Brigit's Flame - November 2008 - Week 1
New brigits_flame round, and I'm in! Great way to increase my NaNo count!
This week's topic is WINE.
Anyway this is a little long, so thanks for reading.
Feedback appreciated.
This is 100% fiction. I wrote in first person, which is so unusual for me. That's the beauty of the community I guess. I couldn't find a title, though.
________________________
I remember that day, of course, I remember. Three days after Dr. Brown, the most optimistic doctor I had ever met painfully broke the news.
His contrite face, distant glance and change of attitude foreshadowed the dreaded outcome.
He sat behind the large desk in his office, and after a long silence, could only let out a faint sigh. He kept his eyes busy on the papers he feigned to fill and I felt Paul squeezing my hand protectively, his brown and sparkling eyes being the only light of hope I could feed on in that bleak bureau.
“I am sorry, Sienna.” He said softly, he had been my doctor for almost all my life; he witnessed me growing up and becoming a woman, “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” He sighed again, and cupped his hand before his mouth to cough, creating a diversion to conceal the tears in his eyes.
The disease progressed, complications would occur, it was a matter of days or in the worse case scenario, hours. As he listed all the symptoms that could arise, my mind drifted away to a comforting thought, as trivial as it may sound, what I would have for dinner. I craved chocolate and wine, though the numerous medications he prescribed forbade them to me.
When we left the doctor’s office, Paul saw me home. He wanted to stay for the night, but I declined.
The next morning, I felt fine. I was not particularly sad or melancholic or anything. I had already accepted my fate. As Dr. Brown said, “there was nothing to be done”, I was not going to mar my last moments by wallowing in self-pity. So I acted as normally as I could, some would say I was in denial, some would say I was pretending, some would say I tried to push my destiny behind me. Truth is I didn’t have a choice!
Two days after I felt the exact opposite. It was one of those days: I wanted to cry. I lounged in bed, turning and turning to find sleep back, to no avail. I finally crawled to the living room and though I knew it was not recommended I indulged in procrastination, I flipped through stacks of my recently taken pictures and old scrapbooks, then I watched all the DVDs I laid my hand on. I cried and cried even more only I liked to put the blame on the sentimental movies that kept me company on such moments of sorrow.
I heard the phone ringing and ringing again, until I let technology immune to mood swings unlike me, take a message. Paul spoke on the machine, “Sienna, can I come have dinner with you tomorrow night? I’ll bring the food, so you can rest okay? I hope everything’s all right. Tell me if you need anything. See you tomorrow. Love you, bye.”
His voice acted like vitamin on me, I took in my sorry state and decided to get a grip on myself. So instead of watching another DVD, I went to the movies.
In retrospect, I would never have imagined what plan Paul had concocted for me that night, or what would happen the next morning.
Paul was very prompt, always had been, and always would be. At seven sharp, I heard him knock on the door; the neighbor had let him in when going out to walk his dog.
The bouquet of red roses he offered me fascinated me. Their particular shade, dark red, almost wine toned in the baroque atmosphere I applied myself to create. Paul used to say I had an eye for matching colors. As long as it involved warm tinges, I could not disagree, though I assumed it resulted in my career, it wasn’t a bad thing. Photography brought Paul and I together in the first place.
I had borrowed my sister a few candleholders, the electric light stringed my eyes. I practically lived in darkness, or semi-darkness, between shadow and light like a vampire, though my only attraction to blood was its disarming red between the light crimson and the dark carmine.
We sat around the small round dining-room table. The flickering flames flutter reflected in the crystal vase, created a strange yet in-themed atmosphere, as if a small mirror ball had been suspended to the ceiling. We bathed in those little drops of light. We savored the food and each other’s presence.
Paul poured himself a glass of red wine, “Do you want to taste?” he asked me, inviting me to have a sip of his glass. As much as I wanted to dip my lips in the attractive purplish Burgundy, I knew I could not. Instead, I leaned in and kissed Paul, tasting the wine flavors in his mouth.
“Excellent choice,” I said as I sat back into my chair.
He placed his hand on mine, smiled and stared at me for a while. I smiled back at him but shifted my gaze to the flowers, unable to hold the eye contact a little longer. Sometimes, Paul intimidated me. I could feel my cheeks turning more and more crimson, my least favorite shade of red.
“You are so brave,” he murmured.
I stammered out, and then asked for dessert, though we both knew I refrain from eating some. I opted to fix my eyes back on the flowers to disguise my lack of composure.
The chocolate éclairs made my mouth water. They came from a little pastry shop across town that sold European specialties. I couldn’t believe he would drove there after his work just to bring me something special. Not only did he bring back one of my favorite desserts, but his precious package also contained an assortment of French products including a bottle of champagne.
My new best friends, flavor and fragrance helped me through a difficult time; I mourned the sugary and spicy tastes, and gradually learned to rely on my newly developed strength, the sense of smell.
I took a tiny bite of the appetizing French pastry, smelling the hints of sugar and chocolate as Paul handed me a flute, “I can’t drink alcohol,” I reminded him, “Doctor’s order!”
Once the bubbles evaporated, I was left with the equivalent of a thimble of golden wine.
Paul urged me to taste it, and given the endeavor and obstacles he braved to please me, driving all the way across town to get it under the bad weather, I complied without hesitation.
Fidgety and excited, Paul looked like a five year old about to ask his mommy for a candy an hour before lunch. I put the flute back on the table and covered his hand with mine. The anxious tapping sound of his fingers on the edge of the table instantly ceased. I could feel his tension easing off under the warmth of my own hand.
“Somebody got intoxicated by those fine wines,” I said merrily, “Although I only took a sip, I feel quite giddy myself,” I admitted in a higher voice than intended.
Paul let go of my hand to help himself to some more champagne he immediately drained. I was concerned I had never seen him so nervous before. I wrenched the bottle away from him, “That’s enough for tonight,” I admonished in a tone suspiciously similar to my mother’s.
“Do you like this champagne?” he asked. For a spilt second I thought he wanted to make sure I would not finish it myself.
“Of course, I like it. It is expensive French champagne. Who wouldn’t like it?”
“It’s the one I want to drink at my wedding.”
“Well, good for you!” I replied completely lost. Honestly, I hadn’t chosen the best way to be. It’s only after I noticed it and saw Paul get down on his knees that I took in what was happening.
I first assumed this was a figment of my imagination caused by my drinking an alcoholic beverage I wasn’t even supposed to have in the first place, only the insignificant amount I consumed wouldn’t even have hurt Vermilion, my goldfish.
Upon further reflection, I was inclined to believe a romantic-comedies induced overdose made me see things like my boyfriend kneeling at my feet with a shiny jewel in his hands. When I threatened to decline the offer if he did not get up right way, which he did, I understood I was not dreaming. He wanted me to say yes.
The ruby enclosed in the little dark red velvet casket perfectly captured the subdued lightning and my heart.
Reality struck, someone wanted to spend their life with me, someone that I actually loved, considering I’d soon be broken for good and joining the disabled club, it felt like a blessing, an unforeseen stoke of fortune.
“To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part.” Paul declared. “I’ve already learned my vows; I just want you to be the person I make that promise to.”
Tears all over my eyes and face, I could not make out his expression, only an indistinct multi-colored blurry curl of unidentified shapes.
After we made love that night with passion and confidence, he fell asleep. I did not. I could not resist. I put the ring back in its velvet palace, and observed its brilliance, how light lost its way in its outlines. I put it back on the nightstand and could not unhook my eyes from the glorious and unexpected token of Paul’s love and dedication.
It was the last thing I saw.
When I woke up the next morning, I waited a moment to open my eyes.
They were open, I hadn’t realize.
My sight was forever gone.
My memories were intact.
Now, every time I close my eyes, I picture the little velvet burgundy casket with the magnificent ruby in its center and my pain dies down.
Now, we’re five years later. Our eldest daughter celebrated her fifth birthday today. I wonder if Paul knows why I was so adamant in naming her Ruby. She is so perfect and precious as the gem that hasn’t left my hand since that morning five years ago.
Sometimes, it saddens me to think I can’t look my daughters in the eyes, or be in raptures over their first happy smiles, hesitant steps, inspired drawings or important discoveries.
The disease spread, took my sight away but it did not took my husband and daughters’ love away. We are strong and I believe stronger than if I were in perfect health.
I missed colors mostly, Paul’s brown eyes, my sister’s auburn hair. I wish I could see Ruby’s bright chestnut eyes, or my two red head baby girls. Paul says the twins look like me when I was a baby.
Even though I missed the ability to see, I’m reminded I’m lucky to be alive each time I hear my daughters laughing, singing or just living.
Ruby, Rose and Scarlet, make me see how beautiful life can be even without colors.
THE END
________________________
Author's note: The the bottom of this page helped me a lot.
Thanks for reading :)
This week's topic is WINE.
Anyway this is a little long, so thanks for reading.
Feedback appreciated.
This is 100% fiction. I wrote in first person, which is so unusual for me. That's the beauty of the community I guess. I couldn't find a title, though.
________________________
I remember that day, of course, I remember. Three days after Dr. Brown, the most optimistic doctor I had ever met painfully broke the news.
His contrite face, distant glance and change of attitude foreshadowed the dreaded outcome.
He sat behind the large desk in his office, and after a long silence, could only let out a faint sigh. He kept his eyes busy on the papers he feigned to fill and I felt Paul squeezing my hand protectively, his brown and sparkling eyes being the only light of hope I could feed on in that bleak bureau.
“I am sorry, Sienna.” He said softly, he had been my doctor for almost all my life; he witnessed me growing up and becoming a woman, “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” He sighed again, and cupped his hand before his mouth to cough, creating a diversion to conceal the tears in his eyes.
The disease progressed, complications would occur, it was a matter of days or in the worse case scenario, hours. As he listed all the symptoms that could arise, my mind drifted away to a comforting thought, as trivial as it may sound, what I would have for dinner. I craved chocolate and wine, though the numerous medications he prescribed forbade them to me.
When we left the doctor’s office, Paul saw me home. He wanted to stay for the night, but I declined.
The next morning, I felt fine. I was not particularly sad or melancholic or anything. I had already accepted my fate. As Dr. Brown said, “there was nothing to be done”, I was not going to mar my last moments by wallowing in self-pity. So I acted as normally as I could, some would say I was in denial, some would say I was pretending, some would say I tried to push my destiny behind me. Truth is I didn’t have a choice!
Two days after I felt the exact opposite. It was one of those days: I wanted to cry. I lounged in bed, turning and turning to find sleep back, to no avail. I finally crawled to the living room and though I knew it was not recommended I indulged in procrastination, I flipped through stacks of my recently taken pictures and old scrapbooks, then I watched all the DVDs I laid my hand on. I cried and cried even more only I liked to put the blame on the sentimental movies that kept me company on such moments of sorrow.
I heard the phone ringing and ringing again, until I let technology immune to mood swings unlike me, take a message. Paul spoke on the machine, “Sienna, can I come have dinner with you tomorrow night? I’ll bring the food, so you can rest okay? I hope everything’s all right. Tell me if you need anything. See you tomorrow. Love you, bye.”
His voice acted like vitamin on me, I took in my sorry state and decided to get a grip on myself. So instead of watching another DVD, I went to the movies.
In retrospect, I would never have imagined what plan Paul had concocted for me that night, or what would happen the next morning.
Paul was very prompt, always had been, and always would be. At seven sharp, I heard him knock on the door; the neighbor had let him in when going out to walk his dog.
The bouquet of red roses he offered me fascinated me. Their particular shade, dark red, almost wine toned in the baroque atmosphere I applied myself to create. Paul used to say I had an eye for matching colors. As long as it involved warm tinges, I could not disagree, though I assumed it resulted in my career, it wasn’t a bad thing. Photography brought Paul and I together in the first place.
I had borrowed my sister a few candleholders, the electric light stringed my eyes. I practically lived in darkness, or semi-darkness, between shadow and light like a vampire, though my only attraction to blood was its disarming red between the light crimson and the dark carmine.
We sat around the small round dining-room table. The flickering flames flutter reflected in the crystal vase, created a strange yet in-themed atmosphere, as if a small mirror ball had been suspended to the ceiling. We bathed in those little drops of light. We savored the food and each other’s presence.
Paul poured himself a glass of red wine, “Do you want to taste?” he asked me, inviting me to have a sip of his glass. As much as I wanted to dip my lips in the attractive purplish Burgundy, I knew I could not. Instead, I leaned in and kissed Paul, tasting the wine flavors in his mouth.
“Excellent choice,” I said as I sat back into my chair.
He placed his hand on mine, smiled and stared at me for a while. I smiled back at him but shifted my gaze to the flowers, unable to hold the eye contact a little longer. Sometimes, Paul intimidated me. I could feel my cheeks turning more and more crimson, my least favorite shade of red.
“You are so brave,” he murmured.
I stammered out, and then asked for dessert, though we both knew I refrain from eating some. I opted to fix my eyes back on the flowers to disguise my lack of composure.
The chocolate éclairs made my mouth water. They came from a little pastry shop across town that sold European specialties. I couldn’t believe he would drove there after his work just to bring me something special. Not only did he bring back one of my favorite desserts, but his precious package also contained an assortment of French products including a bottle of champagne.
My new best friends, flavor and fragrance helped me through a difficult time; I mourned the sugary and spicy tastes, and gradually learned to rely on my newly developed strength, the sense of smell.
I took a tiny bite of the appetizing French pastry, smelling the hints of sugar and chocolate as Paul handed me a flute, “I can’t drink alcohol,” I reminded him, “Doctor’s order!”
Once the bubbles evaporated, I was left with the equivalent of a thimble of golden wine.
Paul urged me to taste it, and given the endeavor and obstacles he braved to please me, driving all the way across town to get it under the bad weather, I complied without hesitation.
Fidgety and excited, Paul looked like a five year old about to ask his mommy for a candy an hour before lunch. I put the flute back on the table and covered his hand with mine. The anxious tapping sound of his fingers on the edge of the table instantly ceased. I could feel his tension easing off under the warmth of my own hand.
“Somebody got intoxicated by those fine wines,” I said merrily, “Although I only took a sip, I feel quite giddy myself,” I admitted in a higher voice than intended.
Paul let go of my hand to help himself to some more champagne he immediately drained. I was concerned I had never seen him so nervous before. I wrenched the bottle away from him, “That’s enough for tonight,” I admonished in a tone suspiciously similar to my mother’s.
“Do you like this champagne?” he asked. For a spilt second I thought he wanted to make sure I would not finish it myself.
“Of course, I like it. It is expensive French champagne. Who wouldn’t like it?”
“It’s the one I want to drink at my wedding.”
“Well, good for you!” I replied completely lost. Honestly, I hadn’t chosen the best way to be. It’s only after I noticed it and saw Paul get down on his knees that I took in what was happening.
I first assumed this was a figment of my imagination caused by my drinking an alcoholic beverage I wasn’t even supposed to have in the first place, only the insignificant amount I consumed wouldn’t even have hurt Vermilion, my goldfish.
Upon further reflection, I was inclined to believe a romantic-comedies induced overdose made me see things like my boyfriend kneeling at my feet with a shiny jewel in his hands. When I threatened to decline the offer if he did not get up right way, which he did, I understood I was not dreaming. He wanted me to say yes.
The ruby enclosed in the little dark red velvet casket perfectly captured the subdued lightning and my heart.
Reality struck, someone wanted to spend their life with me, someone that I actually loved, considering I’d soon be broken for good and joining the disabled club, it felt like a blessing, an unforeseen stoke of fortune.
“To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part.” Paul declared. “I’ve already learned my vows; I just want you to be the person I make that promise to.”
Tears all over my eyes and face, I could not make out his expression, only an indistinct multi-colored blurry curl of unidentified shapes.
After we made love that night with passion and confidence, he fell asleep. I did not. I could not resist. I put the ring back in its velvet palace, and observed its brilliance, how light lost its way in its outlines. I put it back on the nightstand and could not unhook my eyes from the glorious and unexpected token of Paul’s love and dedication.
It was the last thing I saw.
When I woke up the next morning, I waited a moment to open my eyes.
They were open, I hadn’t realize.
My sight was forever gone.
My memories were intact.
Now, every time I close my eyes, I picture the little velvet burgundy casket with the magnificent ruby in its center and my pain dies down.
Now, we’re five years later. Our eldest daughter celebrated her fifth birthday today. I wonder if Paul knows why I was so adamant in naming her Ruby. She is so perfect and precious as the gem that hasn’t left my hand since that morning five years ago.
Sometimes, it saddens me to think I can’t look my daughters in the eyes, or be in raptures over their first happy smiles, hesitant steps, inspired drawings or important discoveries.
The disease spread, took my sight away but it did not took my husband and daughters’ love away. We are strong and I believe stronger than if I were in perfect health.
I missed colors mostly, Paul’s brown eyes, my sister’s auburn hair. I wish I could see Ruby’s bright chestnut eyes, or my two red head baby girls. Paul says the twins look like me when I was a baby.
Even though I missed the ability to see, I’m reminded I’m lucky to be alive each time I hear my daughters laughing, singing or just living.
Ruby, Rose and Scarlet, make me see how beautiful life can be even without colors.
THE END
________________________
Author's note: The the bottom of this page helped me a lot.
Thanks for reading :)