:: Fairytale ::


In the comfortable dimness between the red, luscious side stage curtains, he took a deep breath, calming his nerves.

For her.

He stepped out onto the stage, into the spotlight to applause. He awkwardly bowed to the audience. Just beyond the blinding stage lights, he could vaguely make out his parents’ proud faces, his friends’ jubilant smiles in the dark. This is the moment he had been waiting for. Ever since childhood, this was his one and only dream. Now was his time to shine- and everyone would be there to see it.

But there was one person who should have been there, but wasn’t. He stood there, waiting for the cue from the side, and discreetly slipped his sleek white Nokia out of his back pocket.

Menu- Contacts- Anna- Call.

The sound technician held her thumbs up, signaling ready to go. He turned around and followed the spotlight to the black grand Bessondofer sitting right in the centre of the stage, gleaming as if it was eagerly waiting for him. He paused for the slightest moment- then sat down at the piano, and set his Nokia down on the piano where it would be able to record every note the piano made. He ran his fingers over the keys lightly, relishing the smoothness. At the corner of his eye, he could still see his Nokia. The stark contrast with the piano. White on black. He took another deep breath.

For her.


***


She was awoken by a pair of soft hands patting gently, though urgently, on her arm. Her eyes struggled to open. It had seemed so long since she did that. It was kind of difficult, considering the amount of drugs she was under. She blinked feebly. The world, to her sapphire-blue eyes, was behind a thickly-veiled mist. For a minute or two, she was confused. Where was she again? Then it all came back to her. The white… So much white. White walls, white curtains, white armchair, white bed, white sheets, white pillows. She looked down at herself. White gown as well. The only color in the room was her blond hair, spread around her head on her pillow like a halo of sunshine.

Her attention turned back to the nurse, who continued patting her hand urgently. Seeing that she was awake, the nurse whispered, “Miss Anna, Miss Anna,” and stretched her hand towards her. Anna squinted, her vision blurring and refocusing at odd intervals. What was that in her hand? It contrasted starkly with the white sheets, white bed, white everything. Black on white…

Anna shook her head slightly, as if to shake away the blurriness and confusion, and looked back at the nurse’s hand. Oh. It was her phone. She opened her pale lips to speak, fully intending to ask who the hell it was, but found no strength. Managing to only make an unintelligible murmur, she mustered everything she had just to reach her fingers out to receive the phone and bring it to her ear. She frowned at the seeming silence at the other end. Then the most heavenly music was heard. She froze, and through the many layers of cotton in her brain, felt a jolt of recognition.

It was him. Him, playing the song that he composed. He had high hopes for it, he said. She could still vaguely remember him sitting at the upright piano she had him move into her room, figuring out the right notes, right chords, trying to make the song perfect. “Perfect for you,” he said. That was when she had been better, before she got bedridden. She would lean over him, her hair a hanging curtain of yellow, and poke at the notes when he didn’t know what should come next. They had joked and laughed, but he became serious when it came to the lyrics and the title. What was it called again? She scrunched up her face to remember. Oh yes. It was Fairytale.

She held her breath, awe-struck at the majesty, the sadness, the hope and the promise that was in the song, in the lyrics, in the tune, in his mellow voice that he claimed was too inferior compared to the professionals in the music industry but she insisted that that wasn’t true.

So he finished it...

She had been unconscious for so many days now, her condition rapidly deteriorating. What she didn’t know was that he had stayed by her all the time, and worked on the song as well. As she listened to the carefully penned lyrics, she was overwhelmed by an intense feeling of sadness.

I want to be the angel
The angel whom you loved in fairytales
Spread out my arms
Turn them into wings
To protect you forever

You must believe
That fairytales do exist
And that our love
Is just like them
There’s always a happily-ever-after

I’ll be your prince
To your princess
I’ll wait for you to awake
At your bedside
Let’s write our happy ending together


The last chord faded, the sound of it seeming to echo for ages after it ended. Pause. Then tumultuous applause. He must be playing in public. She vaguely remembered someone telling her about a recording contract, and a live performance. It must have been him. She smiled faintly, her strength fading by the second. Finally, his dream was fulfilled. She knew how much this meant to him. He must be so happy now… She struggled to keep awake. Her eyelids just seemed to be so heavy. She finally gave in, her eyes closing shut, and a single, lone tear slid down the curve of her cheek.


***


He had tried his best to lengthen the song, to play the last chords as slowly as he possibly could and not make it seem like it was on purpose. Somehow, deep inside him, he knew that she wouldn’t last long. Somehow, he knew that when the song ended, she would be gone. He paused when he finally finished, and reached out for his phone. The fervent applause, the applause he had been waiting for a lifetime, faded into the background. He brought the Nokia to his ear. The insistent beeping that he had heard before only in drama serials where they had dying scenes in hospitals was heard. So it was true. He had been right. She was gone...

No. Everything was wrong. Everything had been a lie. What fairytales? What happily ever after? Lies. Where was the happy ending? Why? Why did you have to go? Lies. All lies. Fairytales don’t exist...

Finally, he gave in. He let his perfect composure, his confident facade fall away, and a single, lone tear slid down the curve of his cheek.




post prose prose

This isn't writen by me. It's by Evelyn. I have to say, a rather good writer and friend as well.

So there you have it. Another contribution to this collection, by Evelyn. 

written by MitZukin Mrvica