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satans-storyteller-blog · 8 years ago

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Shades

Many stories exist about soulmates. A string of fate that ties two people together, a sudden spark when your eyes meet, or even a stone found by chance that glows when it meets its match. They all talk about people destined to be together since the beginning of time, a perfect romance. We are all supposed to have a soulmate, one that we all know we’ve met when something in us changes. None of us know what will change. The change is different for each couple. Most of the time it’s a tattoo that appears, or even a sudden change in hair or eye color.

I never truly knew what color was. At least, not until the day I met the one I would love for the rest of my life. We met in my favorite coffee shop. I bought coffee there almost every week, often enough that even the staff got to know me. When I stood up to get, yet another refill, a stranger bumped into me. I looked up to apologize, only to meet his eyes. I only ever saw things in shades of gray, but when I looked at him I could only focus on the pretty hazel of his eyes. Those eyes widened when they finally saw the blue of mine. We both smiled and I spoke, “I’m Rayna.”

“Asher,” he replied. We both took another comfortable moment to look each other over. “Can I interest you in another coffee?”

“Only if you agree to dinner at my place this Friday,” I teased.

“Deal”

Within that first date, I could already see why he was my match. He was funnier than I ever was, but still laughed at the stupid jokes I made. He said I read faster and more than he ever dreamed, but still favored almost the exact same genres and series that I did. We both were absolute geeks with an unhealthy book, game, and movie obsession. I hated bugs, he hated snakes. We enjoyed the idea of pets with only a slight preference for cats. We had so much in common. By the end of the date I had a crush on Asher. An exchange of phone numbers, addresses, and the gentle press of his lips on the back of my hand, with promises of being on time on Friday, guaranteed our second date.

He was late for dinner. I had planned for a half an hour delay so dinner had just finished by the time he showed. We felt the need to talk and find out more about each other. He hated to cook for himself, claiming he could burn water, but could make it look as if his flat came right out of a home magazine. I hated cleaning, never being able to bring myself to do the necessary deep cleaning my apartment probably needed, yet I could cook like a master chef. I was handy with tools and he had a scary green thumb. I planned for everything and had contingency plans for several factors after that. He flew by the seat of his pants. We both had a bit of a klutzy streak. Our habits complimented each other. By the end of the second date, I was falling hard.

We talked fairly frequently through our phones for the next few weeks. On the Saturday of the third week, he showed up at my house with a basket and a blanket. We had a picnic in the park for our third date. We sat under an Oak and jested about getting hit with an acorn by an unfriendly squirrel.

“I thought a ‘Chicken Little’ the ‘sky is falling’ vibe would help keep the mood intact for us,” Asher joked. “It has nothing to do with your appreciation for the color of oak leaves in early Autumn.” He grinned like an idiot, “On the more romantic side I did actually bring lunch to eat and a movie soundtrack to play for mood music.”

“I hope you didn’t make the lunch,” I snickered lightly, “I don’t feel like drinking burnt water.”

“I feel no need to kill my soulmate only a few weeks after meeting her,” he states with a half smirk, “I’m saving that for my future mother-in-law, in case she is as demonic as the jokes imply. The food we shall partake of today is from the finest Grocer’s, premade deli section. This included a bag of chips and processed air, as well as water bottles I stole from your fridge while you weren’t looking.”

I laughed lightly at his humor and dug through the basket. He brought around 8 different sandwich types to make sure I had one I liked. We ate, we laughed, we talked, and we kissed under that tree in the park. He remembered how much I liked cliché ideas. We carved our initials in the tree, and painted all of the colors we allowed the other to see in the heart around them. By that third date, I was in love with him.

Dates four and five in the following months solidified our relationship. On the sixth date, he asked me to marry him. We were soulmates, and we absolutely adored that fact. Not every pair had a happy ending. Not everyone finds their soulmate early in life, if ever. I’m glad we got the chance to be together.

We got married the next fall, a small wedding, inviting only family and close friends. Red and black set us apart from the garden we got married in. the reception was a grand affair, in a nearby hall. We catered way too much food. The cake was a big, yellow cake, colored orange with leaves all over it. We danced and laughed the night away. Around midnight Asher tapped me on the shoulder and flicked his eyes with a tilt of his head towards the door. We slipped off on our own to enjoy our first night as husband and wife.

We spent a week in Jamaica. Swimming, drinking, playing badminton, reading, touring, and, well, generally enjoying the married life. It passed way too quickly for both our tastes. We eventually had to go home. We had to do our jobs, and get back to my, now our, temporary apartment.

We only lived there less than a year before we found a house to put a down payment on. Repainting it was the most fun, especially the baby’s room. Three of the walls were a dusky orange-yellow. Asher painted a mural of our Oak tree on the fourth wall. Little acorns decorated the borders of the room, and an occasional leaf swirled across a wall. The rest of the rooms were each a different color, all on the paler side of the spectrum. Our house was by no means large, but it was ours, and it was breathtaking.

Seven months later, I found myself in excruciating pain and yelling at Asher. “You absolute Jerk! This is your fault!”

“That’s it Honey, just take it all out on me,” he coached calmly, “Just don’t forget to breathe.”

“As soon as I get her out of me, I’m going to castrate you!”

“No more kids. Gotcha.”

After nearly three hours of me screaming, and nearly breaking my husband’s hand, our little girl was born. The bleeding didn’t stop like it should have, I continued to bleed, and the sounds of the world grew dimmer. The last clear thing I saw, was a terrified Asher being shoved out of the room, lips shouting what I assumed was my name. I blacked out. When I next surfaced, the room was spinning, the sounds of my doctor and nurses flying in a frantic blur of activity. I felt unconsciousness reaching towards me for the second time.

“We’re losing her,” spoke the dim voice of the doctor. I found it increasingly difficult to keep my eyes open.

“Asher,” I whispered weakly. One, two. One, two. There were shouts and a loud whining noise.

~~~~~~

I paced frantically outside her room. “Come on Ray.” The hallway was almost silent in comparison to the room she was in. I leaned against one of the walls and stared at the colorful hospital posters. The happy family on the picture in the middle quickly became my favorite. The man’s proud eyes, the loving look of the woman, and the happy baby reaching to her parents in the middle. That would be our family soon.

I looked at the face of the mother, “That’ll be my Ray.” As I stared, suddenly the picture started to almost melt away, as if it was a crayon set in front of a heater. My eyes widened in alarm, my heart skipped a beat in fear. Everything was turning gray. The same shade everything was before I met…

“No,” I spoke in a hushed tone. The colors Rayna had showed me were disappearing again. That’s when it hit me, and my heart started to ache. I moved back to the door of her room. As soon as I stood in front of it, the door began to open. I didn’t hesitate to rush in, shoving the nurse out of the way.

“Rayna!” I shouted. She looked almost exactly like she did when I was forced out of the room, only, so much paler. “No,” I choked out. I felt tears stinging my eyes, as I came near her.

“We couldn’t save her,” spoke the doctor from behind me, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

I ran a hand through her hair; I caressed her cheek. She was getting cold. A few tears escaped my eyes as I pressed my forehead to hers. I barely noticed most of the staff leave. I wasn’t sobbing, but my throat felt clogged, and my chest felt ready to explode with all of the emotion it contained.

“Sir, take some time to grieve,” said the remaining Nurse, “It can be difficult to lose someone this suddenly. We’ll take her down to the morgue when you’re done. Remember, you have a daughter that will need her father now more than ever.” I stroked my wife’s face once more and pressed a gentle, and final, goodbye kiss to her forehead. Leaving her there was one of the hardest things I have ever done.

I took my daughter home two days later. A few days after that was Rayna’s funeral. It passed by in a blur of black, condolences, flowers, tears, and finally dirt. She was gone, dead and buried. The second hardest decision I ever had to make came after that.

My daughter had no mother, I would have to raise her on my own. I debated giving her up. She lay in her crib, whining softly. I had fed her earlier, I tried changing her, and still the whining didn’t stop.

“What do you need?” I asked the infant uselessly. The whining turned quickly to near wailing.

“I’m not any good at this, what do you want?” My voice escalated in volume. The wailing continued with extra tears.

“She’s not here, I’m useless, she can’t take care of you, she’s gone you stupid kid! She’s dead and she’s never coming back!” I screamed, “It’s all because of you!” I collapsed and started crying with her. My grief had finally caught up with me. “She’s gone.” After a long while, I finally calmed down enough to process what I had done. Standing up, I reached down to stroke my daughter’s cheek. Her wailing quieted back to whimpers.

“What am I doing Ray?” I asked of my missing half. “What’s wrong witj me? I’m yelling at and blaming our daughter for your death. God, I wish you were here. You were so much better with kids than me.” As if in answer, our daughter opened her tearful eyes. I froze in shock, jaw falling slack. Even if I couldn’t see anything else, I could see our daughter had her mother’s eyes, and I could see their beautiful blue hue.

“Ray,” I whispered. I was an idiot. It just took a miracle to make me see that. I quickly reached down and picked our daughter up into my arms.

“I’m so sorry sweetheart,” I apologized as I pressed my lips to her little head. “I may not be the best father, but I am yours. It’s not your fault your mother died. She gave me you, you’re my responsibility, and I will take care of you. I loved your mother, and I will continue to love you. She may not be here, but I am, and I plan on staying as long as you need me.” I threw the adoption pamphlet away, and slept on the couch with our daughter in my arms.

The years were tough without Rayna, but I managed. The most difficult part was answering our daughter’s questions. I answered most, as they came.

“Daddy, where’s Mommy?”

Although, some. . .

“Daddy, why do you cry the week after my birthday?”

“Daddy, why can’t you see colors?”

I just couldn't. I missed Rayna every year, the pain never really went away. I raised our little girl as best I could. I watched her grow up. She looked a lot like me, but was practically a mini version of her mother. I stuck with her through thick and thin, until she didn’t need me anymore. She’s grown, she found her soulmate, and she has her own kids. I am old, I am tired, and I miss my other half.

One night, nearly 50 years after her death, I said goodbye and slept. I laid peacefully at rest, and the next time I opened my eyes, I could see her smiling face and beautiful blue eyes.

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