May 10,
1897 2.15am
Even
if I thought it was possible to sleep tonight, the moon would
still haunt my dreams. I would still hear the cries of the wolf,
and Quentin's agonizing pleas for help will still pierce my heart.
I can do nothing except sit by the window and wait for the dawn,
praying that my beloved will return to me. The curse has frightened
me so much that I can't stop shaking and when I think of what
he has become and what he will do, it hurts to breathe.
I can't cry because I have no tears left... my heart is
empty of anything except my fear...and my love. What is
a curse anyway? Mere words given form in a fit of anger? Until
tonight, I thought they only existed in folk tales and legends.
When night began to fall, we were both so frightened, but Quentin
always hides his true feelings, so I couldn't get him to talk
with me about it. He just kept pacing around the room, drinking
his brandy, as if it could ward off the curse. he was so angry
with me for staying with him, but how could I walk away? I know
he was afraid he would hurt me, but how could I turn my back on
him when he needed me? He didn't deserve to suffer that pain alone.
After all, it was my fault that Magda cursed him. If Jenny hadn't
found me in her husband's arms, she wouldn't have attacked me
and Quentin wouldn't have killed her if he hadn't been trying
to protect me.
And Magda--she cursed him out of grief and her pain, but
wasn't her hatred of him caused solely by my actions? I should
have never given myself to Quentin...I should have been stronger
in resisting him. I wish I had left this dreadful house long ago,
but it's too late to do so now. I love Quentin more than my own
life, and the curse can't change the way I feel. I won't let it.
I don't know what was worse -- the anguished look in his eyes
when he begged me to help him, or the fear I felt when I realized
there is nothing I can do for him. I wish that pain could have
been my own...if I could have taken it from him, I would have
gladly given my soul to the wolf to protect him.
But I couldn't.
And now I must wait.
Quentin felt overwhelmed
by the intensity of Beth's emotions and closed the book, unable
to read any further. He knew what was on those pages...
Petofi's arrival and the frantic attempt to find an end
to the curse; the death of the gypsy spitfire, Julianka, who had
been perhaps his only hope for redemption; the death of the only
son he'd ever had, the son he'd never known; the mind switch
that Petofi had used to make him a slave to black magic; and then
the last days of Beth's life, ones she had spent in fear, not
knowing Quentin at all....
It was too painful to remember, and as he laid back on
the bed, he clutched the journal to his chest and fell into a
exhausted and fitful sleep, the kind of sleep that affords only
minimal relief to the deeply depressed...
Quentin didn't awaken until his subconscious felt the warmth
of an ethereal hand brush away the tears he'd cried himself to
sleep with, the last tears of pain he would ever shed...
Requiem
There was a spiritual
warmth in the darkness that beckoned to him as he felt a gentle
hand brush against his cheek, but in spite of the love that suffused
him, Quentin was afraid. He was afraid to believe that this was
real, for life had never given him any reason to have faith in
peace. His parents and Beth had been stolen from him, and
his family had been torn apart--everything he could have ever
cared about had been taken from him, and he'd been forced to not
care about or believe in anything. It was the only way to
shield himself from the pain of his existence. Quentin knew he
didn't deserve salvation and wondered if perhaps this was a trick
created by Ceberus to further torment him. After all the
evil he'd seen and experienced, how could it be anything else?
It's not a trick Quentin, but you won't believe me until
you open your eyes.
I can't Beth, his
soul sobbed, I'm so afraid
this isn't real!
I know, my love,
but I've never given you any reason not to trust me have I?
The question was a simple one, one with an even simpler
answer. Beth had never given him any reason to doubt her
sincerity; the only times that he had done so were when he'd given
in to his paranoia and fear. She'd kept the truth of his
children from him because she wished to protect them from the
curse, and because he'd been too selfish to have been a good father.
There was nothing else she could have done, and so she had cared
for Lenore and Michael, taking them clothes and toys, and spending
much of her time with Mrs. Fillmore in a vain attempt to give
them a life worthy of what they deserved. Although it had
taken almost a century for Quentin to realize that her actions
had been altruistic, he understood that she had never tried to
purposefully hurt him by keeping their existence a secret.
No, everything she had done had been out of respect for his family,
and love for him, and he knew that if she said was there, then
his experience had to be real.
Slowly opening his eyes, Quentin awoke to find Beth at
his side, looking as regal as she had the first day he'd met her.
She was wearing the pale blue gown Judith had chosen for her funeral,
and her hair fell down her back in the golden curls Quentin had
so loved to touch. In her hand, she held a single yellow
rose, the one special token of affection they had shared; Beth's
favorite flower was a yellow rose and he'd gotten into trouble
many times by cutting them off Judith's favorite rosebush
for her. Now it seemed as though the simple blossom was
nothing less than a perfect symbol of the miracle that had unfolded
before him.
To
be continued...
Back
