It mocked him - one small leather-bound book, held closed by a piece of knotted lace. There was a rose etched onto the front and her name burnt into the lower part of the back. And her scent was on the pages. It was private, personal… hers.
He found it at the back of her lingerie drawer, of all places, one night when he pulled out all her things in a fit of anger. He didn't understand the why or the how, but he suddenly found himself throwing things out of her closets, her files, her rooms, one night when he could no longer take her absence, knowing that she wouldn't be rushing in apologizing for being late or whatever. He had, to use one of her expressions, "lost it and lost it good."
That he found it amongst the debris should not have amazed him as much as it did. He had seen her write into a similar book many times when they had first gotten together. That one had been bound in white, with images of peach blossoms as decoration. But because he had never seen her journal in the days since she had come to live with him, had never stopped to look at her nightly ritual and considered how much it had changed, so he never even stopped to think that she might still have one. It was one of the many things he just didn't notice.
Despite the situation, despite how desperate he felt, he never should have taken it with him. He never should have considered unknotting the lace, opening the book and reading what was inside. And he never should have been consumed with the idea of taking the thoughts she placed on those pages and claiming them without her consent. But he was considering it, more and more every day.
That thought consumed him as he watched her closely, his eyes rarely straying from her face as she lay there. She looked so pale, so fragile. This was not Diana sleeping late after a night out, or collapsing of exhaustion after they had had great sex, or sleeping off a migraine. No. This was not his Diana, who always looked soft and peaceful in bed. This was a woman on the brink of death, and he wanted Diana back.
And so he read it. He filled day after day with her words. He took the last thing she had left, the last thing he had of her - certain that he was going to lose her forever. He read it... only to learn that he had lost her already.
Posted by dosvoces at June 21, 2007 03:09 PM