This is my first L.M Montgomery fic/oneshot, although I am a devout fan of her and love her work. This fic may be a little amatuer compared to the other L.M Montgomery fics on this site, where the authors can amazingly mimic L.M Montgomery's writing style.
Una's age may be a little off in this fic, so pardon me if it is wrong! I was unaware of her age when Walter died, so I'm just pretending that she was twenty, so this fic can properly can take place ten years from Rilla of Ingleside, making Una thirty.
I hope you enjoy this!
She was like a flower. Flowers grew up while spending the duration of their life along – tucked away in a meadow, garden patch, or behind a house or shop. Flowers were beautiful on the outside, even ones with blemishes or flaws of any kind. She still had that faint scar on her forehead from the terrifying, yet hysterical, incident at Jem and Faith's wedding. But despite the barely visible scratch, people called her a fair maiden, with her flowing, pure black hair and delicate, snow-colored cheeks.
It was not like she only became a flower after his death. She had always been one. Blurry memories of pre-Glen St. Mary days filled her head very often at night nowadays. She saw herself as a naïve, young six-year-old with freckled face and gappy grin. She had approached a group of her female schoolmates outside the general store or after church let out. She did her best to work herself into their conservations, only to be rejected by them. Those girls only knew her as the homely reverend's daughter, the one cried during class because her mother was dying, but she was too secretive to share the facts.
More recent memories haunted her slumbers as well. She was sixteen, seventeen years old, walking by herself in a crowd of Glen youth. Everyone was paired off - she remained alone, for the one she loved was joking with one of his sisters. He had known that she cared for him, but had he been aware of how much love she held for him?
One single memory tended to appear constantly in not her dreams, but her nightmares. Mrs. Elliot knocking at the door…entering with wide eyes…"Walter Blythe's been killed in battle!"…She relived the same sorrow, heartache, and grief over and over. The feelings that first came to her exactly ten years ago continued to come back, filling every bit of her soul and body with hatred of the world.
She was thirty years old last week. All of her siblings were married and each had several children. To the youngsters, she was nothing more than "dear, old Auntie". Not "dear, young woman whose heart was no longer used to love". But…was that truly the right way to describe herself?
Her muslin black dress blew in the gentle wind, and her hair was pulled back into a rigid bun, a glossy dark veil pinned onto her head. Through the veil, her face could be seen as chalk-white, with everything from her cheeks to her lips drained of color.
A small boutique of roses was clutched in her gloved hand. The roses were the most vivid things associated with her that day. With a blank, unreadable expression, she walked ever so stiffly to the Glen St. Mary cemetery, where a tiny, tucked-away monument rested in memory of him.
She approached the marble cross while fighting back tears and stood there, pondering at the moment for a while. But finally, she released the roses in her hand and allowed them to fall to the moist soil, right in front of the cross.
She bowed her head slightly, her bright eyes swimming in salty but controllable tears. "Here's the closet thing you'll get to me, Walter," she said into the open. "I was always like a flower…a flower destined for loneliness."
And with that, with a certain air to her step, Una Meredith quietly and slowly walked out of the graveyard, the sweet smell of a rose lingering on her body. That's what she was – a flower. An unimportant, mere flower.
No more, no less. Just a flower.
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