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The Mourning after Love (standard:drama, 600 words)
Author: CyranoAdded: Nov 14 2008Views/Reads: 1741/0Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Falling out of love is the same as falling in love, you don't quite know where you are.

The words, quietly spoken, break her. She leaps from the settee, arms
flailing, fists clenched, raining blows down about his head and 
shoulders... “I hate you... I hate, there's no way...” she 
screams. The blows strike at his heart, at the very core of his being. 
Only exhaustion slows the rhythmic ferocity of the assault, till 
finally, unable to throw one more punch she falls against him, like the 
slavering tongue of an exhausted dog, she hangs there. He pulls her in 
close, feeling the torrent of anguish beating in her chest, his right 
hand soothing over her sweat-plastered blond hair. 

“Please don't leave...I didn't mean it...I'll kill myself.” She sobs. 

Blood trickles from his nose and lip, coagulating with flowers of
spittle that now blossom crimson on his shirt. The emotion is deep and 
wild and rasping. 

Just yesterday her youthful looks, brilliant eyes, shiny taught skin and
glossed lips were all under the sweetness of his caress. 

“Please don't leave me.  I'll be better.  What can I do...tell me? I'll
do anything.” She pleads, tears mingling with snot and wiped away on a 
cuff. “You love me, I know you do. Can we talk? Leaving me is not the 
answer.” Her eyes, bloodshot and swollen, search for an answer in his 
look, pleading with him to understand. From quivering lips, streaked 
with tousled hair, she whispers, “I just want to be with you, by 
myself. Is that so awful?” 

It feels like a nightmare, swift and intense, two people and the deadly
whistling of a romance gone awry. 

Three months earlier: 

Daniel Kane woke this particular morning with nothing but a blank space
for a brain. He dragged his bathrobe from the floor, where it had lain 
since being discarded there in a drunken stupor, pushed his arms 
through the sleeves and wandered from the bedroom in a sleepy daze. His 
head hurt. His eyes had trouble focusing and his stomach  could wretch. 

Yesterday was tough, like choking on raw meat, the music swelling up
through the church rafters, the mourners, many he didn't know, taking 
their place, filling every available space, shoulder to shoulder, 
children in arms, packing the church, waiting for the coffin. 
Katherine, watery eye'd, stood at his side.  Momentarily the susurrant 
voices quieted. Daniel inhaled deeply, stared forward. Katherine sensed 
the movement in his chest and let her hand slide sideways, grasping his 
fingers. The coffin, carried aloft by six bearers, decorated atop by a 
simple wreath in the shape of an anchor, moved between mourners. 

Father McMillan held up his right hand. Heads bowed. After silence the
organ heralded the first notes of the Sailor's Hymn. Voices thronged, 
rich with shared grief, filling the church and ascending like the 
waning of perfume. 

Eternal Father, strong to save, 

Whose arm hath bound the restless wave, 

Who bid'st the mighty ocean deep 

Its own appointed limits keep; 

O hear us when we cry to thee, 

For those in peril on the sea. 

Daniel, incapable of holding tumultuous grief inside, broke forth sobs.
It was a sudden gasp...a transitory heartbreak. With every fiber in his 
being, eyes closed, he envisaged only that he wanted to see. Canvas 
sheets...a turbulent vision of sails! Katherine squeezed his fingers, 
tears cresting, falling down her cheeks. She has loved Daniel Kane for 
seven years, seen him struggle, rage and love his father every single 
day. Now it will be up to him to carry the name forward. To follow in 
the footsteps of a man honored by monarchs, loved by friends, and 
respected by his detractors. 

To be cont: 


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