As I lay down the flowers on the grave where I once may have lay, I feel a rush of senseless sorrow amongst the pride that burns in my heart. I think of every could have been, of every memory, and every memory that is still to be made.
Turning to face the small lake that the grave lies on the edge of, I am suddenly drunk on anticipation. Any thought of that night, that cruel night, so many years ago, still hurts my soul, a feeling only akin to a beast clawing out one’s own heart. But the thought of any year after, on the anniversary of that night, leaves me with a slight buzz. Love runs through me now like electricity through a wire, another great invention I have been lucky to come to know for the sacrifice that she made those centuries ago.
I kneel on the edge of the lake and let the water lap over my already cold finger tips. Harriet. I say her name over and over in my head, reminding myself of my love and admiration of her, and the sacrifices that she made for me. Ripples run through the water from where I kneel and I feel the same free way that I do every time I visit here, once a year, on the anniversary of her death day.
February fourteenth. A day for love that had been stolen from us and turned into something dark and pain filled, now taken back in the spirit of the day itself. A day of craving, wonder, and irony. A day that has me saying her name every year without fail.The only day of the year that I see her eyes once again.
The ripples dance in the middle of the lake, waltzing around as though every drop of water is in love itself. I have seen many creatures in love throughout the years whether it has been true or lustful, but it always leaves me with the same sense of hopeless longing that I feel in some place deep within me.
Though when the ripples take the form of a woman I remember that all the longing is worth it in the end. The years of pain and endurance are worth it, for I can see her even if it is only for a few hours. Some people get every day of the year, eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours, where I only get three. It is never enough, and will never be enough, and yet for her I will always wait. I will never find love in another’s arms, for when I see her she is made of the water and wind and she is, above all else, mine.
I rise from my position on the ground and reach out towards her. “I missed you, my dear Annalise.” The words trickle over her lips of water droplets and sound just like honey, sweet and sticky, as they pull me close and don’t let me go.
“How I missed you!” I exclaim. I wish I could tell her all that she has missed, but there is no time. And I can’t help but think the same as I do every time this time of year comes around; that it is cruel to tell her of the world that she might have known as I stand atop her grave talking to her. She is forced to exist only in the thing that killed her. I get to live out her dreams.
Harriet smiles. “How I wish that I could be with you. But this way you can be free the way that you always wished to be. Can write the way that you always dreamed you would.” She clasps my hand in her own and it is so cold and I have to remind myself that it is only because of the water despite the knowledge that her skin would be just as cold, if her body even has any left after centuries underground.
The corners of my mouth are tugged up by some invisible force. “I think of you with every word that I write. It’s your love that moves pen across pages and that binds pages in leather. You are the essence of every word I find to put on paper and it is you alone who gives me the will to go on.”
Her face is calm, expressions etched in moving elements. She is the image of peacefulness, of happiness. She is the pinnacle of home, and yet she cannot be here every day of the year. “I wish that I could see you more, but know that I watch you from the other side.”
With her words I can’t help but wonder how long it will be until I join her on the other side. I have lived centuries past my lifespan, centuries past hers, and centuries past every other individual who has walked this dark world. It is witchcraft, a crime that she was drowned for, a hideous fate that she saved me from, and it is that which keeps me here. Bound in life, death, and in magic itself.
Watching her, beautiful as always, even in death, I know that I have to go on. She has given me not just a gift, but life itself, and I feel her love in every breath that I take. It is her love that will roam for centuries more.
For when she disappears, from seeming to melt back into the ordinary, the magic seems to leave the world for another year. I look into the darkness of the water. “Until next year, my love.”
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