[ooc *ruin ruin ruin burn burn burn* ky doesn't deserve it but she's getting it. for the amount I post, my character should be more important AND more angsty. Meh, hopefully I don't fill this gap in too far, ne, otherwise forgivenessness please? oh and backdating entry three days for convenience - not like anyone cares. but anyways - some official wrecking/filling here, yes, I'm aware. thus, if entry is made unofficial, I will not complain. I leave it to our mod to delete it as she sees fit. huzaah.]
By the title, I'm sure you expect something happy. Of course, no one, until today, knew how I celebrate each Valentine's Day.
I remember it as if it were yesterday - my last Valentine's Day gift. It is the most deeply aching suffering I will ever know to remember that night . . I've tried to blot it out really, but the most memorable moments of it are the ones I'd rather not remember. I don't remember what she looked like that evening any more, when I went out into the night for some young blonde strumpet. What colour she was wearing. I think it was blue. It could have been green.
She bought me white roses. White, a symbol of faith. I had no idea, the uncultured drunkard I was. Even myself, a baron, had been so merely by title. A dozen white roses. Of course, that's what the fight was about. I screamed that she'd guilt me into getting her a gift (which she had). She said that there was no price for her love, and she raised her nose accepting my dropped jaw as a Valentine's Day gift. She frowned in her spiteful way - I could tell she was heartbroken I'd forgotten, later of course, but at the time I was furious. I stormed out, yelling profanities, and my mind reeling over whether I should return with a gift, or with another woman. I always let whiskey make such big and important decisions for me.
It's a sad thing. She loved me the way I was - the brutish, oafish, spoiled, freckled, prodigal excuse for a husband I was. I think I'll die before anyone else so much as looks at me with a genuine smile, much less loves me with all her heart. I was too dull then to realize how she cared for me, how every fight we had was sparked by an expression of her adoration for me. A similar spark ended her life - I'm sure her frail figure was hunched over the fire, quivering with wounded rage. She said to herself, "This is the night. The night I stop putting up with it. The night I bring him back in my arms, and he says, 'I love you, I'll always love you.' That's just what I'll do," and she got up to come to me, to bring her man home again. She made me cry.
I can remember more the taste of the liquor and how upset I was at the bartender for charging me extra, walking out of the last pub of the evening. I can remember the blonde tart still at my side, and her name. I remember the splashes of the carrigewheels sailing through the night, the spray hitting my face. It was raining.
I saw her, dress soaked, no umbrella and her hair down, sopping. She looked furious with me, but seeing her wet, I waved her drunkenly over, numbly aware of a swooshing sound coming toward me. She didn't stop, and I could tell by that point that she would have come had I waved her or not - her intent was clear to my intoxicated mind - she aimed to beat me to a bloody pulp, after a sound tongue lashing for all my unbecoming behaviours. With this thought in my mind, and her love-bound hate-bound determination, we both managed not to notice the approaching carriage.
I wouldn't have cared if there was one following it post. I ran to her, and the last thing she did was raise her hand to slap me. I saw her wince and I kissed her - it must have been the first time in months, I can't remember how long, I didn't keep track by that point. My wife was merely the person who cooked me dinner when I was responsible enough to come home early, and the one who yelled at me when I did something fun.
From that moment on, she was the most loyal star-crossed lover ever to have been born, the most beautiful, loving, chaste woman to ever marry a drunk like myself. I saw her for the angel she was, the gift she was to me, only when she was taken away.
She died, in my arms. No man, not even Cain, has known such suffering. Not the pain of untainted death, or the hate of a loved one. I had the guilt and agony of knowing that I had wasted her life away, my pure bride, of knowing that I had stolen her heart and squandered it. I would not let God himself stoop low enough to pity me. I deserved to lose her - I deserved to lose everything. But I gained the last of her inheritance. I couldn't bring myself to do anything with it - I gave it to her family, and told my parents I was giving up my title inheritance and lands - all of us knew I hadn't deserved it for years. I quit drinking altogether - it was hard, but I didn't care. I didn't want the easy way out anymore.
I can remember the taste of the whiskey more than I can the taste of her lips. I wish it had been me. That the alcohol and my stupidity did not combine that moment to ask her to servilely come to me, but moved my body in front of that carriage. I wish it had taken me out of my life so she could have mourned for a month or two, maybe a few years, and then been swept off her feet by a real man. Someone who would care for her as she cared for me.
I damn this "holiday" to the deepest pit of hell. It is not worthy of the name. Cupid hunted her down and killed her the day he caught her with his loveshot. He made her purity game for his sport.
But, for its part, and hers, I have one tradition on this day. Each year, on this day, I buy one white rose, take the long journey to the cemetary on foot, and lay it on my wife's grave. I could do it a thousand years and never return the sentiment with which her roses were given to me. But, hopefully, angel that she is, she sees now that I know every gesture she ever made towards my life was out of her undying love. It will be a dozen roses in three years . . just eight-teen, barely a man. She died just six-teen, already as loyal to me as if she'd spent years heckling me.
Suprisingly, this year, I was not alone in my gesture. I saw a carriage arive outside the gate, and a familiar figure (how hard to recognise - he was taller than the carriage) helping Master Cain from his seat. The Earl had a dozen red roses with him, and placed them on a grave that I can only assume to belong to his late valentine. He paused (in reflection or mourning I'm sure) and turned to see me. I smiled because just then, it started to rain, and in the first few drops I had the strange premonition that Cain would not die alone and unloved, as she did. He smiled back candidly, and even (though reluctantly) offered me a ride with him back to the estate. I turned the offer down, figuring it would ruin the day's moment of unakwardness (my, that was akward) to spend a full ten minutes alone with Cain in a space as small as a carriage.
Just before they left, after Cain was lifted again to his seat, Riff quickly (only in terms of speed - not grace - how touching) placed his own red rose next to Cain's roses, off the grave. His lovely (albeit womanly) grey suit and cape was soaked in that small interim, however, so he rushed as quickly back to the shelter of the driver's seat so as not to get more wet than he was already - he was, sadly enough, in too much of a hurry to notice I had observed him run off. No matter.
Another year, another rose, another pang of the deepest regret I will ever experience. Somehow, that image of Cain smiling at me, as if in presage of his happiness, lingers in my thoughts. It did brighten my day, and having hopes for his content is always a pleasant thought to go to sleep to. Goodnight, Journal.