Rob paused from reading. From watching the past unfold before him in purple writing. His mind was filled with churning thoughts, yet it felt empty and numb. It was himself that he was reading about, yet he could not remember. He knew he couldn’t live on memories written by someone else. He turned the pages but found nothing else. The purple writings had ended. His only way to the past had come to a dead end. He stared at the blank page before him, letting anger slowly take over him.
He felt frustrated. Hiding the diary in the bottom drawer, he pushed the thought out of his head and picked up the drumsticks. His favorite. They were his favorite again. He had learnt to acquire the taste. For his sake. For their sake. To pacify them. The beats were mesmerizing. He let the beats fill the room as he worked on the drums, falling into a deep concentration, entering a world that Rob Bourdon had once been in. Was it the same? It didn’t matter. He let the drumbeats carry him off.
“Rob…” he heard her again. He felt her long before she uttered his name. That icy breeze that played around him, caressing his skin. He opened his eyes to see her standing before him, the same sad eyes, crying out to him.
He swallowed his fear and asked in a mere whisper, “Who are you?”
“Don’t you remember me, Rob?” she flickered like a candle flame in a light breeze but stayed on. Her eyes grew sadder, they shimmered with tears. Gossamer tears.
‘Don’t you remember who I am? Don’t you remember who you are?” she asked again in a whispery breeze. He looked at her and suddenly, it all fell into place.
“Lenore!” it escaped his lips in a low whisper even before he could stop himself. She smiled a wan smile and nodded. “You remember!” she sounded pleased.
“I’ve come to help you, my love. Help you remember…” her silvery voice trailed off as she flickered again.
“Remember…?” his look was puzzled and again she flickered, sadly bowing her head.
“Yes… remember.” She repeated, reaching out her pale hand to touch him. He felt her. Her cold fingers on his cheek as she rested her hand on it. Like how she always did…he gasped from the touch and the memory. He let his eyes close as he felt her other hand on his face, sucking in his breath when he felt icy cold lips on his own. He felt a surge of ice cold shock through his body and memories filling up his mind. Memories of him. Of them. Of his music. Of Lenore. Of Lenore’s diary. And he was filled. Restored. He was Rob Bourdon again. And he fell back when he remembered. How he lost his memory. The moment before he closed his eyes and opened them again as a new person. Who Lenore was and what happened to her. The memories were shocking and painful and he felt tears trickling down his cheek.
Her eyes glimmered as she pulled away from him, “You must help me now, Rob. Now that you remember… help me…” her voice was pleading.
“What can I do?” he let the tears make their way down his face; an endless river of sadness and pain and memories.
“Tell them. Tell them who I am. Let us not be a secret anymore, Rob. Remember me and love me always.” She stepped away from him, her eyes still pleading. “Promise me this, Rob! Or I can never rest,” she looked away.
He nodded willingly, dumbfounded by her presence and sadness and by the sudden surge of memories. She smiled one last smile and reached over to touch his cheek. He felt her soft, cold lips brush his lightly and he heard her silvery voice in his mind as she faded…
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow –
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream…
“I love you,” he whispered. He hung his head and let his tears fall upon his drums. Tears for Lenore. The one he loved so much.
He smiled and waited for them to settle down. He had told them about his memories. Now he had to tell them about Lenore. They stood beneath the dappled shade, the graves decorating the field. Marble statues watch over the dead and marble tombstones mark their place. Their memories.
“I met her a couple of years ago. She was an angel,” he started with a smile, remembering Lenore.
“I loved her so much, but I never let anyone else know about her. It didn’t seem to matter then. She was from a different world. She was surreal. She wasn’t like any other. She has stood by me through everything, watched me fall and pick myself up again and end up where I am today.” He turned to glance at the tombstone beside him, Lenore’s name etched forever in marble. The pale statue of the angel stood over her grave, watching over her. Watching over them as Rob spoke.
“She was on the bus with me. I was supposed to bring her to the next show and tell you about her. We were going to spend Christmas together. All of us. It was going to be so much fun. Just like how it is at home. No lonely Christmas nights in the tour bus or big parties at a stranger’s place. We were all going to be around, but the bus… it…” his voice trailed off. He couldn’t continue anymore. It hurt too much. They knew and Brad reached out to rest his hand on his shoulder.
“It’s good that you remember, Rob. But how?” Joe asked, still puzzled.
“She came back…” Rob sighed, his voice in a low whisper as he recited…
The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep, which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
For ever with unopened eye,
While the pale sheeted ghosts go by!
My love, She sleeps! Oh, may her sleep
As it is lasting, so be deep!
Soft may the worms about her creep!…
How shall the burial rite be read?
The solemn song be sung?
The requiem for the loveliest dead,
That ever died so young?
Her friends are gazing on her,
And on her gaudy bier,
And weep! – oh! To dishonor
Dead beauty with a tear!
They loved her for her wealth—
And they hated her for her pride—
But she grew in feeble health,
And they love her – that she died.
They tell me (when they speak
Of her ‘costly-broider’d pall’)
That my voice is growing weak—
That I should not sing at all—
Or that my tone should be
Tun’d to such solemn song,
So mournfully – so mournfully,
That the dead may feel no wrong.
But she is gone above,
With young Hope at her side,
And I am drunk with love
Of the dead, who is my bride—
Of the dead – dead who lies
All perfum’d there,
With the death upon her eyes,
And life upon her hair.
Thus on the coffin loud and long
I strike – the murmur sent
Through the grey chambers to my song,
Shall be the accompaniment.
Thou died’st in thy life’s June—
But thou didst not die too fair:
Thou didst not die too soon,
Nor with too calm an air.
From more than friend on earth
Thy life and love ar riven,
To join the untainted mirth
Oh more than throne in heaven—
Therefore, to thee this night
I will no requiem raise,
But waft thee on thy flight,
With a Paean of old days.
-Edgar Allan Poe
THE END | Fiction
|TOP | Last updated 15 February 2002 19:42 (AUS EST / +1000 GMT).|