Pixie Dust

Sprites. Faeries. Pixies. Call them what you will. They go by many names but they will only answer to one.
And tonight they answered.
I have strived for this moment.
I studied them for over three hundred years, prolonging my heartbeat until I though it would eventually grow too strong for my frail old body.
But I had learnt nothing. My life had been a waste.
And then, quite by chance, in my wizened state I saw a girl with faeries flying round her, dancing in circles around her head. But she was not afraid.
She was singing.
And the faeries danced.
And I listened.
Silently I watched concealed behind a sycamore tree.
I heard her say the words that would change my life.

I wasn’t sure if it would work. But I wanted it to, needed it to, with all my heart and soul. This was what I had worked my whole life for.
Slowly I cleared my throat and began to sing.
My voice was rough and it grated from a lifetime of wasted speeches. I had spoken enough in my life.
It was hardly a song but they still came.
They came.
Thank god they came.
And, when I caught one between my thumb and forefinger my life’s desire was granted.
But it came with a price.
* * * * *
I wake up in the morning, as I do every morning and I wait for my maid to bring me my breakfast in bed. But today there is a slight variation to my monotonous routine.
Today is my birthday.
I have been sixteen now for 35,926 years.
431,112 months.
13,112,990 days.
314,711,760 wasted hours, 18,882,705,600 meaningless minutes.

I wake up every morning and watch slowly as the world disintegrates around me. I watch everyone grow old and succumb to death, sometimes willingly, sometimes wishing for maybe another day to finish the menial tasks that they wish to perform in their fleeting lives. I watch as their skin sags and their hair grows brittle and thin. I watch as families are left without mothers and fathers and as young babies are ripped from the arms of expectant parents. I watch as hunger slowly destroys the poor. How I had laughed at them, mocked them for not owning anything, for being deprived of an education. But now I see them die as their hunger eats away at the linings of their stomachs. I watch, wishing I could help them, feed them.
But I can’t.

Now Thyatira comes in with my breakfast. A huge breakfast. Too much for little old me to eat. Too much for my sixteen year old stomach to cope with. I try to eat it all, to put on even an ounce of weight but I have to stop when I start to heave. Food sickens me.
The leftovers go to the well-fed dogs, the well-fed dogs that keep me safe from any thieves or starving beggars who come in the night and steal the food scraps out of the compost.

After placing the tray on my lap Thyatira rushes to the window and hurriedly yanks open the curtains.
“Anything else, miss?” she asks, not meeting my eyes. She looks anywhere but at my eyes.
“No, thank you Thyatira,” I say, but she is gone before I can even say thank you. I can’t blame her. She is scared of what I am.

Everyone fears me.

After I finish my breakfast I get dressed, not waiting for Thyatira to come and assist me. I can save her from that, at least. Today I will go and celebrate another year passing. I will attempt to do what I do every year.

The sun is out and it is beautiful day. The moon is faint in the early morning light. It is small in the sky, smooth and dim but almost as old as me. This offers me some comfort and I allow myself one small, wry, ironic smile. If only he could be waiting there. Like he promised one frosty, sparkling morning oh so many years ago.

He promised.

He promised to return on my birthday. My seventeenth birthday when we could be married.
I still wear the ring. Gold. A small, white mother of pearl flower, with a delicate mother of pearl heart.

I walk past the house where I once lived. There are no walls left now, time has seen to that. There is no evidence of a little cottage, nestled in amongst the cornflowers and sweet peas, the daisies and the blood red poppies, their black hearts spreading through their petals like an inkblot. And so the flowers remain, seeming to escape the infinite and inclusive boundaries of change. Swaying in the gentle summer breeze, as they always have, always will.

I walk through the water meadows that a child may have once played in, exploring the long grass, seeking the lost kingdoms and buried treasures.

This is my childhood. It was so long ago. My eyes should not be seeing this.

The woodland at the top of the hill. In the spring the woods turned blue. Bluebell wood. Aptly named. Full of shy kisses and hand holding, shuffling and blushes. A childhood proclamation of love, being in love and loving friends.

And now I am here.

I reach the open space at the top of the hill. I am here. The cliffs have not changed a bit. The cliff tops are the most stunning cliffs in the world. Sea-pinks grow in little tufts and gorse grows in sparse groups, allowing my nose the pleasure of the faint scent of coconut on the persistent and insistent sea breeze. And the grass! I love the grass by the sea. It is thicker and wirier than ordinary grass and expels a perfume never to be captured in a bottle, too exquisite to be described by mere words.

I take my shoes off. I want to feel the grass underneath my feet just once more.

I walk slowly over to the cliff edge and look down. The sea is a writhing angry body, crashing vengefully against the cliffs. White horses are being thrown about recklessly.

I smile again, this time a smile of satisfaction.
I place my toes on the edge of the cliff and close my eyes.
The wind whips back my hair and the sun beats down on my face.

He is not coming. He would be here by now if he were coming.

He is not coming. Even though he promised.

I stand on the edge of life and death for all but one.

He will never come for me.

I breathe deeply. I hope this is my last breath. This should be my last breath.

Never.

“STOP!”

His voice? My heart beats wildly, thumping erratically and irrationally around my chest.

It will not be him but a small flicker of hope and faith that has not been inside me for too long ignites and begins to glow.

I turn around and face my saviour. My murderer.

It is not him.

“What did you do that for?” I ask coldly. My fury cold, colder than the middle of winter, colder than an artic wind, colder than an icy death beneath snow and ice.
My rescuer shuddered.
“I thought…Well I thought you were going to jump,” he stuttered.
I looked straight into his eyes. They were green, the deepest green that I had ever seen. His hair was black, blacker than coal and shone in the sun. My fury seeped away, as quickly as it had come. He smiled as soon as he saw peace return to my face. I smiled back slowly, tentatively. My face creased as it tried to take on the unusual gesture.

He looked too much like him.

“Are you alright now?” he asked quietly, gently.
I smiled again, this time it was easier. He held out his hand. I took it without a second thought, without even a reluctant glance over my shoulder to what I had hoped would have been my death, what should have been my death.

And we walked. Slowly, going nowhere. Sometimes we talked. He held my hand firmly, gently. The contact shocked me but I liked it. His skin was warm, warmer than mine.

Sometimes we stopped and sat down. Sometimes we ran, through fields and across the cliff tops. We saw some people but we ignored them. We were in our own world. A better world.

And then the sun began to set.

We sat down now. The air was cooling. He turned his face towards mine. His lips were close now, so close I could taste his sweet breath on my tongue. He traced his fingers down my jaw line. And then he began to kiss me.

I melted into his arms, wanting only to be closer to him. I needed to feel another heart beat next to mine. He was not afraid of what I was.

But I knew this was a lie.

I was a lie.

A lie in the folds of age.

I should be dead.

I pulled away, tears in my eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered.

I turned away as the sun slipped behind the horizon.