Torn journal pages (one-off)
Title: Torn journal pages (one-off)
Author: thekeyholder (Brigi)
Pairing: BellDom
Rating: PG/PG-13
Beta: the wonderful ms_belle10 . *hugs*
Summary: One-off with cadre. A little girl finds some pages from Dom’s journal in which he described his life after the break-up with Matt.
Based on the following mkmeme prompt: Anyone heard the song, Funny How It Fades Away by Fastball? Of course you haven't :P Here are the lyrics: www.lyricsmode.com/lyrics/f/fastball/funny_how_it_fades_away.html
So, the prompt. Belldom, something sad, maybe reflecting on a relationship that has lost it's spark. I just think this line is so Belldom-ish: "You won't see those pale greys returning to blues"Do with this what you will♥
Feedback: is what I love the most! (after Muse and chocolate, of course :P)
Warnings: Angst.
Disclaimers: I don’t own Muse or Fastball’s lyrics but original aspects belong to me. So don't steal unless you want me to put Dracula chase you. :P
Author’s note: Major thanks to 16littleseconds who looked over the French parts! Emily, I hope you like it, thanks for convincing me to fill your prompt! I think I really put my heart into this story plus the song is beautiful too. Funny thing is that I re-wrote the ending, as my beta said I gave it “a bit more of a positive outlook.”
Text in orange: the actual lyrics. Yup, included the whole song in the text!
A small girl was running on a sunny, late afternoon through an emerald field, the tall blades of grass tickling her bare forearms while the pleasant breeze ran about playfully beside her. She was wearing a simple yellow dress and white sandals and her auburn hair was adorned with two silk bows. Her image would have been enough for anybody to become attached to her; she was the incarnate image of sweet childhood, but the most beautiful thing about her was her childish, crystalline laughter which harmonized with the serene surroundings.
“Mathilde, ma cherie, où vas-tu?” [Mathilde, my sweetie, where are you going ?] called out a young woman who was looking at the tiny figure from the threshold of a neat house. “Il fait nuit et le dîner est prêt lui aussi! Reviens! [It's getting dark and dinner is ready too! Come back!]
“Oui, maman! Dans une seconde!” [Yes, mum! In a second!] replied Mathilde absentmindedly, her attention rapt by several mysterious things laying scattered under a raspberry bush. She knelt down and gathered the yellowed papers, studying the curlicued, elegant words written in dark blue ink.
“Qu'est-ce que c'est?” [What’s this?] asked the mother, now standing behind her daughter and looking curiously at the strange objects.
Mathilde handed over the bunch of paper obediently and shrugged to emphasize her words: “Je ne sais pas! Je les ai trouvés ici. Le vent a dû emporter les papiers et ils ont atterri ici dans les branches du buisson. [I found them here. The wind probably carried the papers here and they were seized by the branches of the bush.]
The woman looked around worriedly, her mossy green eyes surveying the area apprehensively for the possible owner of the mystic papers. She noticed that the margins weren’t even, a sign that the pages were torn out from a notebook. A shiver ran down her spine and she ushered Mathilde to the house, locking the green door with confusion on her face.
The Daube provençale (Provencal stew) was still steaming on the table when Mathilde took place and asked her mother to join her. The little girl was spooning hastily when her mother broke the silence:
“C’est sont écrit en anglais!” [These are written in English!] she stated with a frown.
Mathilde looked with genuine surprise in her eyes. “Alors, quel est le problème? Tu connais très bien l'anglais, maman.” [So what’s the problem then? You know English very well, mum.]
The young woman, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-seven years old, ran her fingertips smoothly on the surface of the pages, pondering if she had the right to read into such a personal thing… especially since it seemed to be an excerpt from a journal. Her trembling fingers brushed nervously through her reddish locks and then she just threw the papers on the bed and seated herself next to the pretty girl.
After dinner, they washed the dishes while singing joyful children songs to pass the time, although the woman’s thoughts always swirled back to the pages she left on the bed. Mathilde’s pure, childlike heart sensed her mother’s apprehension:
“Maman, je peux aller jouer toute seule avec mes poupées si tu es occupée.” [Mama, I can play alone with my dolls if you are busy.] She assured her mother as she touched the woman’s right cheek with her small hand. The woman locked Mathilde in her arms, placing small kisses on her daughter’s soft hair and silently thanking god for having such a thoughtful and considerate child. She assured herself that Mathilde was indeed able to play by herself before heading to the cozy living room.
By now, she was dying of curiosity to find out the secret behind those orphaned pages. After turning on the lights, she sat down comfortably and studied the handwriting more attentively. It was strong and vigorous; it probably belonged to a man. Her eyes read the following:
22 August 2009
Now, that I’m finally hundreds of miles away from you, I’m feeling much better. I’ve fled to France, the country that always waited for me with open arms and slowly became my second home and my shelter when I couldn’t bear being kept in suspense by you anymore.
I’m currently surrounded by a vast field of colourful wildflowers; their heavenly perfume must have bemused me already, otherwise I can’t explain why I’m addressing my words to you, Matthew… I’ve never seen you in these surroundings and though the landscape is beautiful, I have to confess it lacks your icy sparkle. It seems that wherever you go, you leave a trace that enhances, brings to perfection even the greyest of places.
But I don’t need your perfection now. I only want an imperfect world for my imperfect soul… I’m leaning against an old walnut, trying to take in the surreal image in front of me. The clear sky throbs with various shades of orange and pink, just like on that aquarelle painted by our goddaughter, Ava Jo. The air is filled with sparkling particles of summer essence, the sunbeams enveloping everything in a golden aura while old passions have started flaring up inside me…
Those days when our hearts were as big as the Sun have faded away except for in my memories. We loved each other, no! I only know for sure that I loved you like no one before. My love increased with each flirty glance and sweet kiss you awarded me with, and suddenly I couldn’t keep it inside anymore. The world had to know about my source of happiness. Your presence alone made me turn around with a smile for everyone… remember, once when we had a secret weekend trip in Belgium I stopped an old lady on the street and simply just told her while grinning widely:
“J'aime cet homme si bien! Non, je l'adore!” [I love this man so much! No, I adore him!]
The lady looked at us endearingly and other passers-by even applauded when you fell upon my neck, uniting your thin lips with mine and giving yourself completely to me. That feeling’s a memory… although when we were still together it was so alive in my heart, in every cell of mine that sometimes I would think that the present was just an illusion and the kiss was the absolute truth. We don’t realize when we have everything, greed makes us insensible to small changes. Funny how it fades away…
I always said your eyes are like seas of fantasies with their holy colour, unable to lie with that congenital innocence they own. Like in so many things, I was wrong in this as well. You just used me and when you grew bored of me, you threw Dominic Howard away like a used and filthy rag.
Your eyes were clearly crying out with “I need you badly!” but at the same time your mouth screamed in my face: “Go away, little fucker, I don’t feel anything for you!”… At first I thought you were just confused, so I tried to convince you of the rightness of the feelings in your orbs. I’d rather not reproduce here your response which led to our break-up.
I want to slap the man who claimed that eyes are the mirror of the soul… This would mean that have two souls: one that loves me and one that hates me, the latter even having this bizarre fetish for taking pleasure in paining me, in breaking my heart.
I’ve learned my lesson; you won’t see those pale greys returning to blues. You know, I am not able to stop talking about your eyes; I can’t ignore those two mendacious mirrors, I just can’t! Tell me honestly, why don’t you leave me alone? I can’t find my peace if you’re haunting me at night with that skin of yours which is paler than moonlight! Don’t call me in my dreams, I don’t want to forget the pain you caused. Don’t you understand that I’m confined with you?! You are like a virus, you sneaked into my organism unawares, and assaulted insidiously my healthy cells which multiplied your wicked substance too. No wonder that I’m a wretch, you have infiltrated my DNA and not only that I can’t erase you but you will overrule me with time, you little parasite! No, I didn’t mean it in that way…
Oh, if you ever find this journal and wonder why some words are smudgy, well… a few raindrops fell from the sky. Maybe an angel cried over my pain. It wasn’t me, no, I can’t, I don’t want to live my life tearfully because of you! You were not right when you said I’m strong; despite the promise I’ve made to myself, bitter drops are moistening my eyes, blurring my vision… The colours will wash out as I shrink in my shoes… You’ve already started your attack, haven’t you? I feel that I have less and less control over my body as if you are about to tear across my existence. I can’t be your toy forever, and I won’t always live and breath… watch me as I fade away with the last crimson sunbursts, glorifying the sky above you at every sunset in memory of our imperfect love.
Wherever I look I see things that remind me of us. Like, have you ever watched the huge masses of people marching on the wide boulevards of metropolises? They walk past each other and don’t even look at the faces of the humans surrounding them. Matthew, do you understand?! They don’t look at humans, at SOULS, for god’s sake! Matthew, mon Matthew, maybe this bleak world is the cause of our… misapprehension.
Have you ever asked yourself why did we diverge from each other? I thought we were opposite poles of the love-magnet, I thought we would always understand each other through looks but something wedged itself between us. If I was able to direct the movie of our relationship I think I would imagine it like a halting, divisive sequence of images. We wake in the morning and work all day, shunning each other but desperately longing even for the slightest touch. A couple unable to express their feelings, unable to stand up against the forces which are pulling them down in the mud of trivial, monotonous life.
However, the thing which differentiates us from romantic heroes is that we don’t even have dreams any more, they have been long replaced by blank sighs and futile tossings. The movie continues with the image when we dress up in the evening with nothing to say, reminding me of those awkward minutes before our last gigs when you would just change into your glittering suit. Your azure eyes reflected the scintillation of your clothing, however they were startlingly cold, colder than the Arctic Ocean.
In that moment I told myself that “our love is just like a candle burning bright, burning like forever then it fades away”. It was meant to be eternal; we should have fanned the fire continuously, although even a furtive, glacial glance of your eyes was enough to put out the sparks of our relationship…
I finally made up my mind, Matthew, and I arrived at the decision to release all the negative feelings I’ve been hiding in my heart towards you. They avail nobody and the fault lies on me as well. Maybe you thought that I blamed you for everything? I should have done much more to save our relationship. Anyway, do you think I could ever bear you a grudge? I’ve never played you off, though the thick fog of confusion often muddled my common sense. From the first second I set eyes on you, Matthew, I was bewitched by the promising allurement that surrounded you, like bait for inexperienced, naïve blonde teenagers… Who on this planet would ever refuse the chance of a lifetime to love and lose Matthew Bellamy if they could touch eternity through you?
If, a few months ago, someone told me that on a bright August day I would be thanking you for everything (and I mean everything, even the bad parts) I would have laughed at them. I’m grateful for meeting you and experiencing things together because “first times” are always special. When we first kissed in the rain, the tiny droplets making us shiver or when you first caressed my bare torso, so deliciously that whenever I recall this memory it evokes a smile. Thank you for showing me that love is timeless, like those lazy Sunday afternoons when we just lay under a soft blanket melting harmoniously into the mellow flow of sweetness… when time is of no importance our true selves get free and celebrate jiggling on the music of happiness.
If only I had told you my true feelings! If only I had disclosed the secrets of my heart to you! We should not have listened to ill-wishers but we panicked and instead of clutching our hands even tighter, we let go and diverged from each other on the maddening rhythm of the ticking. Our love was crying lonely like an orphan child in the faceless, running crowd because we abandoned it without looking back. Or did our love actually scuttle off from us? Did you see it slip away? No, I didn’t either, Bells. It’s too late for rueful sighs now.
It’s also late in another sense, warm darkness enveloping me peacefully. The light of day is not eternal and neither was our passion. Just like a candle burning bright, burning like forever and then fading away… Having released them finally, my feelings can break away through these journal pages. I can’t keep them for myself because they are yours too so I trust them to the powers above.
Adieu, mon amour! Je t’aime, Matthew. Je t’aime pour toujours…
Ton blond admirateur,
Dominique
The woman burst into scalding tears as the infinite sadness of the confession lay heavy on her shoulders. She put aside the precious papers not to water them.
“Mon dieu! Pauvres, pauvres jeune hommes!” [Oh my god! Poor, poor young men!] she mumbled to herself. However, her watery eyes fell on the photo of her deceased husband and a brain-storm struck her.
“Je vais le fair pour toi…” [I will do it for you...] she whispered with hope.
* * * * *
A handsome man in his thirties sipped a cup of coffee with a lethargic expression on his face. He looked at the calendar hanging on the wall. Although the warm Italian sun shone brightly outside it was already the 8th of September. I haven’t seen him for exactly three months. I will lose my mind unless he gives a life sign soon.
A soft knock on the door woke the young man up from his train of thought. Confused as he wasn’t expecting anyone, he opened the door curiously. A pair of green eyes looked up from the ground, their owner, a red-haired woman smiling warmly at the man.
“Matthew Bellamy?” she asked and her interlocutor didn’t fail to notice her French accent. He nodded.
“I believe these belong to you,” the woman’s voice quivered as she handed carefully the torn journal pages, “and so does their writer.”
Matthew was struck dumb when he recognized the handwriting, he had to hold onto the door frame. His breath was taken away when his eyes fell on the last sentence. Oh my god, he still loves me, he loves me!”
By the time he wakened from his state of shock and wanted to thank the stranger for everything, she was already heading down the leaf-covered alley.
“Miss! Miss! Who are you?” he ran with the intention to catch her up.
The woman brushed away his question with a clap. “That’s not important. Go and find your love!”
Matthew watched from the other side of the road as the mysterious mail-carrier got on a tram.
“Thank you! Merci… merci beaucoup!” he shouted excitedly and raised a smile on the anonymous angel’s face. Yes, I have to find him. Mon doux amour… my sweet love…
Author: thekeyholder (Brigi)
Pairing: BellDom
Rating: PG/PG-13
Beta: the wonderful ms_belle10 . *hugs*
Summary: One-off with cadre. A little girl finds some pages from Dom’s journal in which he described his life after the break-up with Matt.
Based on the following mkmeme prompt: Anyone heard the song, Funny How It Fades Away by Fastball? Of course you haven't :P Here are the lyrics: www.lyricsmode.com/lyrics/f/fastball/funny_how_it_fades_away.html
So, the prompt. Belldom, something sad, maybe reflecting on a relationship that has lost it's spark. I just think this line is so Belldom-ish: "You won't see those pale greys returning to blues"Do with this what you will♥
Feedback: is what I love the most! (after Muse and chocolate, of course :P)
Warnings: Angst.
Disclaimers: I don’t own Muse or Fastball’s lyrics but original aspects belong to me. So don't steal unless you want me to put Dracula chase you. :P
Author’s note: Major thanks to 16littleseconds who looked over the French parts! Emily, I hope you like it, thanks for convincing me to fill your prompt! I think I really put my heart into this story plus the song is beautiful too. Funny thing is that I re-wrote the ending, as my beta said I gave it “a bit more of a positive outlook.”
Text in orange: the actual lyrics. Yup, included the whole song in the text!
A small girl was running on a sunny, late afternoon through an emerald field, the tall blades of grass tickling her bare forearms while the pleasant breeze ran about playfully beside her. She was wearing a simple yellow dress and white sandals and her auburn hair was adorned with two silk bows. Her image would have been enough for anybody to become attached to her; she was the incarnate image of sweet childhood, but the most beautiful thing about her was her childish, crystalline laughter which harmonized with the serene surroundings.
“Mathilde, ma cherie, où vas-tu?” [Mathilde, my sweetie, where are you going ?] called out a young woman who was looking at the tiny figure from the threshold of a neat house. “Il fait nuit et le dîner est prêt lui aussi! Reviens! [It's getting dark and dinner is ready too! Come back!]
“Oui, maman! Dans une seconde!” [Yes, mum! In a second!] replied Mathilde absentmindedly, her attention rapt by several mysterious things laying scattered under a raspberry bush. She knelt down and gathered the yellowed papers, studying the curlicued, elegant words written in dark blue ink.
“Qu'est-ce que c'est?” [What’s this?] asked the mother, now standing behind her daughter and looking curiously at the strange objects.
Mathilde handed over the bunch of paper obediently and shrugged to emphasize her words: “Je ne sais pas! Je les ai trouvés ici. Le vent a dû emporter les papiers et ils ont atterri ici dans les branches du buisson. [I found them here. The wind probably carried the papers here and they were seized by the branches of the bush.]
The woman looked around worriedly, her mossy green eyes surveying the area apprehensively for the possible owner of the mystic papers. She noticed that the margins weren’t even, a sign that the pages were torn out from a notebook. A shiver ran down her spine and she ushered Mathilde to the house, locking the green door with confusion on her face.
The Daube provençale (Provencal stew) was still steaming on the table when Mathilde took place and asked her mother to join her. The little girl was spooning hastily when her mother broke the silence:
“C’est sont écrit en anglais!” [These are written in English!] she stated with a frown.
Mathilde looked with genuine surprise in her eyes. “Alors, quel est le problème? Tu connais très bien l'anglais, maman.” [So what’s the problem then? You know English very well, mum.]
The young woman, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-seven years old, ran her fingertips smoothly on the surface of the pages, pondering if she had the right to read into such a personal thing… especially since it seemed to be an excerpt from a journal. Her trembling fingers brushed nervously through her reddish locks and then she just threw the papers on the bed and seated herself next to the pretty girl.
After dinner, they washed the dishes while singing joyful children songs to pass the time, although the woman’s thoughts always swirled back to the pages she left on the bed. Mathilde’s pure, childlike heart sensed her mother’s apprehension:
“Maman, je peux aller jouer toute seule avec mes poupées si tu es occupée.” [Mama, I can play alone with my dolls if you are busy.] She assured her mother as she touched the woman’s right cheek with her small hand. The woman locked Mathilde in her arms, placing small kisses on her daughter’s soft hair and silently thanking god for having such a thoughtful and considerate child. She assured herself that Mathilde was indeed able to play by herself before heading to the cozy living room.
By now, she was dying of curiosity to find out the secret behind those orphaned pages. After turning on the lights, she sat down comfortably and studied the handwriting more attentively. It was strong and vigorous; it probably belonged to a man. Her eyes read the following:
22 August 2009
Now, that I’m finally hundreds of miles away from you, I’m feeling much better. I’ve fled to France, the country that always waited for me with open arms and slowly became my second home and my shelter when I couldn’t bear being kept in suspense by you anymore.
I’m currently surrounded by a vast field of colourful wildflowers; their heavenly perfume must have bemused me already, otherwise I can’t explain why I’m addressing my words to you, Matthew… I’ve never seen you in these surroundings and though the landscape is beautiful, I have to confess it lacks your icy sparkle. It seems that wherever you go, you leave a trace that enhances, brings to perfection even the greyest of places.
But I don’t need your perfection now. I only want an imperfect world for my imperfect soul… I’m leaning against an old walnut, trying to take in the surreal image in front of me. The clear sky throbs with various shades of orange and pink, just like on that aquarelle painted by our goddaughter, Ava Jo. The air is filled with sparkling particles of summer essence, the sunbeams enveloping everything in a golden aura while old passions have started flaring up inside me…
Those days when our hearts were as big as the Sun have faded away except for in my memories. We loved each other, no! I only know for sure that I loved you like no one before. My love increased with each flirty glance and sweet kiss you awarded me with, and suddenly I couldn’t keep it inside anymore. The world had to know about my source of happiness. Your presence alone made me turn around with a smile for everyone… remember, once when we had a secret weekend trip in Belgium I stopped an old lady on the street and simply just told her while grinning widely:
“J'aime cet homme si bien! Non, je l'adore!” [I love this man so much! No, I adore him!]
The lady looked at us endearingly and other passers-by even applauded when you fell upon my neck, uniting your thin lips with mine and giving yourself completely to me. That feeling’s a memory… although when we were still together it was so alive in my heart, in every cell of mine that sometimes I would think that the present was just an illusion and the kiss was the absolute truth. We don’t realize when we have everything, greed makes us insensible to small changes. Funny how it fades away…
I always said your eyes are like seas of fantasies with their holy colour, unable to lie with that congenital innocence they own. Like in so many things, I was wrong in this as well. You just used me and when you grew bored of me, you threw Dominic Howard away like a used and filthy rag.
Your eyes were clearly crying out with “I need you badly!” but at the same time your mouth screamed in my face: “Go away, little fucker, I don’t feel anything for you!”… At first I thought you were just confused, so I tried to convince you of the rightness of the feelings in your orbs. I’d rather not reproduce here your response which led to our break-up.
I want to slap the man who claimed that eyes are the mirror of the soul… This would mean that have two souls: one that loves me and one that hates me, the latter even having this bizarre fetish for taking pleasure in paining me, in breaking my heart.
I’ve learned my lesson; you won’t see those pale greys returning to blues. You know, I am not able to stop talking about your eyes; I can’t ignore those two mendacious mirrors, I just can’t! Tell me honestly, why don’t you leave me alone? I can’t find my peace if you’re haunting me at night with that skin of yours which is paler than moonlight! Don’t call me in my dreams, I don’t want to forget the pain you caused. Don’t you understand that I’m confined with you?! You are like a virus, you sneaked into my organism unawares, and assaulted insidiously my healthy cells which multiplied your wicked substance too. No wonder that I’m a wretch, you have infiltrated my DNA and not only that I can’t erase you but you will overrule me with time, you little parasite! No, I didn’t mean it in that way…
Oh, if you ever find this journal and wonder why some words are smudgy, well… a few raindrops fell from the sky. Maybe an angel cried over my pain. It wasn’t me, no, I can’t, I don’t want to live my life tearfully because of you! You were not right when you said I’m strong; despite the promise I’ve made to myself, bitter drops are moistening my eyes, blurring my vision… The colours will wash out as I shrink in my shoes… You’ve already started your attack, haven’t you? I feel that I have less and less control over my body as if you are about to tear across my existence. I can’t be your toy forever, and I won’t always live and breath… watch me as I fade away with the last crimson sunbursts, glorifying the sky above you at every sunset in memory of our imperfect love.
Wherever I look I see things that remind me of us. Like, have you ever watched the huge masses of people marching on the wide boulevards of metropolises? They walk past each other and don’t even look at the faces of the humans surrounding them. Matthew, do you understand?! They don’t look at humans, at SOULS, for god’s sake! Matthew, mon Matthew, maybe this bleak world is the cause of our… misapprehension.
Have you ever asked yourself why did we diverge from each other? I thought we were opposite poles of the love-magnet, I thought we would always understand each other through looks but something wedged itself between us. If I was able to direct the movie of our relationship I think I would imagine it like a halting, divisive sequence of images. We wake in the morning and work all day, shunning each other but desperately longing even for the slightest touch. A couple unable to express their feelings, unable to stand up against the forces which are pulling them down in the mud of trivial, monotonous life.
However, the thing which differentiates us from romantic heroes is that we don’t even have dreams any more, they have been long replaced by blank sighs and futile tossings. The movie continues with the image when we dress up in the evening with nothing to say, reminding me of those awkward minutes before our last gigs when you would just change into your glittering suit. Your azure eyes reflected the scintillation of your clothing, however they were startlingly cold, colder than the Arctic Ocean.
In that moment I told myself that “our love is just like a candle burning bright, burning like forever then it fades away”. It was meant to be eternal; we should have fanned the fire continuously, although even a furtive, glacial glance of your eyes was enough to put out the sparks of our relationship…
I finally made up my mind, Matthew, and I arrived at the decision to release all the negative feelings I’ve been hiding in my heart towards you. They avail nobody and the fault lies on me as well. Maybe you thought that I blamed you for everything? I should have done much more to save our relationship. Anyway, do you think I could ever bear you a grudge? I’ve never played you off, though the thick fog of confusion often muddled my common sense. From the first second I set eyes on you, Matthew, I was bewitched by the promising allurement that surrounded you, like bait for inexperienced, naïve blonde teenagers… Who on this planet would ever refuse the chance of a lifetime to love and lose Matthew Bellamy if they could touch eternity through you?
If, a few months ago, someone told me that on a bright August day I would be thanking you for everything (and I mean everything, even the bad parts) I would have laughed at them. I’m grateful for meeting you and experiencing things together because “first times” are always special. When we first kissed in the rain, the tiny droplets making us shiver or when you first caressed my bare torso, so deliciously that whenever I recall this memory it evokes a smile. Thank you for showing me that love is timeless, like those lazy Sunday afternoons when we just lay under a soft blanket melting harmoniously into the mellow flow of sweetness… when time is of no importance our true selves get free and celebrate jiggling on the music of happiness.
If only I had told you my true feelings! If only I had disclosed the secrets of my heart to you! We should not have listened to ill-wishers but we panicked and instead of clutching our hands even tighter, we let go and diverged from each other on the maddening rhythm of the ticking. Our love was crying lonely like an orphan child in the faceless, running crowd because we abandoned it without looking back. Or did our love actually scuttle off from us? Did you see it slip away? No, I didn’t either, Bells. It’s too late for rueful sighs now.
It’s also late in another sense, warm darkness enveloping me peacefully. The light of day is not eternal and neither was our passion. Just like a candle burning bright, burning like forever and then fading away… Having released them finally, my feelings can break away through these journal pages. I can’t keep them for myself because they are yours too so I trust them to the powers above.
Adieu, mon amour! Je t’aime, Matthew. Je t’aime pour toujours…
Ton blond admirateur,
Dominique
The woman burst into scalding tears as the infinite sadness of the confession lay heavy on her shoulders. She put aside the precious papers not to water them.
“Mon dieu! Pauvres, pauvres jeune hommes!” [Oh my god! Poor, poor young men!] she mumbled to herself. However, her watery eyes fell on the photo of her deceased husband and a brain-storm struck her.
“Je vais le fair pour toi…” [I will do it for you...] she whispered with hope.
* * * * *
A handsome man in his thirties sipped a cup of coffee with a lethargic expression on his face. He looked at the calendar hanging on the wall. Although the warm Italian sun shone brightly outside it was already the 8th of September. I haven’t seen him for exactly three months. I will lose my mind unless he gives a life sign soon.
A soft knock on the door woke the young man up from his train of thought. Confused as he wasn’t expecting anyone, he opened the door curiously. A pair of green eyes looked up from the ground, their owner, a red-haired woman smiling warmly at the man.
“Matthew Bellamy?” she asked and her interlocutor didn’t fail to notice her French accent. He nodded.
“I believe these belong to you,” the woman’s voice quivered as she handed carefully the torn journal pages, “and so does their writer.”
Matthew was struck dumb when he recognized the handwriting, he had to hold onto the door frame. His breath was taken away when his eyes fell on the last sentence. Oh my god, he still loves me, he loves me!”
By the time he wakened from his state of shock and wanted to thank the stranger for everything, she was already heading down the leaf-covered alley.
“Miss! Miss! Who are you?” he ran with the intention to catch her up.
The woman brushed away his question with a clap. “That’s not important. Go and find your love!”
Matthew watched from the other side of the road as the mysterious mail-carrier got on a tram.
“Thank you! Merci… merci beaucoup!” he shouted excitedly and raised a smile on the anonymous angel’s face. Yes, I have to find him. Mon doux amour… my sweet love…