A character composition for Unknown
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, and thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
The candle flickers before her face, illuminating little in the all-pervasive darkness of the morgue. She isn't supposed to be there anymore. If the proprietor knew... well, he doesn't know. And he won't. Not yet.
She won't let the flame go out. Such a simple little thing, the extinguishing of a candle, means far too much to her now. To let this flame disappear is to watch a life vanish. Her constant vigil is to her a sad truth. Even now, she still is unwilling to let him go.
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all.
Except him.
He wasn't afraid to take that leap, to burn his bridges behind him and leap into the embrace of the undiscovered country, from whose bourn no traveler returns. Conscience. Hers is searing.
What made him take that jump?
Maybe she did.
But she can't let her mind go there. She shakes her head violently and pulls her sweater closer around her shuddering frame. She must not consider fault, for that way madness lies.
But she cannot ponder the reasons without trying to place blame. And to her, as to so many, it is sacrilege to even consider blaming the deceased.
What is a man who commits suicide? Is he the victim, or is he the murderer? If he is the murderer, why does none other pay with blood? But if he is the victim, why is it everyone else who suffers?
Coward.
She recoils at the mere thought. The flame flickers with her sudden movement, but keeps burning steadily. The sight settles her somewhat. She is in a mortuary, mourning a life too soon extinguished. Such a word has no place there.
A fool, and a coward.
She bites her lip. The foolishness is hers, for allowing her secret heart to think ill of him when he can no more refute her; so too the cowardice, for remaining there to watch the candle that night.
Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand?
But no king's blood was on his hands, no once ally's. Only his own. Art thou but a dagger of the mind, a false creation--a false promise, but of what?
And prompted by whom?
She stops herself again. She mustn't think on it. She glances down at the clock near her kneeling form, illuminated scarcely by the candlelight. Four in the morning. Morning will come soon, but the ghosts will not leave.
He'd been found early in the morning. She saw him lying there, just as the clock struck seven. 'Twas a knell that summons thee to heaven, or to hell.
What made him cross that bridge? What made him choose to die? What made him leave her behind? She must have done something.
Or maybe he thought not of her at all.
And that was worse. To be hated is a wrenching pain, but to be nothing, that would be unbearable.
Perhaps he felt he was nothing, no one. If so, she could not begrudge him the sleep that ends the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to. But why? Why would he feel that way?
She was wrapped up in him. Everything he'd ever wanted, whatever she could give, she had. All her love was his; he was all that remained to her, and now she had nothing left. How could he have thought he didn't matter to her? How could he have doubted the love of his own mother?
And what now? What is left to her? What pieces are there left for her to pick up? How can she go on? She cannot.
But she has to.
They whose guilt within their bosoms lie imagine every eye beholds their blame. She was not murderer in deed, but feels herself such in effect. She knows not how. She cannot trace it. But the guilt is there. If she had done nothing wrong, he would not have died.
If only she knew what she did, if only she could turn back the time to change it! If only she could change the past. But what's done can't be undone, and somehow she has to keep living, now that he is gone, whilst she remains.
Let go. Let go. Why is it so hard to let go? There is nothing more that could be done. Burn the candle as long as she would, his life will not return. His flame is already extinguished. No tinder in the world now could bring it back.
Still she sits there, motionless, staring at the tiny, now failing flame.
The candle flickers and goes out.
And the rest is silence.
