[This is a short story I wrote some time ago, it's a little rough, but it was bore from a piece that's lived in the back of my head for a long time. I wish to revisit these characters eventually.]
Once when I were a boy, I knew very little of the world and the weight of what the things I spoke had truly carried. I spoke words that I didn’t quite understand, I threw around phrases that I now greatly find myself ashamed of. I were never concise nor careful of most things I said, and the world ended up punishing me for that. I suppose I should tell you how I’d gotten here, understanding that words are- quite the detestable thing- frankly. I discovered, as a young lad, that word could paint far more than colors and canvas ever could- at least, in such a concise yet vastly interpretable manner. I suppose a good number of things, might I affirm, that happened in my youth, aren’t important enough to mention. Suppose I’ll start by assuring you I weren’t always a loose lipped fellow- aroused by every precisely dressed young lady with a voluptuous bust and extentiated bustle. I were a young lad who had no appetite for such vices, rather, I were quite the curt and unpopular kind of fellow. I had very few acquaintances, and even lesser friends.
When I were that young man I found myself rather repulsed by the arts, no honeyed word, dance, song, nor painting would make me think otherwise. Frankly, I fret I missed many divine experiences because of that. I suppose it cannot be helped, I can’t go and change the past. When I were still that man, you could’ve shown me Ruben or Davinci’s work and I would likely respond with little more than a curt, disinterested nod. I weren’t much for words either, oh no, how I hated speaking. I could write if it were asked of me, or recite a full thesaurus, but I promise you that that young fellow hadn’t entirely understood a word in his life. Upon this american soil, I’d trekked far from my home to pursue my goal, but it weren’t a dream cultivated by a young boy, oh no, because if it were I’m sure I’d have cared more about words and their less academic definitions; rather, I were a cold machine of a young man who simply allowed his aptitudes to dictate his decisions.
I took to my studies, as imprudent as always, and if I were to continue forth, you’d likely get bored and leave. I wouldn’t blame you, most of my class had abandoned their studies rather quickly, whittling down from a grand three hundred students to a pitiful forty three. What is it I studied you may ask? Well, the irony was that I wanted to be a linguistics expert. Truely, a man who had never entirely understood what a word meant wanted to work with them. How quaint. I made few friends, but one lad I felt quite the affinity for.
Like me in every way he was, a few years older than I, as he were already a doctor. If you were to ask me now how I felt of him, I wouldn’t say I have the same affinity now as I had then. He’d proved to be quite the repulsive gentleman. He worked as a medical examiner, and he’d allow me into his lab after usual hours for some extra more in depth instruction. I’m afraid I took it as no warning then how at peace with himself he appeared with a scalpel and a corpse. I’m afraid I don’t like reminiscing about him, and he’s mildly unimportant, at least for now.
It were about halfway through that first year where I’d begun interning at a local forensics agency, and within that place I’d started learning the truth behind words.
She were a young woman, well put together and quite bright eyed. She gleamed with a sort of self-importance that never teetered into narcissism, which in some way made her charismatic. She spoke firmly- like a speech at times- always with the same incredible and respectable dictum; but when you spoke to her directly, her voice fluttered and flirt- like the feathers of a bird, her words danced rhythmically like a poem or a song. On some days she spoke somber, her gaze firm yet longing, and her words rung cold, yet beautiful and wise, like a choir in the hall of a great man’s wake. When I first met her I thought her words were but a farce, a dream driven young woman who wanted to sound wise and profound, and yet- I discovered quickly that they were not vinere at all. They were her art, her favorite art.
I hadn’t understood at the time, of course, how could I? In her shadow I were but a scholar, a boy with a blunt tongue and an absence of secondary lyrical thought. I used words as they were prescribed and nothing more, and in some way I envied her. I had no art, my words were no beautiful dance, song, nor painting. To me they were words, objective parts, with meanings and definitions defined only by others like themselves cultivated from a lexicon that I feel I had no right to use! Words! To me they were descriptors of the world, blatant, cold, just as I were, without further definition than the one prescribed to it by some academic- and yet, I envied her. I envied her visage, I envied her mind, I envied her thoughts, her dreams, her everything. If I weren’t such a fool then I would’ve realized that I loved her- but I were a fool, and I were blunt, curt, and cold. I thought I resented her because speaking to her made me realize she were everything I were incapable of being.
I hadn’t even known her name.
Of course, I know it now, and I know now why she loved them so; Words, anyway. She and I found one another often at libraries, or at least I found her often. I were certain that she’d never taken notice of me, why would she? I were but a stranger to her, her glory, her perfection. Whenever I saw her among words she seemed her happiest, sure, I’d catch her time and time again outside of the agency, humming in her gleefulness, singing quietly- and by god, could she sing. A man could find himself ensnared by her voice, no soprano I assure you, but the soft fluttering tone of her voice managed to lift a spirit into the sky and let it soar, or pull a curtain over the hot summer sun and drown you in a cold and lonely despair. It weren’t those that I was entranced by so much so, as the silent focus on her face, and the soft look in her eyes while she sat slouched over an ivory page with both her hands actively holding paper and pen, her wrist swaying as she wrote in a dance. How beautiful it was, but looking back I know I’d scoffed and continued browsing.
One day I’d gotten over my arrogance and approached her in a crowded library, and in truth, that day I’m not entirely proud of. I was as cold and machinelike as I’d always been. I settled myself beside her dancing hands and focused gaze and set my books down for study. I’m afraid I don’t remember it perfectly, but I recall the subtle gasp she made, a good hour or so after I’d arrived, when she’d noticed me. I remember that bashful, embarrassed giggle like it were yesterday- no, like it were but an hour ago. I think that’s the first time I’d realized that maybe I admired her, but I were very imprudent in regards to such a thing as that, I assure you. I promise you that I never understood a damn thing that love were or may have been. To me love was like art, something I never understood- nor cared to understand at all.
She spoke to me, and what a strange thing we spoke of, I wasn’t entirely certain she even knew we’d met before frankly, but she of asked me a small favor in her sweet, lovely tone, while her pinked cheeks and dark eyes slipped me the paper she’d recently been ever so contently writing on, “Would you mind reading this for me?”
To be frank, I don’t remember if I were star-struck or appalled. She hadn’t known me at all, and she asked me to look upon her writing as though she trusted me with her world. She smiled at me as I silently, and rather coldly, slid the paper along the cold oak table. I stared down at it, and I could feel her intent gaze upon my face. To be entirely blunt, I don’t know whether or not she was flirting with me, or just intent on getting my feedback. At the time I thought she found me attractive, that she were fawning over my mysteriousness, which wasn’t entirely uncommon. It’s silly, and saying that, I sound arrogant. I were an attractive young man, which now I suppose you may not access. I had relatively unruly dark brown hair, and I still retain my sharp emerald eyes- but at the time, I wasn’t unfamiliar with being fawned over by the wallflower sort. She were no wallflower.
She were a magnificent tiger lily, with a strong commendable tenacity and honor. I read the page she’s bestowed upon me. Her handwriting were a river of cursive text, I were careful not to smudge the ink, still wet where it had overlapped. I recited the transcription aloud, I thought she would like to hear it in a voice other than her own. It were a single poem, short and curt. I recall it word for word, even to this day.
Wordless statue, covered in scripture.
Mulling, in his hand, a single page,
Then, I hadn’t understood a word of what she had given me, when I looked back to her, her face was beet red, she fumbled for words as she plucked the paper from my fingers and looked at me, repressing what I could only guess was a smile. I raised a brow, and asked stupidly, “What the hell is that supposed to mean? Don’t give me such arbitrary things and expect a good answer.” I recall saying.
She smiled and let out another shy giggle, at this point I think I realized she knew exactly who I was. Honestly, it was relieving to know someone like her had cared an ounce about someone like me, and now I do know what that poem meant. Then, I were so literal, so transparent and filled to the brim with scholarly definition that I hadn’t realized that the poem was about people like me. I weren’t the brightest fellow, to my disappointment, but of course something like her work flew so far over my head- like a bird. Much so like a bird I could look up and see it, but never be able to fathom how it flies. Still, I’m afraid I may not be able to. Her words, her art, her poetry. To me, was entirely unfathomable. Yet, here I am, reciting it today, knowing that I were the kind of person that she’d been speaking of. She was amused by that, I know, but I took it as her being amused by my inability to understand.
“If you’re just going to tease me, then off with you,” I recall my imprudent self told her curtly, I remember she had touched me for the very first time that day, upon my forearm she rest her hand and assured me that she had no such intention. She told me, “I didn’t take you for the type is all,” and I snapped back at her foolishly, “The type?”
She smiled and in my arrogance I stood up, and gathered my books. She gripped me by my coat and said my name- “Luciel-” I hadn’t even known she’d knew it. I looked down at her, with some level of resentment, but when my eyes met hers I sighed. I sat back down and asked her to elaborate. I swallowed my arrogance and listened to her explain the poem, in those words of hers that seemed so benign.
I cannot recite what she told me exactly, she managed to speak such a long definition that simply conveyed what I could state in a few concise terms. A scholar entirely concentrated on books, is incapable of understanding beyond them. I knew this, even then, because I cared not to understand beyond them. They were all I deemed necessary, and today I’m revered a genius, but without her I’d simply be as all academics. I listened to her talk, and talk, the unceasing fountain of honey-coated words on that sharp yet soft tongue of hers poured into me. Eventually, though ashamed I was to admit it, I found myself enjoying her company.
I began sitting next to her at that library once per week, then twice, then almost daily, then every time I saw her there. Some days I’d sit next to her usual seat to study, I adopted that table as if it were my own. For a while I’d let people sit where she’d normally, but I think out of respect for her- no, no, I know now why I did it- because my silly young mind refused to accept it, I saved her seat for her; because I’m certain now that I loved her. Whatever that word may have meant.
Eventually, her and I had become rather close, in our own way. We didn’t sit next to one another, nor had we ever exchanged words frequently enough for people to be suspicious of courting- or anything of that sort; but rather, we could coexist in comfortable silence for long periods at a time. We could stare at one another, and have an entire conversation in complete silence. I’d never met someone I’d ever been able to fully understand in such a way.
After I graduated I immediately enlisted my help to the agency, I was gifted, and some unimportant things transpired during that time, and Lucy, that was her name, that I’d become very closely acquainted with, had become my roommate. No, of course, your first assumption would likely be that we had some sort of scandalous relationship- as we shared a tiny one room apartment in downtown Albus City, but I can assure you that there was no such thing. Her and I were content in this little home of ours and we were happy enough without the complexities of love nor lust. I’m afraid I regret a fair number of my imprudent decisions.
I’d found myself amidst a good number of hobbies, much to Lucy’s encouragement, I’d adopted toy-repair, much to her astonishment. I enjoyed fixing puzzle boxes, particularly. I’m sure this doesn’t entertain as thoroughly as I wish it had.
Words, right- words. I were a very stoic man before I’d met Lucy. I suppose to many I still am. I were cold and apathetic to many people. Except her. Somehow that idiot changed me, and a change it was. We’d been investigators faced with a myriad of terrible cases. The Albus City Hyena, the Mindbreaker, the Specimen, the Wendigo- there was no end to the nicknames these cases had. Each gruesome and terrible in their own right. One day, words returned to my mind, we were tackled by a case that revolved around very few words, four to be exact. “The Lady in White.”
The case reminded me of her poems, all of them. And how I had adored them, and how I had realized it in that case. Someone- some monster attempted to rip away the only thing that understood me, that I understood truly. He loved her as I did, with the same feverish tenacity that my tigerlily harbored within herself, that my heart harbored for her. Her mind, her body, he’d lusted for, and I’m almost repulsed to admit I had as well. It weren’t long before I’d been called to my birthplace for some similar cases, all of which proved baseless and was a waste of a long monotonous six months. During that time I’m ashamed to admit I grew somewhat obsessed, having been away from her. Eventually, she was all that I thought about, my mind revered as sharp- clouded by thoughts of her.
I wanted her there, I wanted her with a feverish desire that sent me boarding a plane in the middle of the night flying back to Albus, back to where I could see her. I knocked on her door, in our ciphered message so that we could identify one another, and- she flung it open and pinned me to the ground. In truth, I wanted to cry into her bosom like a child to their mother after being homesick- but she hadn’t known at all that I had loved her.
I slept on her couch that night and after that we’d shared a bed- without any kind of lust nor vice as so. Some days she’d huddle against me while I read, deep in slumber. I were quite humbled by this, as I feel any man would be. Some days she’d wake cradled in my arms, whether that be on her soft green, velvety couch, or upon her bed. Those mornings were my favorite. My utopia however, was quickly interrupted. The lady in white had reopened, and I began to truly understand what the word dread actually meant.
Shortly after that, I discovered what fear meant. I found I was afraid of losing her. Of having her ripped away from me. Before the case had simply been a string of eleven murders, all unrelated outside of that note that read, “The Lady in White.” Then, the victims began to match. Short women, with dark eyes and hair, dainty, and roughly in their twenties. They were all killed in like ways, with a scalpel. Sometimes, they were dead before being mutilated- cut into with precision. Most of them were alive when the scalpel sunk into their flesh, drugged and paralysed, but likely entirely aware.
Lucy matched entirely. I hated the thought of it, of her ending up like all the others. I was constantly around her, following her every move- so much so that I’m sure she’d begun resenting me. I’d wait around for her like a dog, and become visually nervous when she’d took too long to show. Looking back, I was quite annoying. Unlike how stoic and cold I usually were, I’m sure she’d realized how I’d felt. Especially since, one day, she pressed a single page into my hand that read, “Poet.” I looked at it confused for a moment and- well- of course I’d remembered.
She giggled that same little giggle and for a moment I forgot about that worry entirely. I forgot about the case and everything- and I just remembered the day I met her. Not the day where I first saw her- but the day I learned that- well, Lucy had admired me. In that moment, I remembered all those things about her that I’d detested. She smiled that very same smile, and breathed, “Luciel, I love you.”
To be frank, I was taken aback. I’m afraid I forgot that other people felt the myriad of emotions I’d only so recently had discovered. Unfortunately, while I watched her disappear, my heart and mind was sent aflutter and- well, I left the building looking for icons of amory, gifts to bestow upon her to return her simple phrase. However- that was the greatest of infractions I’d made at all. I returned to her apartment, and my phone had rung, a coworker of ours. She reported to me that I needed to go to the agency. I was- confused. Quickly, all those feelings returned, all those words I hadn’t used before flooded my mind as descriptors of my emotions. Terror, horror, regret, abhorrence, resentment, anguish, animosity, my fury of fulmination- I’d let her go alone. I flew my way to the agency and there I found my team ready to raid their own building. At first I was confused, but I understood quickly.
Lucy had lived her own life, beyond me, and I seemed to have forgotten that. She had other friends and acquaintances. She’d always been far more popular than I had ever been. She was loved. She was loved by more than just I. She was that man’s golden ticket, that man who I once- stupidly- deemed my friend- my father. I was angry, I still remain angry. In all my time I resented nothing- but as we raided that building- as I saw her paralyzed form on his damned operating table, stripped bare and blank faced- It took all I had not to shoot him on the spot. Watching the pitiful drip, one tiny little drop of crimson slip down her face.
I looked at him, that man who I considered a friend. I looked him in the eye and listened to him cackle. He had the audacity to laugh in my face and call me a fool. “You should’ve stayed a husk, Luciel,” I recall his detestable voice saying in his sickly charming tone. His features were old, his eyes completely- entirely- serene. With her blood on his scalpel. “If you hadn’t gotten in my way, if you hadn’t thought to feel-” I remember his laugh, and how I abhor it, “If she hadn’t taught you how to feel, you wouldn’t be in my way.”
The next thing he said shattered me, “If she hadn’t taught you how to feel, she’d already be dead.” I knew that. If she hadn’t taught me how to understand the words I spoke, she’d be nothing more than a statistic to me. I stepped back, and he turned towards her. “Luciel,” I detested his voice, “I wonder, if you think about all the other girls I had to go through to get here.” I detested his words. “If you were less a husk, would you have done unto Lucy as Titus to Livinia?” I detested his reference. “And, with thy shame, thy father’s sorrow’s die,” I detested his quotation.
“There’s no likeness,” I recall saying, my hate reanimated my curtness. Even as I recall this horror, and this beast- I hate him. He laughed, again he laughed, “You haven’t changed at all, Luciel.” And he walked away. I wanted to lodge a bullet in his skull, but the man next to me motioned to put my weapon down before going to Lucy. I took off my coat, the same one from all those years ago and wrapped her form in it. I lifted her, and held her tightly to my chest. The rest of the team took her to the hospital. Of course, I was still arrogant, and I continued to blame myself for this- time and time again I blamed myself.
It took a few weeks for her to get out of the hospital. Honestly, I hadn’t cared if it took longer. I didn’t feel I could face her, it was my fault in the first place, at least, I thought. I finally mustered up the courage to speak to her again the last day she was still in there. I remember entering the hospital, and all eyes were on me. Granted, the bouquet of roses probably didn’t help. I asked for Lucy White. The woman exclaimed, “You’re the guy!” and I’m still awfully amused by that. She gave me direction and I made way to her.
Her, the one I loved, truly and deeply. I made my way up the stairs and- I saw her, looking out her window. Her beautiful eyes, her beautiful hair, her beautiful everything, and I’d approached her as bashfully as a teenage bachelor. She snickered, and before her lay a pan and a paper. Somberly she spoke her poem’s soft reprise. As though she’d been waiting for me to enter the door. I neared her as she recited her poem, in it’s beautiful eloquence.
Broken statue, covered in scripture
holding, in his shattered arms, a single page,
Understanding a single word.
In his heart transcribed, Poet.”
I smiled for once, and spoke my truth in a silent conversation, my words to convey only in a single action. I hadn’t needed any word nor definition to describe my love for her. I pressed the bouquet to her lap, and my lips to hers. How I remember the sweet smell, and the feeling of her soft supple skin of her cheek in my palm. How I remember the softness of her lips against mine. Her arms wrapped around me as she forced me closer, and we kissed for the very first time there. I felt her shoulders shake, and one of her tears fall against my palm. I think that was the first time I had ever seen her cry. I pulled away and I wiped away her tears, as I breathed two words, in a quiet breath, “My poet.”
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