Fan Fiction ❯ October the Seventh ❯ Isabella ( Chapter 1 )

I could tell you so many things about him. I could tell you his name, Nathaniel Colgrove. I could tell you where he lived, right next to me, 3175 Vineyard Street, across from the Thomson winery. The street always was thick with the smell of grape wine, rich and lustrous, and I found that all the years I spent on the porch of that house had turned the smell into an emotion. An emptiness, a dryness…a longing.

It was magical.

We sat together often on his porch, watching the lightning bugs buzz around in the tall, un-mowed grass. We waited until the last drop of sunshine had left the skies, and then we laid there on the cold wooden porch floor, gazing up at the stars thoughtfully. The smell of grapes, as always, was thick about us, drawing us into it's magical emotion.

I could tell you that once we were in love.

I remember that he had a wonderful voice, one I was envious of. I remember how he sang to me as we laid together, falling deep into night's spell. And I remember the butterflies in my stomach whenever he said my name, the gentleness of his voice as he whispered his philosophical thoughts to me, or read passages from his favorite books aloud.

I was like I had stumbled into a perfect, romantic and wonderful dream. And for a time, I was happy.

A carefully filed suicide report tells me that he took his life on the evening of October 7th. It states that Nathaniel used an exacto knife to slit his wrists while standing over the kitchen sink. He then stumbled out onto the front porch, followed by a trail of blood. His time of death was said to have been around sunset.

It says nothing about what drove him to take his life on his porch on that fateful autumn evening.

I lie awake sometimes and imagine his last moments…the buzz of lightning bugs around him, the intoxicating smell of grapes full in the fading daylight.

And I wonder, in those last few moments of his life, if he was thinking of me.

It's been three years now, since Nathaniel died. I haven't spoken a word since that day. And I can still hear his voice, calling my name. I can still see his face, close to mine. I can feel his warm hands laced with my own hands. I still fall into his dark brown eyes, feeling penetrated by his stare.

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"Nathaniel," The words leave my lips soundlessly, my vocal cords refusing to work. I sit up in my bed, trembling and cold with sweat. I could have sworn I heard his name. I can feel him all around me, I know that he's here, in my room.

I glance at the neon numbers of my alarm clock. 3:42. I sigh and fiddle with a music box that had been laying on my bed side table. I open it, watching the ballerina spin as the music plays.

And then the music stops. The ballerina twirls on, her painted smile mocking me.

3:43. I shut the box roughly and toss it into the center of my room.