Wallflower Ink

Chapter 3

· Merri ·

My footsteps are silent along the short hall as they lead me back to the living room. I pause beside the only chair, my gaze gliding across the surface of the bare walls. Gone are the pictures that had adorned it, as is the furniture they'd once hung above. This room is now as barren as every other room in my house.

Once, it had been a showcase that few had ever seen but me; in a world that often overwhelms me, its solitude had been my comfort. Bookcases stood sentinel along the back wall, lined neatly with my favorite authors' works. The old bookstore fragrance drifting from their pages, that musky scent of aged paper and time, had permeated the air. One lungful at a time I had found comfort here, had found my calm, even on the most chaotic of days.

This room had been my favorite.

But now it is empty. Its coffee and end tables have gone the same way as everything else. From dressers to mahogany bed frame and matching vanity, shelvings to knick-nacks, everything has been sold. Even the Persian rug I had been so proud of is gone. That last alone had cost a small fortune, and the ghost of its triviality haunts me still. Only bare floor remains where it once had lain, the hardwood's smooth texture a comfort to me now.

In the end, it had all been so easy to give up. Everything I'd worked hard for and once treasured had been simply material, and happiness can not be drawn from that alone. I know that now. Only the profits I'd gained might buy me a bit of that. More specifically, what intend to do with them may earn my heart a small measure of peace, might pave the way to my atonement. 

Cupped in my hand, I lift the glass of Chateauneuf-du-Pape to my lips, pausing to savor its aroma. Warmed now to the perfect temperature, I sip it slowly, letting its earthy fragrance and rich flavor envelop my senses. I let out a soft sigh as I pull it away. Aged nearly to perfection, it's the only creature comfort I've allowed myself to keep.

The fact that I have emptied my home in the span of two weeks should fill me with a sense of accomplishment, but it doesn't. Instead, it leaves me just as hollow as I have felt for the past six months. None of it matters. All the things that once filled my life with happiness had become just another burden, clutter in an otherwise meaningless existence.

But the money? That will all serve a higher purpose than anything I have ever bought before, or could ever buy again. At least, all but the small portion I've allocated for my final adventure, my last hoorah, the one I'll plan with Jace Declan on Saturday. And maybe the small fortune that is left will make a difference where I never could, no matter how hard I'd tried.

I move to the window, then gaze out at the bleakness of the night. No stars. No moon. Only charcoal slate hovering over an equally inky landscape.

If I stare long enough I know I can imagine what death will be like. It will be like this, an empty void of nothing, an impenetrable darkness that will eventually swallow everything, including me. I smile wistfully at that thought. Will that vast expanse of nothing devour my thoughts, too? 

If only, I think to myself.

I want that more than anything else: to be rid of everything this life has ever meant to me. All my memories, all the hopes and dreams that had once seemed so important. If there is any kindness waiting for me when my life is over, I hope it will be that. 

The smiles of hopeful children loom toward me from the dark, ghosts that will haunt my every waking moment until I at last join them. With a sigh, I close my eyes against them, willing them away. Tears squeeze past my closed lids, making hot trails down my cheeks until they fall from my chin to the bare floor. I ignore them, take another sip of my wine, then open my eyes again to the void before me.

Soon none of this will matter, and I will find the peace I'll never have again in this life. It's the only hope I have left: that when my last day on this earth is over, somewhere on the other side I'll find peace.

I take a deep breath, let it out slowly, then force my thoughts in a different direction. They settle on the artist.

I smile to myself as an image of him forms in my mind. Tall, dark haired, strong-jawed, with a sparkle in his warm brown eyes that had almost made me forget myself and the reason I'd sought him out. The way the art on his skin had rippled every time he'd moved his arms, it had been like watching pictures set to motion, an animated dance of black and grey across the surface of Michelangelo's David.

He had been warm and friendly, not at all what I'd expected. I'd known beforehand he was only thirty one, a year older than myself, but still I had been shocked to find him radiating an internal youth that I couldn't help but notice in his eyes and smile.

I know his story, had in fact done extensive research on his family before I'd taken my permanent leave of absence from the agency. It was the reason I had chosen him above all the other recommendations I'd been given. I could have easily been fired for snooping in closed records, but I really hadn't cared. I have no intentions of resuming my career, and this is too important to worry about future ramifications.

No. He is too important, I correct myself. It has to be him and no other. If he can't--or won't--help me fulfill the goal I've set for myself, then it just won't get done at all. I frown at that thought. This is too important to give up on prematurely. I will find a way to convince him, and I will not take "no" for an answer.

On Saturday, I will secure his services or die trying. Only then can I hope to clear my conscience, at least a little. Only then can I die knowing I've done all I can to atone for the tragedies I had not prevented.