GoldMoonFlower

Warning: Suicidal ideation, attempt, depression, grief, and such. No large or gruesome details though.

~~~~

The water was cold. It made sense, being the middle of winter and all. The soft falling snow gave the back garden a quiet and peaceful look. The soft grass held a clean blanket of snow that crunched under her feet. The trees being with thick branches of snow that made them look full under a dark cloudy night sky. The lake had a thin layer of ice on top. It looked like it was a scene taken out of one of her childish picture books. Her feet slid slightly when touching the thinly veiled lake, the top cracked and splintered like heated glass under her weight with each step she took. Her white nightgown hung around her legs and flowed slightly with each step. 

She stopped walking when she reached her desired center of the lake. The slow-falling snow melted when it hit her warm face, turning her cheeks and lips a blushing red. It clung to her blond hair and eyelashes. Her hair looked like soft stars had descended into it. The fully shining moon peaked out from behind its cloudy blanket and lit the world in a soft blues and silvers. She looked up at the sky to try and make out consultation, the ice cracking even more under the stressing weight. 

The sound sent a chill down her spine, more so than the cold air and stinging in her skin. Move, her brain said. Her feet could feel the ice water beginning to pool underneath her. Her toes curled on instinct when contact was made.

MOVE! It shouted this time. Her body was thrown into a sudden shock the moment she fell through. The water burned her fingers and toes. Her lungs seized to try and prevent the last remaining air from leaving her. She clasped her hands to her mouth in a reflective attempt to not drown. Her legs curled into her stomach to try and get away from the harsh pins and needles surrounding her skin. The iced over water wrapped her in a blanket of what she hoped might be a quick death. It felt like it would never end as she sank deeper into it. 

Her head felt like it would explode from the shock to her system and the screaming noise of action it wished for her to take. She felt her hair brush past her shoulders and cheeks. It felt soft compared to her current situation. 

She wanted to scream. At herself. At her family. At life. She wanted to climb out, but she refused to do so. The moon watched as the hole that had fallen through began to close itself. She felt her vision turn darker as the moon curled itself back behind its gray blanket of soft feeling clouds. She wanted the pain to stop, more than she wanted to climb out of her icy grave. She wanted the dull throb in her head and chest to stop. The one she had been feeling for months, years. She felt the water burn her eyes and had to squeeze them shut that she could see spots behind them. She wanted the burning in her chest to go away. Her head hit a new level of pain at the lack of oxygen and felt large gasping bubbles escape her lungs, mouth, and fingers. 

 The dull gray started slowly. She'd sit in her room all day and read. She read till her eyes hurt, till her stomach demanded food, or till she just couldn't move anymore. She'd read till her family brought her food and entertain them and then dive back into whatever had her interest that day or week. On some occasions they would drag her from her nest of books and papers to eat with them. At night, when her eyes hurt and she couldn't process anymore information a small feeling would creep into her heart. A feeling of failure and betrayal. That she was a failure to those around her. That she had left that small boy in that dusty, rundown church. It started coming more frequently as the nights passed, when she would sit by a window alone or just when she woke up. It started forming into a dull and numb emotion that grew roots into her head and heart. Then grew into anger as nights turned into months. Anger at her family for what they had done. Anger at herself for not being able to fix it. About letting it happen. About leaving that small 6 year old she had met all those years ago who would no doubt look at her now with an emotionless and chard face. He would think she had abandoned him. That she had chosen to leave.

I didn’t! She screamed at herself for what felt like the millionth time, tears now burning her eyes.

YOU DID! Her brain cried back. So close to his birthday. She had watched in horror as the building was set a blaze. Raging and fury that could be felt from across the street. She had almost gagged at the smell of burning flesh and had realized only after that he had been left inside. 

Her throat burned as she forced the memory down, she couldn't hold her breath much longer and did something she hadn't in almost a decade. She prayed. She prayed that God would forgive her for having to meet him like this. That Death would still greet her with open arms. That the nuns hadn't been right, and that taking one's own life wouldn't have you burning in hell with the other sinners. That the darkness behind her eyes would hurry and take her before the pain became too much and she swam her way out. That her family wouldn't hold any regrets when they found her. The sound of blood rushing through her ears was loud, but she still heard cracking above her. 

She forced her eyes open once more to find a shadow penetrating the ice over the lake. The moon shining behind it, an angel swimming down to grab her. It reached a hand out as it delved deeper and deeper into her cold and wet resting place, fingers stretched. God had sent her a golden angel to take her and she felt joy fill her heart like it hadn't in a long time. She pulled a hand from her mouth and extended her arm out to reach her angel. She felt it's larger, warm fingers intertwine with hers. The pounding in her head became too much as her angel propelled her up and embarrassed her in an oh so tightly wound hug around her waist. She felt her head lay on its chest as it began to drift them back up into the now shining moon's light once again. She closed her eyes and felt a smile tug softly at her face as she fell into a content sleep, bubbles finally releasing from her mouth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He felt the chilled air burning his skin even more than the water had as he hulled himself and the child in his arms back to the service. His hair clung to his face now soaking wet, having to make him brush his free hand up over his face to remove the obstruction from his eyes. He breathed a harsh shudder, a cloud rising from his lips and around his body as to fully catch what little breath he had and began to try and crawl his way back onto the cracked ice preventing him from reaching the solid but snow covered bank. He quickly dragged the girl out of the water and onto the bank as fast as possible, trying to prevent the ice from taking one or both of them back down into the sickening and freezing hell once more.  Her nightdress was now sticking to her frame. The pale white doing nothing to help the pale blue color her lips and fingers now help. His own night shirt and pants made it awkward to move himself. He looked at her and back to the glass doors that lead to the pitch dark house. 

He had only been at the French doors to close the latch that had somehow been left undone. Looking up, he saw her tracks—like a small bunny's hops in the snow—leading toward the center of the white landscape. She stood like a pale ghost in a white nightgown, looking up at the silvery moon, her face void of emotion and mouth barely agape as she stared up at the moon that lit up her dull eyes. He hadn't even found his breath to scream her name before the ice gave way, swallowing her whole and without protest.

“Oh, my sweet child. Why would you do this?” He asked softly, placing his much warmer hands to her cheeks. Trying to figure out the best way to warm her. She no longer had the strength to move or answer though.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was cold. The tile. Walls. Air. Even the long curtains were cold. Not a candle or light was lit. The only source of light was the cloudy-covered moon shining through the large windows. The frozen outside gave the house a dull, sad-looking blue color. Both inside and out. It was like a disaster had hit the elegant home and not even a mouse dare make a sound.

Everything was still and unmoving. The curtains, the trees outside. The only thing that dare disrupt that chilling peace was the seemingly small grandfather clock on an ornamental table at the end of the hall. The time read 3:45 am. Such a ridiculous time to be awake. But a time she was none the less having to walk down the hall at. Her bare feet brushed against cream colored soft rugs that lined the hall. The curtains moved gently as she passed her hand along them. Like any child that would run down the street dragging a stick over a fence. They flowed elegantly like soft water. The thought made her smile. She placed her hand down and turned to the partially cracked door she wished on her right, soft mumbles and snores reaching her ears. She pushed the door open for the moonlight to illuminate the once pitch-dark room. 

She walked around and over the dozens of liquor and booze bottles scattered around the floor. Her nightdress brushing softly against some, causing them to softly roll. She found him sitting on the floor in front of his favorite chair, empty wine and liquor bottles scattered around him. He held an almost empty one loosely in one hand. He looked like a rag doll just lying there. His hair covered his face, head slumped. He gave out small soft snores of pure drunkenness. His pajamas looked so worn. Hair unkempt and greasy. She could see the harsh stubble lining his jaw. He hasn't shaved in a few weeks. He was an utter mess. So different from the man she had first met. She bent down, her linen gown following to touch the floor as she rested on her knees, and pulled his head up, her palms on each cheek. She tucked the stray hairs behind his ears and turned his face to look at her. He made a harsh snore and groaned. He blinked a few times and moaned as he went to rub his face. She let go and rested one hand on the back of his head. He looked back at the 18-year-old crouched next to him, still drunk, and smiled. Teeth and all. She returned his smile with a soft one of her own as she petted his head gently. He reached up and held her wrist in both of his. She was so small compared to his old and worn hands. He rubbed his cheek in her palm and placed soft, drunken kisses to it.

"Let's go," she said, holding out her other hand. He took it and stumbled getting up. She guided him out of his liquor-covered room. He kicked a few of the bottles as he left with his feet. She led him back the way she had originally come. The moon now hurting his eyes.

"Your mother should still be asleep." He mumbles to her. They passed a family portrait. He stopped and looked at them as they passed. It showed him in the back, his wife, sitting in front of him, the eldest child- 6 at the time, their son, standing next to his mother (he barely reached his father's hip), and their youngest, their daughter- 3 months old, sitting on her mother's lap. They were so small back then. His son now reached almost his height. 

His chest hurt. His heart hurt. He wanted to start crying again. He wanted to return to his bottles and continue to drown his sorrows till he couldn't remember why he was doing so or till he passed out. He let out a soft sob and used his free hand to cover his eyes. He began to cry. She turned around, releasing his hand, and held his head to her shoulder. He was bent rather far forward due to the height difference, her having barely reached his own shoulders. Her hands were cold like the air. She rested the side of her head on his. Holding him there as he clutched at her side with one hand and his shirt with the other, just where his heart rested. His sobs grew louder as he was no longer able to stay quiet in his grieving. His wails sounded through the house, making it sound as if he was a dying man stabbed in the chest.

"It's ok." She told him. She rested one hand on the back of his neck and used the other to softly pet his head.

"No." He stated threw sobs.

"I should have known. I should have seen!" He replied. He wailed as she whispered comforts. A light from above them turned on. He couldn't look up.

"Honey? What are you doing?" He tried to control his breathing only to fail and began to wile once more. He covered his eye with his palm again and fell to his knees, his legs unable to hold his weight any longer. He curled into himself. He heard his wife fumble down the rest of the steps and felt the blanket she used to cover herself from the cold crouch at his side. He sniffled once more, his breathing now becoming steady as she wrapped him in a hug. The soft gray blanket providing slight protection from the cold.

"Who are you talking to?" She asked in-between soft words and soothing sounds. He looked ahead of himself to just see the long hallway. 

"No one," His voice cracked. 

"I'm not talking to anyone." 

"Let's go back to bed. Ok? We have to go lay her with your father tomorrow." She rubbed his back in small circles, giving him small kisses at the side of his face. He nodded, looked back at the painting, and stood to make their way back to their room. 

Small TW: Depression, small su!c!dal ideation, survivor's guilt, and mention of vast drinking problems (I hope I covered it all 🙏)

It was cold. The tile. Walls. Air. Even the long curtains were cold. Not a candle or light was lit. The only source of light was the cloudy-covered moon shining through the large windows. The frozen outside gave the house a dull, sad-looking blue color. Everything was still, the curtains, the trees outside. The only sound was the seemingly loud grandfather clock on an ornamental table on the side of one part of the hall. The time read 3:45 am. She walked down the hall. Her bare feet not making a sound on the soft rug that lined the hall. The curtains moved gently as she passed her hand along them. They flowed elegantly like soft water. She placed her hand down when reaching the partially cracked door she wished. She pushed the door open for the moonlight to eliminate the pitch-dark room.

He sat on the floor in front of his favorite chair, wine and liquor bottles scattered around him. He looked like a rag doll just lying there. His hair covered his face, head slumped. He gave out small soft snores of pure drunkenness. Carefully stepping over, she reached his tired form. His pajamas looked so worn. Hair unkempt and greasy. She could see the harsh stubble lining his jaw. He was an utter mess. She reached down, her linen gown following her moves, and pulled his head up. She tucked the stray hairs behind his ear and turned his face to look at her.

He made a harsh snore and growned. Startled from his drunken stupor, he blinked a few times and moaned as he went to rub his face. He looked at the 18-year-old before him and smiled, complete teeth and hiccups. She returned his smile with a soft one of her own as she petted his head gently. “Let's go,” she said, holding out her hand. He took it and stumbled getting up. The bottles rolled away from his bare feet. She led him back the way she had originally come. “Your mother should still be asleep.” He told her, words slightly slurred.

They passed a family portrait. He looked at it as they passed. It showed him in the back, his wife, sitting in front of him, the eldest child- 6, their son, standing next to his mother (he barely reached his father’s hip), and their youngest, their daughter- 3 months old, sitting on her mother's lap. His chest hurt. His heart hurt. He wanted to start crying again. Wanted to turn around and flee back to the soft chair waiting to be filled once again. Back to the crystal glasses and large cabinet, now slowly diminishing, with decades of ambers, red, and soft yellows that burned his throat and erased the hollow feeling where his heart once existed. Looking away, he stopped walking and used his free hand to cover his eyes. He began to cry.

She turned around, releasing his hand, and held his head. Her hands were cold like the air. She rested her forehead just above his. He clutched his shirt, just where his heart rested. He slouched over again. “It's ok.” She told him. “No. I should have known. I should have seen!” He replied. He wailed as she whispered comforts and soothing words like one would a child had they fallen off their trike. A light from above them turned on. He couldn’t look up. “Honey? What are you doing?” He looked to the stairs next to him to see his wife, covering herself from the cold in a blanket, standing there. He sniffled. “Who are you talking to?” She looked concerned. He looked straight ahead to just see the long hallway. “No one,” His voice broke. “I’m not talking to anyone.” She walked down the steps towards him. When she reached him, she took the blanket around her shoulders and wrapped it around him. “Let’s go back to bed. Ok?” She smiled softly. He nodded, looked back at the painting, and made their way back to their room. “It still smells like her.” That was all he said as the lights were turned out and the door made a soft click.