|Piecing together a wounded heart
Author: silvertearsonwater PM
When Christine's father died she never expected to be happy again until she met Erik Dawson. The boy her father died for Erik Dawson. My first storyRated: Fiction T - English - Romance - Christine & Erik - Chapters: 2 - Words: 3,239 - Reviews: 5 - Favs: 4 - Follows: 4 - Updated: 05-17-12 - Published: 05-15-12 - id: 8120141
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Piecing together a wounded heart
Christine sighed as she put her hand on the side of her bedroom door as she felt tears burning in her throat. How could this have happened? Her father, her poor father had been so young and so gentle, how could he have died. Her mother Charlotte stood beside her, beautiful, middle-aged and entirely broken. The raw, harsh reality of the loss of the man she loved was evident in her eyes. It broke Christine's heart and the teenager had trouble opening her arms for the poor woman. Doing so would mean she had to admit the truth, that this nightmare was real. Offering her mother comfort would mean that she acknowledged the death of her father. She did so nonetheless and pulled the woman closer to her, feeling the trembling form of the woman as she started to cry.
Christine felt her mother's tears fall on her forehead, hot and painful as though formed from Chinese water-torture. One of the large white buttons of her dress cut painfully into her forehead, her arms were loose and she seemed to want to drop to her knees. Christine didn't dare look up however; she could not bear the sight of her mother's tears. It was hard enough as it was to hear her sobs of, 'oh my beloved…oh Charlie.' Justified though her tears were her daughter hated them though she knew that she had reason enough for them. Christine knew that she would weep too if the love of her life died and her father had died so unexpectedly.
The teenager took her mother by the arm and helped her into a large armchair, kneeling down at her feet to take her hand gently. As Charlotte felt the soothing touch of her child's hand on hers she felt more tears welling up. The scene would have appeared charming were it not for the somber mood that took them both at the sound of the phone going off, and her father's voice saying that he would be late for their evening walk in Hyde Park. The girl had to brush a tear from her eye, knowing that her father would never have those walks with them again.
Christine walked to the wooden and yet well-cushioned rocker, and removed the faded patchwork quilt and laid it gently on her mother's lap tucking it around the poor woman snugly. She had made the quilt for her father as an anniversary gift. She smoothed her mother's curls away from her forehead and kissed her brow that was creased with grief. Her mother's eyes were closing and her breathing was beginning to slow, she could see how tired her mother was, knew that she needed her rest. Charlotte mumbled incoherently as she laid her head in the fold of the winged armchair exhaustedly and closed her eyes, breathing very deeply only once before she began nodding off to the land of sleep.
"Close your eyes and get some rest mamma, you are going to need it." She murmured and stroked her small hand gently.
Christine went to her father's piano and began to play Wishing you were somehow here again. Her mother's favorite song, since Andrew Lloyd Webber had bought the rights to Everything and Nothing in order to make The Phantom of the Opera. Charlotte smiled in her sleep, and Christine smiled to herself as she kissed her mother's forehead. Christine then went into the kitchen; she knew it was going to be a long night. Her mother would need comfort, and she would no doubt be sick with nightmares, so Christine knew she would not sleep a wink. Christine shook her head as she at last let her own grief for her father to take control and she sat down in one of the dining chairs and cried softly for several moments.
She got up from the table and went back into the living room where her mother snored softly in an exhausted and grief induced slumber, her gentle features pale and knitted together. her middle- her form was trembling with the force of her unshed tears, Christine sighed and kissed her mother awake and as soon she opened her eyes the tears trickled down her rosy cheeks once more.
" Shh, mama." Christine crooned to the woman as though she were a child who had suffered a nightmare.
Christine soothed and smiled a she helped her mother to her feet, she made her way to help her mother into her nightclothes and guided her to back into the sitting room and helping Charlotte back into her chair. Charlotte took the TV remote and turned on the news just in time to hear the story of her husband's death. Christine wanted to change the channel, not wanting to hear anything from the FYI network tonight. She hated that station, her and her cousin Meg always called it the "Vampire Network" because they were all up in the it bleeds it leads thing. "
Earlier, today world-famous novelist Charles Daaë was pronounced dead at Saint Almond Street hospital. Insiders say that the man had been suffering from a gunshot wound. Reporters say that Daaë was shot protecting a young man, by the name of Erik Dawson. There is no word from the boy's parents as of now. The writer leaves behind a wife and seventeen-year-old daughter, we wish them the best. This is Paul Akon, with the latest on the FYI news network: All News all the time."
"Yeah right," Christine muttered under her breath.
A picture of her father in his best suit flashed on the screen, he was standing on a red carpet at the Grammy's where he won an award for the written word. Christine and Charlotte were there too, by his side, he was kissing his wife and had one arm around Christine who was leaning against his arm. They were probably having a bloody filed day with this, the famous romantic writer shot down protecting a child, leaving behind massive fortune with wife and child. Oh the honor of it, oh the feast of the media, what a story this was for them.
"And now here's Julia Patterson with the weather."
A woman with shaggy, brown hair and a boney face appeared on screen, standing in the downpour with a red microphone. She had a wolfish set of features and her eyes were of the gossipy sort, she looked like the kind of person who would have run for American office. Charlotte had ceased to cry at least but now she sat staring at the screen as though she were numb.
"Thank you Paul, as you can see it's in quite a heavy downpour predicted to continue for several more days. Everything is wet, wet, wet! So stay inside and stay dry, bundle up." The woman's face faded away to the advertisements.
Christine was kneeling beside the armchair in which her mother sat in as she wrapped her arms around her. Remembering how her father had used to love rainy nights where he would lay down beside her and play the violin. Or he would go out and sing 'I'm Singing in the Rain' as he was acting goofy and laughing. It made her eyes water as the Television blared a commercial for her father's favorite cologne and then Rein Gold beer. The only type of beer her father drank.
"My beer is Rein Gold the dry beer…" Christine copied the jingle as she remembered her father's childish joy at the taste of the simple drink on holidays.
The sound of the jingle was too much for her mother to bear and she crashed her face into her hands, "Oh my love…" she sobbed.
Christine turned away from the television and helped her mother into bed sitting beside her the entire night. Thinking of her father, his smile, his laughter, and his readiness to tell a story, but most importantly that seemingly unstoppable love for life that had kept him young and spry all these years. His love of Public displays of affection and carelessness of the public eye. The teenager looked at her mother, asleep in the bed and got up to leave. But then she felt her mother grab at her hand, turning she saw her mother looking at her with a tender expression.
"Christine dearling, stay with me tonight, I know you do not want to be alone." She mumbled.
The teen knew that her mom was projecting and did not wish to be alone herself, but she saw no harm in her request. So she lie down beside her and let her mother kiss her head as she pulled the blanket over her. Christine nuzzled her mother's neck affectionately, and in the warmth of her arms, the child crumbled and cried. Her mother made shushing sounds and held her, long into the night until at last, exhausted she fell asleep. The last sound she heard the click of the television powering off, her father's picture and the reporter on the hourly re-run of the news