Chapter Eighteen
Kolfina
There are moments, long stretches of time that pass in mere blinks of the eye, where I think I have finally grown used to being dead.
Where I am sure the house has finally settled around me, and the wallpaper can no longer tell the difference between the flowers it blooms and the ones that trail behind me in a veil of decay.
It is easier to forget, in those moments, that I no longer exist. Easier to ignore the vast emptiness in my mind where a life full of memories once sat. And it is easier, terribly so, to let that emptiness spread and spread until there is nothing left of me but paper daisies and seafoam.
My lack of memory has never bothered me as much as my lack of existence does.
I have always known that I once lived in this house, once decorated its walls and played music in its attic.
It is the lack of it all that now lingers beneath my skin—the absence of my fingerprints on the dew-soaked windows, the silence of my voice when I so desperately wish to sing, the smoothness of the rug when I press and press and press my toes into it, begging them to leave a mark.
It has never troubled me that I was once alive, only that I no longer am. But now… now the question lingers as to whether or not I have ever lived at all.
Something changes in Azizi and Theo the days following their shared confessions. There is an openness between us now that there never was before, a trust that blooms like fresh roses in the spring.
While I have always had the blessing of joining Azizi in her studio while she paints, she has opened those doors to Theodore now as well.
When Mr. Allard is not running him all over the house, he will spend his time curled up on the plush couch opposite Azizi’s easel, his journal propped open in his lap and his ink pen scribbling away.
I learn to see the ways their histories have carved them into the people they are now.
I hear the praise Azizi gives when Theodore hesitantly offers us a new poem or when she plays another of my compositions—praise she no doubt has always craved and now gifts to us both so freely.
I see the struggle warring with pride in Theodore’s eyes when he is given another glass of blood and forces himself to swallow it down.
I see the way his face looks fuller, less gaunt, as he allows himself to eat without shame; I see the way Azizi spends more time at her sketchbook than her easel some days, giving herself permission to play with her darker thoughts in a manner easily hidden away.
Yet here I remain, waist deep in stagnant water, searching for the ripples of my existence in a house no longer mine.
What proof do I have that I exist at all, even as I am, if there is no past behind me to pave the way?
Azizi and Theodore both are formed by chisel and mallet, marble chipped away piece by piece by those around them until the beauty of their existence comes to fruition.
But where is the hand and artist that created me?
Can I be anything more than a pile of discarded dust and debris if there is no sculptor behind my making?
I try to tell myself it doesn’t matter. What use is wallowing about a past you cannot remember when the future is laid out before you with untapped potential? Why dwell on the person you once were rather than focus on the person you are now, or the person you wish to become?
Yet there lies the problem, doesn’t it?
We are all fragments of experience pieced together in a mosaic of life.
We are either who we are made to be, or we are in spite of who made us.
How could I possibly know who I am, or who I am supposed to become, if I do not know where I’ve been?
How am I supposed to look forward to a future when I cannot truly experience the world around me?
If I cannot speak, cannot touch, cannot feel?
Will I be left behind to rot and fester within these walls when Azizi and Theodore continue moving on without me?
The thought leaves me maudlin as I linger at the base of the stairs, my fingers hovering over the flattened post at the end of the handrail.
There is a design carved into it that I’ve not noticed before—not subtle by any means, and yet so old that it has faded throughout the years until nothing remains but a series of gentle slopes and curves, forming the shape of a moth with a skull atop its back.
I have seen it before, I realize with a jolt, pressed into the granite outside my mausoleum.
That moth had been more detailed, more polished and lifelike than this one, and yet…
I find I like this one better. How long has it rested here, I wonder, unnoticed by the many hands that have passed over it throughout its lifetime?
Does it too miss its creator? Does it yearn for answers as to why it was carved?
What it must have looked like before time wore it down to its withered state?
Does it too wonder why it is still here?
At least there is comfort in knowing that this one is not so alone as I am.
Now that I know to look for them, I find other moths carved throughout the house as I wander.
Pressed into the crown molding of Azizi’s bedchamber, carved into the mantle of the parlor fireplace.
I am even convinced of seeing a few painted amongst the wallpaper flowers, though when their wings flutter and the skull’s eyes blink at me, I am unsure as to whether they are truly there or not.
It is the symbol in the kitchen that gives me the most pause, however.
While the others are all expertly crafted and beautifully detailed, this one is scratched into the pantry shelves with messy lines and rushed curves.
There is no life to it, as there is in the others, even the fading moth atop the stair post. It twitches and glints off the candlelight, a mockery of life, as if wishing to join the eclipse the other moths have formed and yet still it doesn’t quite fit.
Brambles twist around my throat and wrists as I reach out for it, my fingers just barely brushing across the cool wooden surface.
Pain lances through my hand, thorns cutting into the tender flesh of my palm.
Panic rises like a tidal wave in my lungs, the sour brine of the sea stinging the wounds in my mouth where I have torn the barnacles from my gums.
Stay, the daisies croon in my ear, vines tugging me away as the pain begins to burn. Stay with us in the garden, and we will care for you. Be still, little one. In the end, we are all flowers.
“I have an idea,” Theodore says one day as he bursts into my music room.
His hair is mussed from the wind, his breathing ragged from likely running all the way here, but his eyes are bright and his lips are stretched into a wide smile. Excitement pours from him in a rare show of certainty as he rushes forward, not stopping until he is at the piano where Azizi and I sit.
His presence is a surprise, as he rarely visits us on the sabbath days—either too weary from the emotional turmoil the services tend to put on his mind, or too frightened to give in to the truth that he finds in my home.
Still, his giddy enthusiasm is a nice sight. A welcome one. I have found it terribly difficult lately to remain present and visible, even in the company of my beloved companions. The wallpaper is so loud and the house is so quiet, I find myself slipping away more and more often as the days pass.
But Theodore’s excitement is grounding, and I quite love to see the way it fills out his handsome face.
Azizi raises an eyebrow at him in amusement, and I hide a watery giggle behind my hand when his cheeks burn a pretty pink.
“Judging by your enthusiasm, my dear, I feel as if I should be worried about the intelligence behind this idea. I do recall the last time you were this excited about something—barely a week ago, mind you—and it ended with one of my chandeliers broken on the floor and you with multiple injuries to show for it. I still have yet to get that fixed.”
The young man huffs from the chastisement, his face flushing deeper, making his freckles stand out even more. “Well, how else was I supposed to clean it? Besides, I did clean it up afterwards, and I was barely hurt.”
‘Barely’ meaning he did not break any bones, by Theodore’s definition. Neither of us were happy to see him collapsed on the floor after rushing toward the sound of a crash.
Still, if I have learned anything about my newest companions—partners? Lovers?—it is that Azizi is weak to our passions and joy. She has not denied Theodore yet, and I cannot imagine a case in which she would.
“Very well then,” she says after letting him stew in her playful contemplation. “What is this grand idea of yours? And shall I prepare to call for the doctor in case we have a need of him?”
Theodore opens his mouth to respond, only to pause, a myriad of expressions passing over his face before he settles on a shake of his head.
“Unfortunately, while it might be beneficial to have a doctor observe, I don’t think it’d be wise or particularly helpful,” he reluctantly says.
This, of course, only makes Azizi sigh, to which I giggle again. I lean forward to draw Theodore’s attention, touching my fingers to my lips and then my ear in a request for him to tell us.
His eagerness returns wholewise, and he plants his hands on top of my pianoforte and simply says, “Possession.”
I do not understand, and it seems that neither does Azizi, but Theodore barely pauses long enough for us to consider the word at all, too excited about his supposed revelation that he begins to pace the small room as he speaks.