Yea this is just a lil' "Corpse Bride" ficlet. R&R and enjoy darlings
The Deni Pie
S t i l l b o r n
I believe every now and again everyone must look back on their life at one time or another. Much like reading your own book and judging it for yourself when you're done. I've done this quite a bit and the only conclusion I have been able to come to is that God has a terribly perverse sense of humor. Now, when I take a seat by my window I can't help wondering if perhaps we are all born already dead to start with, and it is not until we pass on that we are able to truly live the life we all attempted to in our first. Looking out the panes of glass I see nothing but a lifeless world, painted in muted gray, devoid of passion, enthusiasm, and color.
In spite of this I cannot deny that I have lead an existence I've become most content with. Betrothing me to Victoria was quite possibly the best thing my parents had ever done for me. She is the wife every young man dreams of marrying; kind, gentle, caring, and devoted. With her I feel as though I am loved simply for whom I am. And that is something most could never say of their own mother, let alone their arranged wife. She has given me an existence I could never dream of. One that lacks in depression, anxiety, and insecurities. I enjoy our little conversations over tea, our walks with our son, and when she allows me, I enjoy playing the piano for her. With her and what we have built together I could never say I was not content.
I remember when our son, Thomas, was born. It was the happiest day of my life, but terribly enough, I couldn't stifle the slight pang of disappointment when I discovered it was not a girl we would be having. I had planned to name her Emily, and for some reason the realization that I could not do so disturbed me more than it should. I hadn't really researched any other namesakes and so it was up to Victoria to christen him. Thankfully, my wife never discovered my hidden regret, but I believe our son may have.
Thomas has always openly favored his mother, and when I look into his eyes I can see he has uncovered this side of me that I keep from my family. This side full of shame, guilt, and longing. Victoria does not sit to hear me play as much, anymore. More than likely she's gotten rather bored with listening to the same song over and over again. I can't really help it. I've tried to play other songs, songs I've known since childhood, and others learned with years of experience. I've read my sheets of Beethoven, Mozart and Bach repeatedly until I can recite them blindfolded, but strangely, when I go to play, my fingers gradually taper into that familiar tune. That sad, haunting little melody that seems to possess my mind, my heart, my very soul.
Now and again, when Victoria concedes to sit and listen, a gleam of sorrow will reflect in her eyes and she'll say 'Oh, play something cheerful for me, Victor. No more of this dreary elegy.' And I will try, but my fingers continue to rebel and she will sigh and shake her head, but she stays to hear it anyway. I don't know why I can't stop playing it. It's like a jingle on the tip of your tongue and forever stuck in your head. I sometimes find myself humming it when I go to market or when we're on our afternoon strolls.
I once dismissed this unpleasant side of me for a passing phase, strong now but soon to fade. Only as time went on, instead of fading it only grew stronger, leading me further and further from my family, leading me to seek out something I cannot name. I find that I long for color in this world of rain and gray. I long for passion, excitement, and rapture. I long for enthusiasm.
I love my wife. I vowed to death do us part and I meant every word. I sometimes fancy telling her about my restlessness, but then I see her shy, endearing eyes and I know these words were not meant for her. She is living a life that she could want no more from. She belongs in this world as the better part of it, and could not fathom any other. Once upon a time I think I was the same. I think I belonged in this world as she did. But ever since I have returned to it I find myself waiting hopefully for the day I can leave it again. And I dare not tell her this; I could not stand to break the heart of the one who made my life here so very content.
For here, content is the most I could ever hope to be, and that is all Victoria could offer me and I know I should not want for more. But I do. I close my eyes and I can see a skeletal hand tapering into sapphire skin, beckoning me. Beckoning me back to color.
It is wrong that I cannot forget her, that I cannot get her face out of my head. That face, I had never seen such zeal, such rage, such joy, such love. I can still see that face, smiling wondrously at me, calling me back. Back where I had felt ardor, terror, thrill, passion, and all things I'd never before felt. I laugh when I remember that place, that place where ghouls and demons treated you with more warmth and hospitality than most living people ever would.
Hopefully my family will never know of this, but since then I've gone back to the gnarled black tree more times than I can count; half wondering if she would still be there, half hoping to see her hand reaching out to me once again. Unfortunately nothing but ice, cold, and snow welcome me there anymore. And I've since stopped returning.
My wife, my son, my life of comfort and privilege have all made my existence on this plane of dun and gray content and prosperous. But I know, as the years go by, I shall always anticipate the final day when I can return to a life of color.
To a life of enthusiasm.