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Routine.
The same ritual, repeated until the end of time.
It comforts me, this little bit of familiarity I have to myself as the world rushes past me.
Every morning begins the way every night ends: the same, day after day. As life may often be fickle, any form of control I may have is greatly welcomed.
My health remains stable for the time being, and I cherish every second like it's the last; for all I know, it very well could be. Autumn has treated me well year, marking the first time I have not fallen ill this season since I last laid foot in Poland. Parisian weather is rarely mild, yet I still venture out without a coat well into the month of October.
I dress myself leisurely, this morning just as the last, buttoning my shirt while quietly observing my reflection. He stares back at me, eyes almost comically large against the angular slants of his face and pallor of his skin. I sigh and he sighs in unison, our thin lips parting in frustrated defeat. Contrary to my liking of familiarity, this aspect of my life I have long wished to leave behind. Tearing my gaze from the mirror, I finish readying myself before leaving my apartment, grabbing a coat just in case.
Perhaps my favorite daily routine is walking down the cobbled streets of Paris to visit Franz Liszt. So many times have I followed this same path that I could walk it in my sleep.
A row of trees lines one of the roads, their blooms bright and joyous all year until the first snowfall finally forces them into hibernation. I do not know what they are called, yet the flowers are pretty so sometimes I will pick a handful for Franz. Today is one of these days.
The white blossoms are like a piece of cloud in my hands. I hold them gingerly, careful not to crush the delicate petals. The flowers I brought last week have begun to wither, though I am surprised they were not dead long before. Franz had propped them up in the neck of an empty bottle, laughing as I lectured him about day drinking. It has since remained a centerpiece upon his parlor table. Franz built it himself long ago, his lousy workmanship causing the bottle to frequently topple over and roll down the slanted surface. Yet he never minds the mess, simply glad to be together as he picks up the flowers one by one.
Rounding the corner onto his street, I quietly hum a melody I had begun working on late last night. I hasten to learn what he thinks of it. It is simple, surely, yet Franz has never been one to discount such. His flamboyance admired by the world only reflects one of the many facets of his soul, most of which I still have yet to understand. Perhaps it is his own complexities that allow him to find beauty in all that is plain. He tells me that I myself am beautiful, though I have never thought such to be the truth. I know you only say so because you want to kiss me, I joke each time, because it's far easier to evade the weight of a conversation with humor than to face it head on. Of all the people on this earth, don't you think I would know what makes someone beautiful? He responds each time in the same lighthearted manner. Yet I can always sense a hidden sadness beneath his words, disappointed that I still cannot fully accept his love for me, as I have yet to accept love for myself.
It's not long before his apartment comes into view, complete with the wind chime I've come to know all too well. I knock thrice, listening for his footsteps to approach from the other side of the door. Yet all remains silent, no sign indicating that he has heard me. I knock again, thrice again a little louder than before, then a fourth just for good measure.
Still nothing.
It's unlike him to not answer the door like this. I worry that perhaps I've done something to vex him, and now he has chosen to ignore me in response. However, I think, if he is being avoidant, we will have to discuss whatever is plaguing him sooner or later. Hesitantly I reach for the spare key I keep in my inner coat pocket, the same key Franz gifted me on the night we first kissed. I've given you my heart, so it is only reasonable to give you my home as well. He had laughed as though his words were simply a joke between friends, yet I still remember the blush coloring his cheeks that betrayed his true thoughts.
"Franz?" I call upon unlocking the front door, my bundle of flowers balanced precariously upon the palm of my free hand. The sweet tang of wine thickens the air inside and I groan. Surely he has passed out on a chair, or perhaps his couch, a gleeful grin still upon his lips as I have found him so many times before. The tension in my chest loosens slightly, though I remain frustrated at his lack of self control.
I nearly trip over his shoes as I enter, left astray across the entryway. Carefully I arrange them against the wall before venturing further, keeping a wary eye out for any other obstacles. Around the corner I pass, heading to the parlor where he has likely fallen asleep. An empty wine bottle lays a few paces ahead, just outside the parlor doorway, withered flower petals scattered around it like snow. It must have fallen once again, thanks to the fact that Franz insists on putting it nowhere else. I chuckle before picking it up, gently arranging the fresh flowers so that they may all sit evenly atop the bottleneck.
A petal from the previous bouquet sticks to the side and I peel it away. Despite its pitiful appearance, it has still retained its original colors, white and pink and... red?
These flowers are not supposed to be red.
My breath hitches as I lift my gaze, finally peering into the parlor. The same red I found on the petal stains the floorboards, continuing all the way to the rug at the center of the room.
There, beside that pathetic excuse for a table, lays none other than Franz List in a pool of glistening red blood.
"Oh, God!" The bottle drops from my hand as I rush to him, plummeting to the ground as I slip on the wet floor. A sharp pain shoots through my hand - a shard of glass, barely registered through the haze of panic. Blood is everywhere, matting his once golden hair and coating his pale face and hands. I cry out in horror, fear dimming the edges of my vision.
I think I may throw up. "Franz!" I shake him desperately, the mess of my wound mixing with his and further staining his shirt. I beg him to wake, scream at him that everything will be alright, he just has to wake up and everything will be okay. Please, just wake up.
I cradle his head in my lap, pressing my hand against the open gash in his head in hopes of saving him, somehow. Blood runs through my fingers and drips onto the soaked carpet and I sob hysterically, shaking like a leaf. Still he does not wake.
"Please, please, please..." I rock back and forth anxiously, pressing my sleeve against the wound in a flimsy attempt at a bandage. I'm too afraid to check for a pulse, yet I muster up enough courage to press my ear against his chest.
A heartbeat.
It's so faint I almost miss it, but the sound fills me with a renewed sense of hope. I cling onto him for dear life, gently running my fingers through his wet hair. It will be okay, I insist. Everything will be okay. I rest my head against his rib cage, his feeble heartbeat my only reassurance. My sleeve is now soaked through, vet I keep it pressed to his head. If only I can stop the bleeding, then everything will be okay.
Until his heartbeat grows slower, slower, then finally stops and suddenly nothing is okay.
"Franz!" I let out a bloodcurdling shriek, shooting straight up. I can hardly make out his features underneath the layer of blood. Immediately I launch myself on top of him, pounding my whole body onto his chest in an attempt to restart his heart. Please, I beg.
Please, Franz. A sickening crunch sounds beneath my hands. Yet I don't falter, for a broken body is far better than a dead one.
And he cannot be dead. Not on my watch.
An eternity seems to pass and I am soon winded from the effort, yet stopping feels like murder. Several of his ribs have fractured by now, and still his heart remains silent. Red tears roll down my face, falling onto my desperate hands. My ear rests upon his chest once again, desperate for any sign of life. Yet my efforts remain futile, for Franz Liszt is still dead.
Defeat hits me like a brick. My breath comes in wheezing gasps, sobs painfully wracking through my body. I curse the world for its injustice, I curse Franz for his irresponsibility. Yet most of all, I curse myself and all the regrets I am left with in the wake of his departure. Never again will he know how important he has always been to me; such a short time together, vet an eternity of love to give.
Broken bottles are scattered across the room, the glittering shards taunting me so cruelly.
Bloodstained flowers lay crushed beneath me, a sickening reminder of my blissful ignorance seemingly ages ago. How ironic, so morbidly ironic it is, that the flowers I brought as a token of our love have become the flowers of its funeral.
My eyes grow dry, my voice grows hoarse, blood grows dry in my hands, yet I don't leave his side. I can't bear to part with his body, for the second I look away I will have to accept that he is forever gone from me.
"I love you." I murmur between pained hiccups. "I love you so much, Franz."
Outside the sun sets, and soon the only source of light visible comes from the glow of the moon. Together we lay, intertwined, whispers of what could have been weighing heavy on my tongue.