VII. Echoes
As told by Milo
Spring break. I was unpleasantly woken up by the breaking dawn as the rays of sunlight fell into my room. As I came to my senses, I felt the soft material of my blue pawed sleeper all around me, and the soft plush of my stuffed shark's head under my chin. My muzzle was occupied suckling a pacifier, and my hips and tail were snugly embraced by a soft diaper.
As I rolled over to lay on my other side, I reached across the bed, where I expected to find Nina. However, my hands only found air in the place where her body used to lay. It was no longer Monday, but Tuesday morning. She had been with me the day before, but now, I was alone again. I got out of bed and started my morning routine.
Being alone is a state of mind I have become familiar with, but I guess I will never get used to it. I do not like Tuesdays. They are too close to the start of the week and too far away from the end. Worse, however, was my parent's car accident. They had died on a Tuesday, two weeks after I turned ten years old.
After their burial, I have not visited their grave often. Some people like to regularly pass by the graves of the people they lost, to make sure it does not look like the grave has been forgotten. Or, rather, the person to whom the gravestone on top of it refers to.
My grandparents fall into this category, but I do certainly not. Personally, I do not feel the need to visit a slab of limestone. After all, only the physical remains of my parents are buried at the graveyard. The people they were, their characters, all of that is gone. All that is left are the memories inside my mind.
However, today was different. For some reason I could not put a finger on, I felt the need to visit the graves of my parents again. It had been a few months - I only do that when I feel abandoned, or when I have something to say that would have made my parents proud.
Ever since Nina entered my life, I have not deeply felt loneliness. It is still there on a daily basis, but her love for me covers the grief I feel. Despite all she has done for me, she has not managed to cast out my sadness, and I have no idea which of us is the limiting factor.
I pondered that question, as well as similar questions, while I rode my bike to the Dandelion Field Memorial Garden, where my parents were buried. The questions were interspersed by reflections concerning the tragedy I was writing.
Somehow, I was glad I did not have to write a comedy, as those are really not my forte. On the other paw, writing a tragedy means I draft a story about the inevitability of death, or a metaphorical rendition thereof.
During my writing, I regularly felt like everything in my life eventually debouched in death. I was seriously struggling with the question whether or not I should kill one of the characters in my play. Alternatively, I could let both of them die, but that would almost certainly be going too far.
I put my bike in a bicycle stand and locked it, thinking how silly it is to lock your bike at a graveyard. Who on Earth is going to steal a bike at a such a place? Discarding that thought, I passed under the old stone archway that served as the entrance of the memorial garden.
In the archway, the words 'Dandelion Field' were engraved in ornate letters. Below that name, the stone read 'Hynsteblom Fjild'. I recognized the words as Draconic, but although I do not understand that language, I knew those words had to mean more or less the same. Most people from the Dragon Islands, off the northern shore, buried their deceased on the mainland.
Although they all speak Evarónian, they also have their own ancient language, which most Dragons learn as a form of culture. I never visited any of the Dragon Islands myself. Austerely, I would go there on vacation with my parents during the summer holiday of the year they died.
After their burial, I asked my grandparents not to take me there. It felt like my mind tried to make me believe there was some kind of curse on that place. Of course, such thoughts are nonsense, but I was ten years old back then, and I still feel an inexplicable repulsion towards those islands.
As I passed the rows of graves, walking over a gravel path, I could not help but notice how many people had already been buried there. Dandelion Field was built two centuries ago, so the amount of graves more or less made sense, but being in a place with so many dead people made me feel nauseous.
Nevertheless, the graves of my parents were at the second to last row, at the end of the series. I sat down on the gravel path, in front of the gravestone, letting the cool morning breeze ruffle my fur.
There was nobody else but me, which once again affirmed the feeling of loneliness deep inside me. The grave is nothing but a slab of limestone, but even after ten years, reading the words engraved in it still feels like walking barepawed on broken glass.
KEVIN R. HALL
Evarónian Shepherd
* 1643-07-14
† 1682-05-29
"Let tomorrow have its way
with the promises we made."
EMILY G. LARKIN
Hare Indian Dog
* 1644-03-15
† 1682-05-29
"In life and death,
we are inseparable."
Staring at my paws, I could no longer contain myself. I had to get the words off my chest, even though I knew my parents would not be able to hear me.
"Hi Mom, it's me, Milo. It's been a while since I was last here, but you probably know that. I don't come here very often anymore, that doesn't offend you, does it? I don't like to be in this place, I'm sorry."
I sighed.
"I haven't slept well in what seems like a century. Only when Nina is next to me can I sleep peacefully. Sometimes, I hurt so much I can barely breathe."
Looking up at the gravestone, I read the two quotes for the umpteenth time.
"Heh, 'In life and death, we are inseparable'. That's true, Mom, it's true. Sometimes, I wish it wasn't. I-I... I can't remember your face, except from photographs. The only living thing I can imagine is your voice. I remember the lullabies you used to sing for me, but they won't let me sleep! Your voice still serenades me, but the melodies haunt me..."
Had I just insulted my mother for being in my memories? I hope not.
"A part of you is always with me, but I'd rather be with you. It's killing me, Mom. I sometimes feel like I'm dying inside."
Letting out a sniffle, I read the words below my father's date of birth and death. 'Let tomorrow have its way with the promises we made'. He said that a lot when people overconfidently made a promise.
"That's something you taught me. Don't make promises you can't keep, and don't promise if you're not sure. You were my foundation, Dad. I know you were proud of me, and you wanted to teach me how to be a grown up dog. Grandpa has taken that place for a long time, but now he's dead too."
I sniffled again.
"Who's going to be the dog I can build on? There's nobody left to be my father figure anymore. Now who's going to teach me how to grow up and be a good man towards Nina? I want to follow your directions, but look at what I've become. In contrast to Mom's, I can hardly hear your words anymore, they're slipping from my memory."
I picked up a pebble from the path, running it across my pawpads, trying to distract myself from the torrent of emotions rolling over me. With a frustrated sigh, I got back on my paws, and angrily threw the small stone into the bushes next to the grave.
"It's so frustrating!" I yelled, gritting my teeth and stomping my paw.
Realizing one should not shout at a graveyard, I flinched, even though I was probably still alone. I took a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm myself down somewhat.
"Sometimes, I miss you so much, my sorrow makes me sick. I want to be with you again, with both of you. I have to keep on living, though. If I'm gone, Granny is going to be sad, and I couldn't do that to Nina, either. I don't even know how I got to this point in time, but I've come too far to give up and fall back. I don't want to go on, but I don't want to leave either."
By now, I had to do my best to refrain from crying. I did not want to shed tears in front of my parents, even though they were not there anymore. I had to be strong for them, this time. I had cried enough the handful of times I'd been here before.
"Whenever I do something you could've been proud of, you're not there to praise me, and when I've failed, you're not there to pick me up and tell me everything's going to be fine again. You're gone, and you won't come back. You left me, Dad, and you promised not to. I... I can remember the last thing you said to me, before you got into your car."
_ "Now that you're ten years old, you can stay home alone for a little while, can you?"_
_ "B-but why? It's stormin' an' stuffs."_
_ "Don't worry, kiddo. We won't be gone forever."_
_ I stared at my paws._
_ "Okay... You'll return soon enough, right?"_
_ "Of course we will. It's only for two hours."_
Two hours. Only two hours. They never came back. Fighting back my tears, I suddenly relaxed. Somewhere in the ravel of my thoughts, I had solved a question. Like anything worth writing, it came suddenly and inexplicably. The answer, however, did not relate to my parents.
"Mom, Dad, I have to go. There's this theatre play I'm writing, and I finally know how it should end. Thanks, I guess... f-for still being with me, I mean."
Twenty minutes later, I was back home. Sitting at my dinner table, I enjoyed a sandwich while I wrote the showdown and ending of my play. It was surely going to be a tragedy now, and I almost felt guilty for the main character.
The only remaining problem was the size of the cast. Every freshman had to perform in at least one play written by a senior students, so I had two actors 'assigned' to me. However, I needed an additional two people to as background actors to play minor roles.
I made a mental note to call Andy, my senior group member. Usually, partners would write the play together, but Andy let me write the script in return for letting him direct it. I was happy with the arrangement, because I would not have to do anything at the actual performance, except maybe helping the scene-shifters.
That way, I would not have an active role, or at least, not in full view of everyone. I do not like being in the center of attention, it makes me feel awkward. Making this deal with Andy was my way of not having to be stared at by over two hundred pairs of judging eyes.
Andy was a board member of a local student society and therefore knew a lot of freshmen. I would ask him to get us two additional actors for the background actors. They would not even need to perform on stage, so the exercise would not strain their other obligations.
Once I had finished the draft of my script, I dug out my cell phone to make the actual call. I almost dropped the device when it suddenly rang. Still somewhat startled, I read the name and number on the screen. It was Nina.
"Hiya Milo!" she said mirthfully.
"Hi princess. What's up?" I said, trying not to sound depressed.
"I just had a chat with Marge about the artwork I'll be doing for your play. I needed some tips for a darker style, since it's a tragedy. It is, right?"
"Yush," I said, looking at the screen of my laptop, glancing over the last few lines of the script. "It's very much a tragedy."
"Well, I figured you'd need images that are darker than I'm used to. Anyway, Marge gave me some pointers, but she also offered to paint the background image for the third act. It's always the third act of a tragedy that's the saddest, isn't it?"
"Usually. With this one it is. But what's the deal with Margaret? Don't get me wrong, I'm totally okay with her offering help, but why did she?"
"Let's say she has her reasons. First of all, she has had trouble dealing with the car accident she and I experienced. She hopes painting a dark piece will allow her to purge her negative memories onto canvas, so she can be done with them," Nina explained, but then the tone of her voice grew hesitant. "There's something else as well, but I'd like to discuss that later. It's something kinda sensitive, and I don't like to talk about that over the phone."
"Um, okay? Are you alright? You sound like something is wrong," I tried.
What was that about? Had she met someone else and was she going to break up with me? Usually, Nina was not this evasive.
"Don't worry, it doesn't concern me. Or you, for that matter. It's something about Margaret herself, but we'll talk about that later."
"That's fine with me. By the way, I've just finished the draft of my script. We're probably going to make some changes, but it won't be anything major. I'll email it to you, so can you make sure Margaret gets a copy?"
"No problem, I will," she reassured.
"Oh, and I know this is unnecessary, but I'd like the two of you to not talk about my play with other people. The content should stay a secret until the night of the exam, okay?"
"Of course, I won't! That would ruin the surprise!"
I faintly grinned.
"Thanks. Anything else I can help you with?"
"Nope, that's all. See you again on Friday, little angel."
My tail wagged at hearing Nina's favorite nickname for me.
"Buh-bye pwincess!" I said in my puppy voice, although it did not sound convincing to me.
After she had ended the call, I noticed my last comment had felt unusually forced, as if I wasn't able to make the smallest connection to my puppy role.
I sighed. "Not this again..."