30 Days 30 Stories Installment 15, Embroidery

There was a piece of blank white muslin sitting on a chair. At the mouth of the room, by the door, the black chair sat shiny and dusty, over which the white of the muslin was folded neatly, untouched by gray. The woman was lying upon a counterpane on her bed, pale and wan. She had lost the love she had so desired, the love she had wanted, and the love she had found. It was far from her, from anyone. And she bled the bleeding of those in love, the bleeding of volcanic and burning pain within that only a lover lost can cause. Her dress was dark green, her eyes were black of a widow. And she whispered moans, small noises of pain, like an animal weak that has been caught in a cage. She was burning up inside, with the acid of heartblood. And she didn't want it to stop. She wanted to feel every drop - a tattoo of her lover's soul, the scars of love. She wanted to bear them with her until she went into that other world, where perhaps she could spend her time more happily, searching the endless wasteland for him.

The maid came into the room to set up the fire. The mistress had been like this for days. For days now, and no change. And she had dressed her and changed her, patient and loyal, wondering if she would ever eat. Ten years her mistress's senior, she had not the authority to try to tell her love would heal. And she hadn't the heart. Her mistress had been a joyful thing, but the light had been turned searing inward and came out no longer.

Margaret whispered something. Something loud enough for Mary to hear. "Listen," said the growling voice, the voice rough like wood that hasn't been sanded, and Mary moved closer. "Listen," plead Margaret, and Mary, happy to have something she could do, sat down on the counterpane and watched Margaret's lips move, red and cracked as they were.
Margaret began to speak in lines of poetic license, and Mary watched as line after line left her.

The snows are too deep here,

The fires are far below

But both burn incredibly

And never numb

When all I want is the cry

Of someone lost,

And can never have a word again

Help me leave this,

Help me

Don't mock my love

It was like the sun, yearning

Ever to be near and watch

The earth

And bring about the seasons

The flowers and the birds

Beasts and woods

And seed, and now it is dark

All life must stop,

Yet breathing continues...

Mary was transfixed, but as Margaret spoke, it was as if the life was pouring from her. What could Mary do? She glanced at the door, and was startled to see the white muslin, the muslin that had been planned for Margaret's undergown for her wedding, speckled with red. Speckled not only with red, but with what looked to be twining designs.

Where is he?

How can I breathe when he cannot?

Margaret's voice was timorous, but smoother, and Mary watched, somewhat horrified, as vines began to grow upon the muslin, quickly, to the rhythm of Margaret's voice, every flower seeming to steal from Margaret a day of life.

He was the one whom

My soul comprehended

And when I could contain him no longer

He held me, within him instead.

Bursting love seemed unable

To really even speak our relation

There was too much

To much to write, and say and understand.

The journey is dead before I have walked it

I have come to its end, and it has killed me

But not killed this body

This body that was to be ours,

Not mine, not his

We shared them, both of ours - or were to do so.

Keep me,

Keep me,

Let me go.

Let me be with you.

Margaret was crying now, but the tears that ran her cheeks were not splattering her dress, but seemed to be absorbed by the muslin on the chair. Mary reached to take Margaret's hand, but she moved it, quickly for one so weak, and continued, her voice now clear, carried away.

He moved in me

Like my own soul

How can it be gone

And I still here?

Whole future world

Is no more, now,

But I am left barren

Of my own love,

And without love,

Where is life?

How can I continue it?

There is nothing.

The vines on the muslin were twining faster, the cloth was nearly full. Mary was horrified, and saddened. She wanted to cry, but it wasn't possible, she was too frightened.

Nothing...

Nothing...

Love is nothing more than me

And I no more than it.

Margaret was silent, the muslin was full. Mary stood up, suddenly. She couldn't take any more, and moving to the curtains, flung them open. The sun poured in, but it only lit the death pale of Margaret's face. And the embroidery of the muslin, scarlet of blood.

The muslin still hangs in that palazzo, now a museum. You may see it - the whirls of whole universes are painted there, within the fabric somehow. Perhaps it is a map to that other world, or more importantly, a map to this one.