

Speaking about Skyrim, I know about that but I’m afraid I can’t play that because of age limitation. You also mentioning about Lord of the Flies, which is really exist in our world, so much realism CP. Off my hat for you.

Haha, the way that Theo deny what Melissa said just make me believe that he hiding something more than just that. Tsk tsk tsk he’s not good with lying. Melissa also does the same; I guess siblings are much alike despite of their difference. I just wonder what the purpose of you telling us this story, is this story has connection to Melissa somehow in later chapter? No—just keep that to you, I want to reach out the truth for myself, with my own eyes. Great job, CP!

[CPericardium]

Merry Christmas Eve everyone! Unless you're in a dramatically different timezone, in which case Merry Christmas Eve Eve or Merry Christmas!

Luna:

Thank you! Ha this chapter was hard to write because I've never tried writing a ghost story before. It could have ended up much longer but I was writing in pitch dark myself so I kept thinking hurry up and finish it now... so you can see the parts which were rushed. I play Skyrim myself! And that game really is about the journey. But I included it mainly because I think it's funny when people say wise things and then go play games. I know I do it. And thank you again for mentioning the screenshots. I do like little details too.

Magpie2012:

Thank you for reading! I'm fine with lurkers, because I'm one myself. I'm glad you're enjoying my story.

Eldridge:

Thanks, it seems we have the same habit. Whenever I see an unfamiliar word I make it a point to look it up as soon as possible. But the progression is usually only slow for two reasons: screenshots because my game lags or planning what happens next. The writing actually goes pretty fast.

Ha it bothers me when there's a disparity between the screenshot and my description. Which happens often because I write before taking the screenshots.

I'm personally a Stravinsky girl but I'm happy you liked the mention of Tchaikovsky.
His sweet melodies are more fitting for a music box.

Theo is totally afraid of enclosed spaces. He's going to hurry down the ladder and run out into the garden after the ghost story.

There's symbolism in this part ... but I'm not going to say it.

[CPericardium]

Part 8



Melissa’s natural course of action was to grit her teeth and rise to her full height, before fleeing the room and nearly slamming into a preposterously ornate armoire in the process. Violent crashing noises ensued, which she assumed to be coming from the bowels of whatever Lovecraftian horror was lurching after her.



For the second time that day, she ran, crying out in a guttural yet respectable fashion, down the corridor, through the open portcullis, through the door on the left, and into the tiny chapel before –

A claw tapped her shoulder just as she reached the podium. Her heavily caffeinated blood froze. Spinning around, she prepared to tell it in no uncertain terms that if it thought she fraternized with eldritch abominations, it had another think coming. Instead, she saw that it had surprisingly human proportions.

Most telling of all was its surprisingly human voice.

“What, in the name of all that is holy, is going on in here?” rumbled the being, sitting down heavily on the front bench.



Melissa risked a peek at its leathery, liver-spotted face and saw that the black clothes looked a lot like priestly garb, judging from the clerical collar. She approached with caution. “What was all that ruckus? More of your sorcery?”

“You knocked down the candelabras.”

“Oh, well, I apologise. I’m afraid of ghosts,” Melissa explained, gravely, “and also Satan. You shouldn’t have snuck up on me like that.” She glanced at the trail of candelabras on the floor. “And those should be more durable.”

“It’s an ancient place.” He got up with a groan, walked over to a half-wall, and caressed it fondly, with a callused hand. “Don’t be fooled by its fastidiously maintained exterior – it’s been here since Twinbrook was founded. Speaking of here, and specifically what is here, who are you?”

Most tenuous segue ever. “Melissa. Melissa Sparks. And who are you?”



“I am but a man,” the man declared, arms akimbo. She could see he was a priest now. There was a crucifix on his vestments. “Names aren’t important. Now – let’s move away from this dreary place. Heaven knows, I spend enough time here.”

They walked side by side to the same dark room they had started in. Once the chandelier was switched on, it became clear that the shrouded Cthulhu’s lair was in fact a sparsely decorated alcove.

“What’s that?” Melissa pointed at the massive stone vault across the electric fireplace.



Her question ignited something in him. “Behold, the glorious sepulchre of the Lord!” The priest raised his hands, less a matter of drama than an earnest expectation that the earth would quake beneath his feet. It did not. If anything, the air became stiller than it had been before.

“Or at least its very ambitious replica!” he tried.

Dust motes remained suspended in the frail candlelight. Somewhere on a nearby tree, a trio of crickets began to chorus.

Melissa nodded politely. “And what’s that thin paperback on the altar?”

“It is a leather-bound tome,” he grumbled. “It’s the abridged version of the youth Bible. Onto more germane matters, what brings you to darken my door?”

“I got lost. I’m just waiting for my mother to pick me up.”

“Twinbrook’s a small town. I didn’t think anyone could get lost here if they tried!” He motioned for her to sit on an armchair while he claimed the one opposite.

She obliged, holding in a moan of relaxation as she eased herself onto the velvet upholstery. It felt like it had been hours since she last sat down. “I just moved to Twinbrook seven months ago. I don’t know the streets very well.”



“Sounds reasonable.” Turning on the fireplace with a remote control, he pursed his lips. “I expect you know most of the locals by now, at least. Maybe you’ve already gotten involved in Twinbrook’s unofficial gossip circuit.”

“I know the names of some of my classmates,” she admitted. “And rumours are for housewives in laundromats.”

The priest guffawed. “What rock have you been under for seven months, Melissa Sparks!”

Maybe it was the tranquil warmth of the fire, or the comfortableness of the armchair, or that this man was a stranger whom she wouldn’t see again, but Melissa did something she had never done before: she started to explain about her studies and school and worries about not being as smart or curious as everyone believed. In her hurry, she uttered the phrase that had been tormenting her for the past few months. “I know but I don’t understand.”



He did not look at her for a long time. “No,” he said, “Your problem is that you think you’ve already cleared the ‘knowing’ hurdle and are preparing to take on ‘understanding’ and that some invisible barrier is preventing you from doing it. But you don’t know. You haven’t even begun to know. Have you actually gotten round to learning about your town, Melissa Sparks?”

“It hasn’t been a top priority. Truth be told, the most I’ve seen of Twinbrook is what I’ve seen tonight and –”

“Do you know about the Twinbrook flood that hit six years back?" he asked suddenly.

“Yes, the worst flood to hit any town in years. The death toll was nearly two thousand," Melissa said, pouncing."I watched it on the news – ”

“Right, thirty seconds of footage,” he cut her off again, “I know because I was following it. Living it too, so believe me when I say the town never really bounced back. Oh, you’ll find so many wealthy, complacent folks round these parts, but ask them about the flood and watch them freeze in their tracks. It was a hard slog through a literal swamp to rebuild this place from the ground up. Threw a killing wrench in the mayor’s blueprints for a subway system. Even with the resources that got pumped into the city’s drainage project, you might have noticed half the town is still caked in quagmire.”



What does this have to do with anything? I was eight. “Are you done? I think I can empathise – ”

“No. You will never be able to empathise, and it’s not your fault, because you weren’t there, but you want to know, do you not? Well, the most vital part of knowing is appreciating. I’m asking you to appreciate the horror I’m about to lay bare to you. You watched. You understood that it dealt catastrophic damage and was therefore a bad event. But did you sit in dark by yourself for a measly minute longer and try to envision what it was like to cling helplessly to the bloated corpse of your grandmother with every drop of hope you could muster, every shred of your fingernails, because if you didn’t, you would surely sink and drown? Could you possibly imagine the cold? A cold that is like the bitter vacuum of space, and twice as dangerous. A cold that paralyses your muscles and weakens your will – the morals you so steadfastly held to, preached, even, when there was nothing at stake. The kind that would – would make you sacrifice a beloved friend so that you would live – just because he told you to do it.” His voice became a rough growl. “I expect you were shocked to discover how many of your friends lost their families to that flood.”

Melissa was silent.



“There was a rainbow, afterwards.” Tendrils of orange and yellow licked at the roof of the fireplace, their light bringing out the priest’s wrinkles as he spoke. “Arced right across the sky while we were wading through the debris and searching for survivors. It was pathetic, really, a pale shadow of the one they say Noah witnessed after his Great Flood. It made us all insane. How could any omniscient, omnipotent, omnibenevolent higher power believe that a few fuzzy bands of colour would make up for the incalculable tragedy that destroyed our precious community? And it couldn’t. We raged at the sky, the same sky that had rained upon us death and destruction, and when we were spent, we stood, hip-deep in mud, and smiled. Because even though we didn’t understand, there was nothing left to do but appreciate the simple beauties – like the buildings that were still standing and the people that were still there and...a few fuzzy bands of colour in the sky. It was either that or die alive.”

Melissa continued to be silent.

The priest clucked his tongue, seeming to remember she was there. “Ah, forgive an old man his ravings, Melissa Sparks. What are you thinking about?”

Melissa was thinking about how she had brushed off the natural disasters and school shootings and violations of human rights she’d read about in the news as uniformly horrific, but transient. She was thinking about how she had never visited or asked anyone about the infamous river on the outskirts of Twinbrook that had burst its banks during the torrential downpours of 2007, simply because she lived in an unaffected area.



She was thinking about the reason why some of her classmates’ parents never seemed to be available to attend PTAs.

“I was thinking,” Melissa replied, “that for such a grandiose church, the insides are a tad disappointing.”

“How so?” he asked, frowning. “Besides the candelabras.”

“The chapel was…” Melissa groped for a word other than ‘minuscule’. “Modest.”

“Decades of history reside within these walls.” There was a severe gleam in his eyes, like he was scrutinising her expression.

“I don’t doubt it,” she acknowledged hastily. “I’m sure, what with the celebrated reproduction of Christ’s tomb, and the, er, dozens of devout believers who attend daily service, and the dedicated priests who conduct them, there’s quite a – a fair bit of history here!”

“More than you might assume.” He looked at her with a mixture of consternation and pity. As if speaking to a particularly slow toddler, he said, “You really have no idea where you are, do you, Melissa Sparks?”

She regretted telling him her last name. “I do,” she retorted. “I am at St Victor’s Church on Puddlewick Drive. I read the sign.”

Instead of being impressed, the priest let out a huff. “I keep telling Jacob he has to change that thing one day. No, Melissa Sparks, you are not – technically – at ‘St. Victor’s Church’. At least, that’s not all it is.”

Melissa was irritated. She hoped whatever revelation was coming wouldn’t affect her mother’s route. “So – where am I?”

“I could tell you,” he said, beckoning her to follow him down the corridor. “But I think it might be better to show you.”

He led her out the door. They passed the marble statue on the lawn, vaulted over a white fence and zigzagged through a labyrinth of topiaries and fruit trees. Melissa shoved at the stray branches that smacked her in the forehead, bristling inwardly at the priest’s way of intensifying the suspense. This better not turn out to be a discothèque, she thought, glimpsing a flash of light as she crossed over the last barricade of scratchy bushes, until at last she saw the priest's bald head.

He was standing like a monolith in front of an oddly regular arrangement of smooth stones.

When she saw what they were, she inhaled sharply.



“Melissa Sparks,” the priest said. “Welcome to St. Victor’s Church and Cemetery, Twinbrook’s venerated home for the dead.”

[Eldridge]

Hi, it’s been two days I have my fun, how about yours? I hope that you’d the same, CP.

That old man scene was just too creepy to scare our Melissa out of nowhere. Ah, another unusual name there—Eldritch and the meaning are fit for the story, strange or unearthly; eerie. And it was a good description at something and how you blend your story with a reality elements or reference out there as explanation.

I often find the same thing in books that I read, that people also famous and his works are best-seller around the world but he’s not afraid to include what he know about his knowledge, he even mixed up all kind of teaching through people in his story to tell---that the difference is something that we must appreciated and give us a new colours. I guess that only limited to open-minded people who truly appreciate the difference is as people bound with their tradition, their past. It’s not their fault too.

I just wonder:

How long it takes to have good vocabulary like that you featured on your story. I know it must be take a long time, but I need your answer instead I just wondering. I’m usually end up with a simple word than yours. I guess that’s what comes up on my mind. And I never get bored; I always find another word to learn from yours, I guess so many new words out there, lol.

I wonder if you decorated the entire gravestone yourself by playing around with buydebug cheat. Did you do that on purpose for upcoming story? It’s like a symbol that you mentioned about?  Hm, I have no idea but just wondered.

You know some comments didn’t belong here; but I still want to write here, I know that you’ll not reply, I believe about that you will not, because you’re older than me and more responsible You can always PM me about that part, if you’re not busy CP and I don’t mind if you don’t reply at all, sometimes being silent just enough to explain everything

[Luna]

Is there something wrong or you just enjoy your holiday time? I have been busy with holiday so little time for me to lurk around

I'm a bit worried when I notice that you haven't update your story yet, but sometimes maybe writer's block hit some people. Hope that you’re doing well. What I can say, I enjoy everything that you included here. It looks like symbolism for Melissa and she must going this through something that she could experience herself for real instead having battle over her mind and heart. I think that was a nice idea. I wonder if that graveyard has some purpose in the later story as well.

I have been reading about Twinbrook place history and I'm surprised to realize that you considered about the part that people usually been missed about. Bravo for the author

[CPericardium]

Eld:

Saw your PM.

Luna:

Thank you for reading and for your concern. Sorry for the delay. Don't worry, there isn't anything wrong. Most of the next part is written, in fact, but there are a few chunks missing that I'm thinking about how to fill in. Add to that I haven't felt like writing for a few days, what with the going out with family and friends. I'm working on it now!

Haha, good of you to read about it. I just thought I'd explore a bit of the town's past seeing as the story revolves not only around Melissa, but also around the setting that influences her. That used to be Bridgeport. Now it's Twinbrook.

[CPericardium]

Part 9



A thick mist rolled over the field of graves. Melissa had to squat a little to read the names chiselled on them.

In Loving Memory Of
Bob-Andy Baker
1948 - 2007
Devoted Husband and Father

Forever In Our Hearts
Pattina Knack
1975 – 2007
Wife, Mother, Visionary

In Remembrance Of
Dudley Racket
1982 – 2007
Defender of the Law

Sleep in Peace
Emerald Greenwood
1999 – 2007
Precious Daughter of Oliver and Holly

That last one – Emerald would have been about her age, now.

She fell apart.

The priest didn’t notice. “Over here are the rich people’s resting places.” He sauntered over to the taller, more intricately carved headstones at the far corner of the cemetery with a spring in his step. "Everything’s better when you’re rich," he joked. “You drive a better car. You live in a better house. You leave behind a better stone. Never mind that no one takes care of whatever they leave.”



“Why did you take me here,” she said, very softly, nuzzling the syllables. There was a steady pulsing in her temples.

“This is only the left cemetery. For the victims of the flood, God bless their souls,” he said, maintaining his jovial veneer. “You should see the one on the right. There aren’t more graves, of course, but there is more ghostly phenomena over there. That cemetery’s reserved for the folks who committed suicide in the aftermath.”

Melissa felt the pulsing grow more erratic. She couldn’t think. She wanted to run. She wanted to tell him to shut up.

But the only words that ripped from her throat were, “WHY DID YOU TAKE ME HERE?”



~

“Thanks for taking me here, Venus.” Melissa splayed her hands out over the gritty sand. There didn’t seem to be a good foundation for a sandcastle anywhere. 



Swinging her legs on a bench, her sister exclaimed incredulously, “Are you kidding?”

Simultaneously they turned to look at the beach.

Discarded toys, broken boats, the charred remains of what probably had been a rocking bonfire, and other detritus were strewn over the sand. Bridgeport was an industrial city, and the fruits – rather, the unwanted maggots – of industry had transformed Smuggler’s Cove from a beach into a blemish. Role as dumping ground for factory waste notwithstanding, it was still the only beach for miles around, and a decent fishing location if one could see past the pollution.

They laughed.

“I only brought you along to hook the worms, squirt.”

“You’re fly fishing.”

“I am, aren’t I? Enough with the sitting around.” Puffing on a cigarette, Venus snatched up her fishing rod from the sand and made her way up to the surf. She rolled her back in a languid undulation and spread her arms as if embracing the arching tide. “Ah…I don’t want to leave. I mean, this place sucks and I hate it, but it’s got to be better than getting up in front of the whole school next week and going on and on about my ‘enriching experiences’ and ‘overcoming of obstacles’.”

She had been chosen to be class valedictorian and would be giving the closing address at her upcoming graduation ceremony. No surprise there, on top of her nigh impeccable grades, Venus was gorgeous and popular and charismatic. Everyone in the school, from the freshmen to the seniors, wanted to be her or with her. The more obsequious of her peers kissed her boots to win the affection she reserved for her close-knit group of friends.

But her most faithful companion had once confided in Melissa that, while she could talk to Venus and joke with Venus, she never felt like she could be friends with Venus.

Melissa had replied that she understood the feeling.

She had neglected to mention that she herself longed to be that aloof, untouchable person her sister was, never hurting and never alone. That person so high up on a pedestal that no one even strived to come close.



Venus held the cigarette between her strong white teeth, removing it occasionally to blow smoke rings. When she did, the smoke would mingle and rise in the sea breeze, forming a wispy halo around her cropped hair.

It was perfect. She was perfect.

Melissa blurted out the first thing on her mind. “Do you ever get lonely, Venus?”

Chuckling, Venus baited the hook with an artificial fly and cast the line with vigour. “What is this, Twenty Questions?”

“Let’s say it is. Do you ever get lonely?” Melissa pressed.

Venus recast the line and didn’t say anything at first. Finally, she tucked the cigarette to a corner of her lips and gave Melissa a crooked smile.

Her eyes were blue and piercing as the inside of a flame. Melissa felt like a moth, unable to look away.



“No.”

They lapsed into silence. In the distance, a buoy drifted on the cold, dark sea.

~
She fell apart, drowning on dry land, in undignified sobs and streaming tears.

Bright futures, snuffed out. Tangled webs of possibilities – the what may bes and what could bes and the what weres, snapped. People, wonderful, warm, peerless, incomprehensible people who had never asked for this, lost forever.

How many of them had died mid-prayer as the floodwaters swallowed them up? How many of them died crying?

She felt the sensation of warm arms pulling her into a tentative hug, and did not protest.



She hadn’t been there. And yet – yet she knew for certain that each and every one of them had died alone.

~

“My turn. How’s school?”

Melissa grinned. She liked talking about school. “Abby invited me to join her clique. I said yes. We’re friends now. Oh, and I’m top in the level for Maths again.”

“Friends? You think those girls are your friends? They’re only going to back-stab you. We betray, Melissa. It’s what we do.”

 A few days ago, Melissa had overheard Venus and her boyfriend getting into a row over whether he was cheating on her with her best friend. Evidently he had been. “I’m sorry about Keith.”

“Yeah, well. I never liked him.”

Didn’t you once tell me that you were going to run away together and elope? Weren’t you the one who said he and you were two halves of a whole and you couldn’t live without him? Melissa held her tongue when she saw the warning scowl on her sister's face.



“I hate our parents sometimes. God.” Venus adjusted her grip on the rod. “Just because I don’t want to further my studies… They’re never home and they still think they get to have any say in how I live my life. They never got on Theo’s case about college.”

“I don’t think they’re that bad…” Melissa essayed, scuffing the sole of her slipper on the sand. The foamy water sluiced between her toes.

“Of course you don’t. You’re too young to understand.”

Melissa was sick of older people telling her that. She had a brain. She did Maths at a college level. If she could understand advanced calculus, she could understand hatred, darn it. She tried again, “You’re really smart, Venus. You got a near-perfect score on the SATs. You have the top colleges in the world on their knees. Mom and Dad just want you to be happy. Successful. Fulfil – ”

“Don’t start talking like them,” interrupted Venus. She spat the cigarette onto the sand and crushed it out with the heel of her sandal. Then she gazed out into the vast waters before her, pondering. “After the ceremony, I’m blowing this city and never coming back.”

“Not even for me?”

A scintilla of uncertainty passed over Venus’s face. Then her eyes hardened. “Not even for you.”

“What are you going to be after graduation?” Melissa asked. She wasn’t offended. She recalled what Venus had told her a year ago: You do what you can to get out of here. That included leaving her kid sister behind.

“Who knows,” she said, wistfully. “Maybe a marine biologist. See how good I am at fishing.”

She didn’t look like she was good at fishing at all. The lure floated listlessly on the murky water, attracting nothing. It may not have been her fault. Smuggler’s Cove lacked a pier or jetty, so it was hard to reach the further, more populated parts of the ocean.

“I’ll miss you,” Melissa said quietly.

Venus snorted. “No, you’re not, Melissa. Sure, you’ll be sad after I’m gone. And once in a while, when you’re bored, you’ll think, “Boy, I miss Venus.” Those thoughts will become few and far between. You will move on. You’ll graduate from primary school, secondary school, move out to complete your studies at some prestigious university. You’ll find employment, probably in a big company, work your way up the chain of command. You’ll get married to a kind-hearted but clueless gentleman, and you’ll look at an extra wedding invitation and wonder whose name you were going to write on it. You’ll have children and their eyes will remind you of someone you can’t place. Then one day when you’re old and senile and staring at walls, you’ll say aloud, “Didn’t I use to have a sister?” And your grown-up children will shake their heads and whisper among themselves that their mom’s lost it, and wheel you off to a home where you’ll spend the remainder of your natural life alone and drinking porridge through a straw. ”

Melissa shook her head stubbornly. “That’s not going to happen. I’ll remember you always. I’m going to be like you someday.”

Venus’s eyes suddenly clouded over. Fiddling with the reel, she stared absently at the lone buoy inching further and further away from the shore. “Melissa, don’t be like me. Please, dear God, whatever you do – don’t ever, ever be like me.”

Melissa shrugged and wobbled on tiptoe, squinting to see the sun begin to sink. The view from where they were standing was not of a breathtaking horizon, but of the city’s skyline, which consisted of high-rise apartment buildings and shimmering billboard advertisements and an esplanade.



The wind flicked at the red streaks in her sister’s hair, and the amber light complemented the toned curves of her adult body as she cast the line again and again – battling a stormfront that refused to cooperate. Around her, the ebbing waves, the polluted beach, the sun itself were all silhouettes, all shadows, all faded backdrops compared to her tempestuous beauty.

It’s not just her eyes. She is a flame, realised Melissa, as brilliant as she is dangerous. It’s why we watch her but do not touch her.

So lost was she in her reverie that she nearly didn’t see the fishing line twitch.

It twitched again, more forcibly.

And again.

 “Venus…”



“Shhhh…” Her sister kept her eyes trained on the vibrating rod, her muscles taut. She anchored her feet in the sand, right in front of the left for leverage, and jerked backward and up. With a powerful pump of her elbow, the hooked fish launched into the air, a jet of water in its wake.

“You got it you got it yougotityougotityougotit!” Melissa screamed, caught in the salty spray.

The line swung pendulously, stretching from the weight of its wriggling red-skinned cargo. Flushed with the strain, Venus started to reel it in.

Melissa saw her sister’s knuckles turn white as she wrestled the fish towards her. She saw her sister’s undaunted face contort with determination, fighting the rod as much as the fish. I want to fight like that, thought Melissa. I want to be that strong. I want to be that brave. In that one moment she thought she saw Venus, the Venus her sister had so assiduously hidden from the rest of the world, beautiful and ugly – a flame, a gaping wound, a star in the darkness.



But she couldn’t fight for long enough. Venus hadn’t counted on the fish being so heavy. Her feet lost purchase on the wet sand and she stumbled. The rod was almost wrenched out of her hands; she couldn’t keep the tension on the nylon. Taking advantage of the suddenly loose line, the fish slipped off the hook. It dived back into the water, clumsy, slapping with fins and floundering to reorient itself.

And then, as with everything before, it went away.

Venus did not watch it go. The rod quivering in her fist, she stood on the edge of the shore. Her breath came out in rapid gunshots.

“I-it’s just a fish, Venus…” Melissa ventured timidly.

Venus whipped around, livid. “Just a fish? Just a fish? Don’t you see? It’s the carrot on the stick they dangle in front of you! The one bright spot of hope in this – this hellhole! You wait and you wait for as long as you can but you know you’re gonna bite and then you do and they pull it away and there’s nothing you can do!”



Melissa opened her mouth to apologise, but quailed under her yelling.   

Venus flung the rod as hard as she could into the ocean. It bobbed back up to the shore as soon as the tide came in. That only seemed to make her angrier. “The price of hope is disappointment! The price of love is loss!”



She stalked away, muttering under her breath.

Melissa heard what she said all the same.

“The question you need to ask yourself is, is it worth it?”



The buoy was no longer visible from the beach.

~

“Why are you crying?”

Because the price of life is death, she thought, but she couldn’t explain it well enough – couldn’t explain why she was weeping over people she did not know, had never known and would never know. Fighting to regain her composure, she shrank away from his arms and rubbed her nose. Her fingertips came away wet. “W-w-w-why are there so – so many?” she asked, and cringed at how she hiccupped. “The grave markers are c-close together. There can’t be b-b-bodies in the ground.”



“You’re right,” the priest said, sounding relieved that she had stopped crying. “Bodies go to Ivy Hill. Most of these are ashes of the cremated. Some people don’t like to keep them in urns, although we have plenty of those in the columbarium.” He cleared his throat. “Makes them feel better – if they’re not dispersing them over the sea, they’re burying them in the ground. Just as well. We need the space.”

 “It looks well-kept.” She thought back to what the priest had been talking about earlier. “So…the rich don’t come to mourn?” she asked.

“I didn’t say that. I would never. That would be a reprehensible blanket generalisation and I couldn’t call myself a man of God if I said that. It’s also not true. The rich do mourn. When one of their kind dies, they come here in droves, with extravagant bouquets and trinkets to place at the graves. Their donations number in the thousands, which we’re thankful for – after all, this place relies on rich people to stay standing.”

They looked out over the lavish, colourful sunflowers and Madagascar periwinkle and marigolds blossoming in vases next to the graves.

“Of course the rich mourn.”



Gingerly, he nudged a few potted shrubs out of Melissa’s line of sight to reveal that the corner was overgrown with weeds. A peaty mess of shrivelled carnation petals had stained one of the headstones so badly that its inscription was illegible. Wild rabbits had gorged themselves on the pretty yellow chrysanthemums planted in the grass and all that was left was wilted remnants. Puckered roses lay in sorry clumps, shoved aside to make way for fresher blooms and new bulbs.

“But they don’t grieve.”

Melissa still felt embarrassed over her outburst. She wanted to contradict him. “That is a blanket generalisation,” she said evenly.

“It’s an apt one. There are more types of rich people than you think, Melissa Sparks. You’re thinking ‘money in the bank’ rich.”

“Oh? And what other types of rich are there?”

“There are people who have time,” he said by way of response, shuffling in the direction of the church. “Time to make friendships, time to spend with their loved ones, time to cultivate faith in something, and yet they are profoundly lonely. Why do you think that is?

“Well, they obviously can’t afford it,” Melissa replied defensively. She ran over to him. “They need the time to do other things. Like…study. Learn.”

“What could be more important to learn about than other people? We are social creatures, and even if you can separate your curiosity and your human need to be with other humans, you can’t reject the truth that everything comes from us. The arts and the sciences; the past, the present and the future; the sins and the virtues… everything comes from us. We complete the circle.” A deep sigh escaped from his lips as he gazed at the stones. “Too often we learn more about people in their death than we do while they’re still living.” His eyes were bright as he put a hand on Melissa’s shoulder. “Cherish the ones you have, Melissa Sparks. Do not grieve that which you have not lost, and especially do not mourn that which in front of you. It’s a sad day – a day worth grieving – when we convince ourselves that being happy isn’t worth it.”

Melissa left the priest's side to take one last lingering look at the gravestones. Then she turned back to the him. “Now – I would like to go back to the chapel, Father. Alone, please. If you don’t mind.”



He eyed her warily. ‘You’re not going to wig out again, are you?”

“I’ll see you at tomorrow’s Requeim,” said Melissa, not batting an eye. “Goodbye, and thank you.”

He let her go.

~

The chapel didn’t feel so small anymore. The vertigo hit her like a train; she felt claustrophobic in her own skin.



Walking down the aisle to distract herself from the nausea, she tried to visualise death. It was something like the unfathomable hollowness in her chest and belly right now – like the abyss between the blink of an eye. It was a hole, an absence of everything – no now, no before, no after. In the end, there was nothing. She wouldn’t even know she wasn’t alive.

She wouldn’t know, and that scared her most of all.

She fell apart, and this time, at the podium, she allowed herself to be calmed by the thought of living, breathing people seated on the rows of benches before her, communing to honour the passage of the devoted, the loving, the soldiers and the fighters, the weak and the yielding.

And later, they would go out for tea together, have facetious discussions of doughnuts and comics, and lounge in the sublime and blissful company of one another.



As important as it was to tend to the memory of the dead, the fact of the matter was that the living were the ones left behind. They were the ones who had to go on, through sadness and happiness and anger and emptiness, and whether it was worth it or not, they went on.

Nothing lasted, except for death. The priest had been wrong. She wasn’t rich with time – nobody was. Time was woefully, woefully scarce.

She just hoped she had enough left to learn how to be happy.




~~~

A/N: Apologies for the way-too-long delay. Felt tired. Didn’t feel like writing lately, but today I thought I’d get this over with. Screenshots could have been more accurate. But game. Laggy. Didn't want to retake. Good night. Stay tuned for the last part, Part 10.

[Eldridge]

I notice there is unusual stone there, is that included in expansion or stuff packs? Or it was a CC? I never saw that one before. It's a good one to included original townie names there. Hmm, interesting way to say that different tombstone related to social status, but you are right that also could explain about that.

To be honest it was complicated background story and I get lost into it. It took time for me to understand it well, talking about reality elements are always harsh but that was the truth in our world that we living in. To see What a Wonderful World is truly based on people perspective how they see the world through their eyes. The old man that I met ever said this to me: “If you want to see the beauty of the world you must clean the window of your heart.” And that what also lost from us when we grow up, the children usually have it, they look into the world with their innocent eyes, without suspect anything and loved it.

I also sick as Melissa but I’m not good at Math, I just a person who loves asking question and curious about everything---and must learn to stay away from personal thing as well.  I also could learn what Venus has been through it seems she has lot of burden for being parents expectation as well, maybe she already has her future decided for her as well? I don’t know but that’s the first impression that I could get from reading her background story.

It always good to consider how about other feeling as well, that was Venus truly feels and no one ever understand that, her parents might be see her as a perfect being, a good example without truly look her as a real person, a girl that has her own dream, desire. But looking at Melissa and Venus relationship could explain some part of Melissa that left unexplained in the previous chapters.

And the good advice and explanation that put in there as well, it’s a nice touch and it was deep, deep to understand it well. I always loved to see that as well it give me more things to consider about life itself. Thanks again for sharing this. I love all the screenshot but the most I love is the last screenshot! It seems Melissa finally learn something from her journey at this creepy place with creepy old man

I just wonder why your game is laggy?

And it took much time to get the finishing line CP. Gee, you never lack of new words for me to learn as well and it exhausted me so much you know. Thank you for that, I learned so much even I don’t know how to use it yet! *giggle* Thank you for the update; look forward for the last part! Glad that I could see your story until the end it’s another joy for a reader like me and I'll wait for the upcoming story of yours

Congratulations on getting 1000+ views! As usual comments that not belong here always could be answered through PM, CP. It always fun to talking and discussing thing with you XD

[CPericardium]

Part 10

“Hey, Melissa.”



“Hm?” Melissa glanced up from her stack of textbook outlines to see the freckled, grinning face of Edith Abernathy. “Oh. Hi, Edith.”

Edith was on the track team, and after training she would always look for Melissa in her usual spot in the library to ask her to go gallivanting around town with her.

Melissa would always decline.



“Geez, are you always studying? Newsflash, Lissy, CAs are over.” Edith craned her neck to peer at Melissa’s notes. “Bleh, Literature. I dropped that subject last year. How is reading fun?”

Silently, Melissa agreed. She ended up responding, “Productivity can be fun.”

The sharp flutter of Edith’s lashes betrayed how amazed she was that Melissa was actually engaging in conversation.

Do I really not talk that much? she wondered.

Nonetheless, Edith regarded her seriously. “Yeah, well, we aren’t made for productivity.”

We aren’t made for productivity!? Melissa’s eyes widened a fraction. It was the most ludicrous notion she had ever heard.



If that was true, she might as well have be the victim of a cosmic practical joke.

If that was true, she might as well give in to empty hedonism. She should be under the bleachers, smoking cat excrement and doing bath salts.

She might as well be an amoeba, with no aspiration to rise up the food chain, no desire to stand above.

It was all – so very…

Childish.

It made a surprising amount of sense, though, didn’t it?

So caught up in the travails of being gifted, of working harder, of learning faster, she’d forgotten what it was like to be a child. Thinking, knowing, understanding, appreciating – when was the last time she had tried feeling?

There was nothing to do but laugh. She did.

Edith looked at her in mild shock. “Uh, Josie and Lauren and I are taking the 143 to The Red Rendezvous. We have to celebrate that the exams are over, don’t you think?” she said, wiping her sweaty nose on her PE shirt. She seemed nervous.“Want to hang out with us?”

There were post-exam activities she had yet to begin – like committing Twinbrook’s street plan to memory and boning up on Chemistry. There was that trip to the public library she had been delaying. There was that research paper on religion she had to complete. ‘Hanging out’ with her classmates would put her several hours behind schedule.

Her lips curled to form an instinctive no, but the word hitched in her throat.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

She thought of another Melissa Sparks with an affinity for wasting time, who cared less about knowing and more about doing; a Melissa Sparks who stared into the face of infinity and did not flinch; a Melissa Sparks who lived and loved without regrets. A Melissa Sparks who could afford everything, not because she had boundless resources, but because everything was worth it.

Edith was getting up to leave.

In that moment Melissa realised that the future was not a climb, but a plunge.

“Edith.”

“Yeah?” She stopped. “Look, I know what you’re gonna say. No, no and no. I don’t know why you can’t just spend one evening –”

“Edith, wait. I’m sorry. I’ll go with you if you answer a question.”

Sitting back down, Edith furrowed her brow. “I’ll try, but if it’s some ‘who is more mature: Romeo or Juliet?’ crud, I’m gonna leave without you.”

“It isn’t,” Melissa assured her, “and Juliet is more mature.” She took a deep breath, and asked, “How do you do it?”

“Do what?”



Yes, do what?

A week ago, the question would have been, how do you stay on top of your studies while having time to go out?

The question would have been superficial, yapping at the heels of what Melissa really wanted to know, but never sinking a good meaty bite.

The question had changed. The question was now, how do you not buckle under the crushing weight of being alive, when there are so many dead around you who could deserve it more?

She thought about the night she found out that Twinbrook was broken courtesy of a baptism by fire that had lain waste to its infrastructure, delaying progress for years on end and sending two thousand people to an early grave.

Twinbrook was broken, but it had endured. Twinbrook had been rebuilt from the ground up. Twinbrook was the product of its people, and its people were brave and strong.

She was neither. There had been fissures in her armour from the very start, many of which she had overlooked in her quest for knowledge. If she hadn’t gotten lost that night, hadn’t found the church, hadn’t spoken to the priest and seen the cemetery, she wouldn’t have fallen apart. What did it matter, though? Strength was born from collapse. She didn’t have to be complete to be perfect, and she didn’t need to be perfect to be happy. She should be happy that she was conscious, capable of dreaming and laughing, of crying and grieving. She was so lucky, and she hadn't even made the most of her luck.

The question was now, how do you put faith in something so small and insignificant as friendship and pointless conversations and an evening spent playing foosball and drinking fruit juice at a local haunt with a group of classmates?

A single phrase – one that she couldn’t remember the origin of – buzzed through her mind: You do what you can to get out of here.

It had not occurred to her that there might be things on the inside worth staying for. Why had she perceived any kind of bulwark between the others and her? Well, because she had illustrated it. She had put her best efforts into keeping them at arm’s length; all this time she had thought of her classmates as a them rather than an us. It was not unjustified – take away either the self-imposed social isolation or the excessive ambition, and she was still not quite like them. They were secure and confident. They seemed to have whatever they were searching for in their sights already, while, as always, Melissa was lost. As always, she was alone.

She tried to imagine what the other Melissa Sparks would say to her.

“What are you looking for?” Melissa Sparks asked, with a gentle smile and an eye pressed squarely against the lens of her telescope.

“I don’t know.”

“Then why are you looking?”



Maybe she had everything she needed to know, right now. Maybe fear was no basis for loneliness, and everything she had ever been was still there in the dark night.

The question was now –

“Well, if you’re not going to clarify,” said Edith impatiently, “are you coming or what?

The question could wait. She shook her head, and smiled. “I’d love to.”













THE END


~~~

…would you believe I wrote most of Part 10 while I was writing Part 1? I thought about doing an epic denouement in which Melissa got turned into a dragon and trekked to the centre of a volcano to find her lost soul, but it wouldn’t fit the tone and shorter is usually better.

Thank you, good readers, for following the plotless non-adventures of one Melissa Sparks for so long. I hope you enjoyed her walking around and being sad. Comments are very much welcome.

[Luna]

Congratulations on the finishing line. Well, I try not to comment in the last chapter just want to see your determination and that was great you still continue until the end. I enjoy this story so far, I’m sorry not mean, to be mean, but it is just me? It seems that this chapter looks effort-less, especially looking at how many screenshots that you put here in the end and without any single word that you usually put in. Did you do this on purpose? The last part is only about 1225 words overall. Did you rushing thing? Or you stuck with idea that you couldn’t realize in here after all due to some reasons.

P.S: You should go to the first thread of your and edited to add complete. Just click here and click modify. If you don't know how, just ask Moderator Look forward for your next story as well.