Remnants Of Happiness
This time his fever was higher. It had been a long time since it had passed 104°F, but now it had. "What should I do?", nervously her eyes observed the small apartment. Those people who lived here usually had a really strange taste, she thought, the place was on a waste. No matter where she looked, it was full of perfectly packed boxes, as if those people had moved out long ago. Forgotten memories, she smiled, but the persons who inherited this place weren't like her. Those boxes weren't full of postcards, no memories at all, just scattered trash. Just useless, so they had thrown it into boxes. What people could that be, she wondered, when he gasped and she tossed around. His eyes were squinted shut and shadowed by fever and she was sure he was hallucinating, for he whispered: "I suspected, I hoped it not to be, but then. This scent, it could only have been. I didn't want to believe..." "Calm down", she said and reached for his hand. He clutched it and turned his dark eyes to her and his lips moved. What was he saying? She imitated it – that was how she'd always been able to read him when he was like this. C-o-m-e-c-l-o-s-e-r... Come closer. Silently she nodded and bowed her head until his mouth was at her ears She could feel as he whispered again. And what he whispered – still clutching her hand, like he was about to drown – send a chill up her spine, "Do not burn them. They are the only remnants of your happiness, of our happiness. I beg you, Emmy." The urge to run built up inside her with every word of his, but she suppressed it. Still, she was shivering when his grip loosened and she straightened up. Emmy, he hadn't called her this since she started puberty. And even more, this was something he should've forgotten by now. His illness was all about this fact, this traumatic event she'd caused. “I'm gonna get you some cold bandages”, she said, aware that he couldn't listen, and left into the kitchen.
It smelled. But what was it? He knew this scent, he'd smelled it before. When they had gone on the plane secretly. In the back of the plane, right before it had crash-landed. Kerosene. He fastened his paces. It couldn't be. He dashed around the corner – and saw her. She had still her injuries and the bruises that bloomed all around her body, like scary flowers. Her right arm was still bandaged, her left eye still covered with the cloth-strip. But what was frightening were the postcards. All the memories they'd made together – with each other, were scattered on the floor. The boxes torn and dark, as if she'd thrown water on them. But it wasn't water. Whatever didn't have that stinging scent. And normally wasn't kept inside bright orange containers like the one she was emptying right know. The cards were already soaked, and somehow, deep inside his head, he knew what she was up to. But he didn't want to believe. Then she drew out a lighter...
The kitchen was even more cropped than the bed room was. It was hard to turn around, even with the slender figure of hers, but somehow she managed it to the sink. With the large cooking knife she cut off another strip from her shirt. If she wouldn't find something cloth-like soon, she'd be naked by the time he came back to his senses. If he only would... Shaking her head she let icy water run over the strip and felt how her hand started to get numb. She jerked it back. It wasn't normal how she hated the cold. How she panicked when the freezing feeling crept through her body. They'd been to many places together, all around the world, but they'd never gone to the Antarctic, it would have been fun, though. She turned on the hot water and let it pour over her hands. Splashed it into her face with such force, that her eye burned. Once upon a time she'd been happy, and she'd had both of her eyes. But not anymore. Sighing she took the cold strip and returned, squeezing herself out of the kitchen, to his bed and lay it on his forehead. His breathing was irregular, it seemed like he dashed through some nightmare. “It's all right”, she whispered and stroke through his brown hair, like a worried mother would do with her ill child. “It's all right.”
“It's all right”, he said, but she didn't even look up to him. She stared downwards onto the kerosine-soaked postcards. Of Egypt. Of Rome. Of Paris. Of uncountable places, big and small, famous and never-heard-of with ridiculous names. “Do not burn them”, he said. A drop seeped onto the cards. Did she cry? Hopefully he approached her, but all that it had been was the last bit out of the container, which she threw to the side. It hit the wall and with a clattering sound it joined a good dozen other of his kind. How much had she spread? Was her intention to open a second Hell. “This place is already Hell”, she said and focused the lighter in her hands.”They are remnants of your happiness”, he said, and laughed a humorless laugh, “Our happiness. I created it for you and it became mine, too.” “This”, she said with so much detest in her voice, that it felt like she had beaten him, “Is not happiness.” “I beg you, Emmy!”, he shouted, but she'd already dropped the lighter and the room was set ablaze.
His condition hadn't changed. He was still hot with fever, but looked shockingly pale. His collar was damp with sweat which also stuck his hair to his temples and neck. At least he had stopped mumbling, she thought as she sat down next to him. “You shouldn't remember. It's enough that I have to live with it. If only you hadn't come... I would have ended it.” She raised a hand and allowed her fingers to gently touch the place where once her left eye had been. Carefully she stroke over the cottoned bandage. Under it, she knew, was nothing. Just a hole. The whole eye had been ragged by the time the plane crashed. If she'd just sat two centimeters further away, it wouldn't have happened... but none of this thoughts mattered anything. Her left eye was not longer there, she'd never seen the hole, though. He had constantly kept her away from everything that reflected her image. It was a pain, but in the depths of her heart she was glad. Even when he changed her bandages he'd forbidden her to sit up or make one move toward everything mirror-like and would show her the black gap next to the dark brown iris that bedecked her remaining eye. The absolute no-no, he'd said, as if she was still a child. But she had listened. That had been the least she could have done. “I never wanted you this fate”, she whispered and skidded from the bed, kneeling beside it now, she took his hand. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry...” It was always the same. Since that incident a half year ago it had happened every few weeks. After he'd awoken he hadn't been able to remember what had passed, but after one week memories would haunt him. Piece by piece they'd show him nightmares that made him fall ill. Nightmares, showing him repeatedly the sin she'd committed. A week after that his fever would increase suddenly, it rarely surmounted 104°F, but if it did, he'd be on the edge of death – just like today. It had only happened twice before, he'd been hallucinating and screaming and by the time he finally awoke, after days of torture, he would not have the slightest memory of those nightmares. Those diseases lasted usually around twenty-two days, after the thirteenth he had always been bound to bed. Unable to stand, to speak contextually or to move several parts of his body. But after it he'd be completely healthy. But not for long. Two weeks, at the very most, then it took a toll again and his condition would worsen everyday. She startled out of her thoughts by the strengthening pressure on her hand. His grip was becoming more intense and she wanted to calm him, when his eyes flew open. The green irises focused her. He blinked. Then she could see it again: the red. The flaming red that always accompanied the dark green, as if he was permanently watching a fire. He blinked again, his lips moved. Soundlessly. He tried again, and this time she could hear him: “What's this place, Ember?”
