Stille Nacht
Someone had thrown a switch.
Turned off the music, the noise, the shoppers, the kids, the Santas with bells on every street corner, the lights stretched from building to building across the once-busy streets.
Now the world was silent, dark, save the gentle breaths of falling snow and the few street lamps flickering and the occasional red light swaying in the breeze. The crowds had disappeared, gone home to await Christmas morning with family, with loved ones.
Shoulders quivering under her jacket, Mathilda shifted the bouquet of white roses to her other elbow. A small velvet box nestled in her pocket, a silver cylinder in the other.
Loved ones. She exhaled gently, a cloud of white smoke billowing into the frosty air in front of her. Miguel was married, his house barely big enough for his immediate family’s Christmas, much less a tag-along aunt. Kevin and Raul tried to include her sometimes, but she always seemed to wind up as a third wheel attached by pure charity when they clearly wanted to enjoy the holidays by themselves. Emily made sure she didn’t wind up strung out on the floor of her tiny bedroom in a drug-induced haze, but with the redhead’s promotion, her working hours had increased exponentially, leaving little time to check on the magic-less pixie.
She only had one “loved one” left. The love of her life.
A flood of memories painted a small smile on her lips, like a toymaker painting on the features of a delicate china doll. Mathilda’s hand found a gold locket hanging at her chest. A rose was etched into one side, her initials intertwined with Mariah’s on the other. It was the first Christmas the two had spent together--a chance meeting in a small town on the Spanish coast, a chance meeting that lead to a week of smiles, fiery kisses, cool touches, and cheap wine. A chance meeting that lead to the best eight years of Mathilda’s life.
Mathilda looked up to a snowdrift blowing off of a rooftop overhead. It swirled into a vague loop-de-loop that reminded her of a white headscarf before slipping off into the night. A mental photograph, a faded Polaroid from a box somewhere she rarely looked, shuffled to the surface--Mariah grinned from the memory, a silken scarf white as snow wrapped around her raspberry curls. They’d gone to Russia for Christmas that year, invaded Kai’s home at Tala’s request. The two were adopting a baby together and wanted a few feminine touches for the nursery. They adopted a girl, named her Miesha after Tala’s mother, if she remembered. She and Mariah had gone shopping for a Christmas present for the baby girl--Mariah had picked up the scarf and fell in love with it. Mathilda couldn’t say no to that grin, never had been able to. Tala said it was a good look for her, and meant it. For once.
The cylinder in her pocket weighed against her hip as she walked. She slipped a hand in with the weighty object, her fingers caressing a polished ebony handle, a silver barrel, a gentle curve in the trigger guard. Mathilda closed her eyes and took a deep breath of the frigid night air. She’d found the gun in a box of Mariah’s when they moved in together, as a Christmas present to them both. They’d paused unpacking and laid together on the mattress, still lying uncovered on the floor, as Mariah explained the significance of the weapon.
“My great grandmother got it as a gift from a British merchant, when we were still allowed to go all the way to the river. He gave it to her to protect herself, and her baby, until he came back to get them, to take them away.” She stroked the handle thoughtfully, the tips of her fingers just barely brushing the wood. “He never came back. No one knows what happened. But my grandmother got the gun when she married--her mother said to her, ‘I hope you never need this, but if you are ever desperate to escape, this will give you one chance. One chance only. Use it wisely.’ My grandmother passed it to my mother, who passed it to me. After she shot herself, of course.” She laughed bitterly. “Only after she’d used her one shot. Selfish bitch.”
Reluctantly, Mathilda retracted her hand as the memory slipped away. The bouquet of white roses shifted hands a second time, and she pushed her other hand into her pocket. Velvet met her fingertips, almost leaping into her touch. She curled her fingers around the ring box, her frozen smile taking on a melancholy cast. She’d hoped to propose with the ring. Her grandmother had once told her that the number seven was a blessed number, the number of completion, so what better day to propose than their seventh anniversary? They already loved each other more than they could stand sometimes, and had gone on more “trial honeymoons” than they bothered to count. Why not make it official?
But then the diagnosis, and the chemo, and the long stays in the hospital with cheesecake and blackberry smoothies because that’s all Mariah would eat, and the midnight conversations when the pain got too bad, and it had never seemed like the right time to ask.
Mathilda remembered the funeral as though it had been only that morning.
Another holiday season, one that hadn’t nearly enough silver bells or angels singing or joy to the world, only too many silent nights. All of their friends had huddled together around a hole in the frozen earth, tears stinging eyes and chilling faces as Mariah was lowered into the ground. No songs, no eulogy, no fanfare. What could one say or sing to immortalize a life that had done the job for itself already?
People visited at important days for a while--her birthday, Mariah’s birthday, Christmas, Valentine’s Day--but one by one, they moved on. They had lived for more than the bright, witty Chinese girl with gorgeous gold eyes and hair that smelled like cherry blossoms and strawberry milkshakes and wonderful days, and they’d continue to live. Miguel had children, Emily worked her way up the scientific ladder, Kevin and Raul found each other. Miesha started school and outgrew the nursery Mariah and she had helped decorate, Kai and Tala fell into the roles of parents like they’d done it all their lives. Which, in a way, they had.
The last street light flickered somewhere behind her. A wrought iron gate, frosted over in delicate, lacy patterns, offered entrance to a field of tombstones. Mathilda shifted the bouquet again and drew a key from a string around her neck, her fingers cold on the skin protected by her coat. The gate squeaked in mournful welcome as it swung inward, dislodging a blanket of snow from the ground beyond.
Past the Jewish plots, turn right at the Catholics, into the newer graves, left at the single father with four children who were all killed in a car accident. “Merry Christmas,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and scratchy. Must be getting a cold. Oh well.
There she was--an angel, arms flung to heaven and skirt spinning outward as if frozen in frenzied, joyful dance. Kai and Tala had funded the memorial, saying it was the least they could do as a final Christmas present to their child’s godmother. Miesha had been six at the time, just old enough to sniff appropriately and wonder what was going on and why was everyone dressed in black and crying at Christmas.
“Merry Christmas, darling,” she whispered to the statue, kneeling in front of the angel girl’s toes and laying the roses on the ground in front of the pedestal. Fingers numb with cold, she gently brushed away the snow off the nameplate.
She pulled the gun out of her coat pocket and laid it on her knee. The ring box followed suit, placed gently on the statue’s pedestal and flipped open, revealing a simple silver band, a sapphire set in a delicate braid. “I never got a chance to ask you,” she whispered conversationally, sitting back on her heels and fingering the trigger. “And I guess it doesn’t matter much right at this moment, as you’re dead and I’m not, but we’ll be together in a minute and I wanted to ask you now, so you have time to think it over.” Mathilda hefted the pistol, cradling the barrel in her left hand. “I love you so much, Mariah. More than anyone I’ve ever known. You are all I’ve ever wanted, and the only person I want to spend eternity with. So, on that note, Mariah Yin, would you marry me?”
She raised the gun to her temple.
Mariah tried to tug the gun down from her lover’s temple, but as a spirit, she could do relatively little. “Come on, Emily, where are you?! Argh!”
Mathilda closed her eyes, finger curled around the antique pistol’s trigger. “Think quickly, love. I’ll be there in a minute,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.
“Yes! If it will keep you from killing yourself, then yes! Most emphatically yes!”
The living woman’s finger started to press inwards. In a fit of desperation, Mariah pushed at the gun and flung her semi-existent arms around Mathilda’s neck, pushing her lips to living flesh in a cheap imitation of kisses gone by. She hoped that it was just enough.
“Mathilda? Mathilda! Mathilda!”
Mariah pulled away to see her lover’s burgundy eyes wide open in disbelief. The gun lowered slowly to the woman’s knee. One hand brought fingertips to Mathilda’s lips, touching gently to preserve what she thought she could have only imagined. Beyond her shoulder, Mariah could see flashlights combing the dark cemetery, could hear multiple voices--many familiar to her--calling Mathilda’s name. “YES! She’s here! Over here, with me,” the ghost screamed, hoping by some Christmas miracle that she would be heard.
The trigger clicked. A split second later, the pin clicked forward, the primer exploded, a small lead ball pushed into her brain, ripping apart neurons and synapses in a spatter of blood and grey matter.
Mariah’s shoulders slumped, blinking as though she had tears to stave off. “Merry Christmas, sweetie.”
Someone had thrown a switch.
Turned off the music, the noise, the shoppers, the kids, the Santas with bells on every street corner, the lights stretched from building to building across the once-busy streets.
Now the world was silent, dark, save the gentle breaths of falling snow and the few street lamps flickering and the occasional red light swaying in the breeze. The crowds had disappeared, gone home to await Christmas morning with family, with loved ones.
Shoulders quivering under her jacket, Mathilda shifted the bouquet of white roses to her other elbow. A small velvet box nestled in her pocket, a silver cylinder in the other.
Loved ones. She exhaled gently, a cloud of white smoke billowing into the frosty air in front of her. Miguel was married, his house barely big enough for his immediate family’s Christmas, much less a tag-along aunt. Kevin and Raul tried to include her sometimes, but she always seemed to wind up as a third wheel attached by pure charity when they clearly wanted to enjoy the holidays by themselves. Emily made sure she didn’t wind up strung out on the floor of her tiny bedroom in a drug-induced haze, but with the redhead’s promotion, her working hours had increased exponentially, leaving little time to check on the magic-less pixie.
She only had one “loved one” left. The love of her life.
A flood of memories painted a small smile on her lips, like a toymaker painting on the features of a delicate china doll. Mathilda’s hand found a gold locket hanging at her chest. A rose was etched into one side, her initials intertwined with Mariah’s on the other. It was the first Christmas the two had spent together--a chance meeting in a small town on the Spanish coast, a chance meeting that lead to a week of smiles, fiery kisses, cool touches, and cheap wine. A chance meeting that lead to the best eight years of Mathilda’s life.
Mathilda looked up to a snowdrift blowing off of a rooftop overhead. It swirled into a vague loop-de-loop that reminded her of a white headscarf before slipping off into the night. A mental photograph, a faded Polaroid from a box somewhere she rarely looked, shuffled to the surface--Mariah grinned from the memory, a silken scarf white as snow wrapped around her raspberry curls. They’d gone to Russia for Christmas that year, invaded Kai’s home at Tala’s request. The two were adopting a baby together and wanted a few feminine touches for the nursery. They adopted a girl, named her Miesha after Tala’s mother, if she remembered. She and Mariah had gone shopping for a Christmas present for the baby girl--Mariah had picked up the scarf and fell in love with it. Mathilda couldn’t say no to that grin, never had been able to. Tala said it was a good look for her, and meant it. For once.
The cylinder in her pocket weighed against her hip as she walked. She slipped a hand in with the weighty object, her fingers caressing a polished ebony handle, a silver barrel, a gentle curve in the trigger guard. Mathilda closed her eyes and took a deep breath of the frigid night air. She’d found the gun in a box of Mariah’s when they moved in together, as a Christmas present to them both. They’d paused unpacking and laid together on the mattress, still lying uncovered on the floor, as Mariah explained the significance of the weapon.
“My great grandmother got it as a gift from a British merchant, when we were still allowed to go all the way to the river. He gave it to her to protect herself, and her baby, until he came back to get them, to take them away.” She stroked the handle thoughtfully, the tips of her fingers just barely brushing the wood. “He never came back. No one knows what happened. But my grandmother got the gun when she married--her mother said to her, ‘I hope you never need this, but if you are ever desperate to escape, this will give you one chance. One chance only. Use it wisely.’ My grandmother passed it to my mother, who passed it to me. After she shot herself, of course.” She laughed bitterly. “Only after she’d used her one shot. Selfish bitch.”
Reluctantly, Mathilda retracted her hand as the memory slipped away. The bouquet of white roses shifted hands a second time, and she pushed her other hand into her pocket. Velvet met her fingertips, almost leaping into her touch. She curled her fingers around the ring box, her frozen smile taking on a melancholy cast. She’d hoped to propose with the ring. Her grandmother had once told her that the number seven was a blessed number, the number of completion, so what better day to propose than their seventh anniversary? They already loved each other more than they could stand sometimes, and had gone on more “trial honeymoons” than they bothered to count. Why not make it official?
But then the diagnosis, and the chemo, and the long stays in the hospital with cheesecake and blackberry smoothies because that’s all Mariah would eat, and the midnight conversations when the pain got too bad, and it had never seemed like the right time to ask.
Mathilda remembered the funeral as though it had been only that morning.
Another holiday season, one that hadn’t nearly enough silver bells or angels singing or joy to the world, only too many silent nights. All of their friends had huddled together around a hole in the frozen earth, tears stinging eyes and chilling faces as Mariah was lowered into the ground. No songs, no eulogy, no fanfare. What could one say or sing to immortalize a life that had done the job for itself already?
People visited at important days for a while--her birthday, Mariah’s birthday, Christmas, Valentine’s Day--but one by one, they moved on. They had lived for more than the bright, witty Chinese girl with gorgeous gold eyes and hair that smelled like cherry blossoms and strawberry milkshakes and wonderful days, and they’d continue to live. Miguel had children, Emily worked her way up the scientific ladder, Kevin and Raul found each other. Miesha started school and outgrew the nursery Mariah and she had helped decorate, Kai and Tala fell into the roles of parents like they’d done it all their lives. Which, in a way, they had.
The last street light flickered somewhere behind her. A wrought iron gate, frosted over in delicate, lacy patterns, offered entrance to a field of tombstones. Mathilda shifted the bouquet again and drew a key from a string around her neck, her fingers cold on the skin protected by her coat. The gate squeaked in mournful welcome as it swung inward, dislodging a blanket of snow from the ground beyond.
Past the Jewish plots, turn right at the Catholics, into the newer graves, left at the single father with four children who were all killed in a car accident. “Merry Christmas,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and scratchy. Must be getting a cold. Oh well.
There she was--an angel, arms flung to heaven and skirt spinning outward as if frozen in frenzied, joyful dance. Kai and Tala had funded the memorial, saying it was the least they could do as a final Christmas present to their child’s godmother. Miesha had been six at the time, just old enough to sniff appropriately and wonder what was going on and why was everyone dressed in black and crying at Christmas.
“Merry Christmas, darling,” she whispered to the statue, kneeling in front of the angel girl’s toes and laying the roses on the ground in front of the pedestal. Fingers numb with cold, she gently brushed away the snow off the nameplate.
Mariah Yin
1981-2008
The brightest angel on Earth
She pulled the gun out of her coat pocket and laid it on her knee. The ring box followed suit, placed gently on the statue’s pedestal and flipped open, revealing a simple silver band, a sapphire set in a delicate braid. “I never got a chance to ask you,” she whispered conversationally, sitting back on her heels and fingering the trigger. “And I guess it doesn’t matter much right at this moment, as you’re dead and I’m not, but we’ll be together in a minute and I wanted to ask you now, so you have time to think it over.” Mathilda hefted the pistol, cradling the barrel in her left hand. “I love you so much, Mariah. More than anyone I’ve ever known. You are all I’ve ever wanted, and the only person I want to spend eternity with. So, on that note, Mariah Yin, would you marry me?”
She raised the gun to her temple.
-x-x-x-
“No, no, no, no! Didn’t you listen when I told you to live your life?! You bitch, you’re not allowed to come join me for another fifty years!”Mariah tried to tug the gun down from her lover’s temple, but as a spirit, she could do relatively little. “Come on, Emily, where are you?! Argh!”
Mathilda closed her eyes, finger curled around the antique pistol’s trigger. “Think quickly, love. I’ll be there in a minute,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.
“Yes! If it will keep you from killing yourself, then yes! Most emphatically yes!”
The living woman’s finger started to press inwards. In a fit of desperation, Mariah pushed at the gun and flung her semi-existent arms around Mathilda’s neck, pushing her lips to living flesh in a cheap imitation of kisses gone by. She hoped that it was just enough.
“Mathilda? Mathilda! Mathilda!”
Mariah pulled away to see her lover’s burgundy eyes wide open in disbelief. The gun lowered slowly to the woman’s knee. One hand brought fingertips to Mathilda’s lips, touching gently to preserve what she thought she could have only imagined. Beyond her shoulder, Mariah could see flashlights combing the dark cemetery, could hear multiple voices--many familiar to her--calling Mathilda’s name. “YES! She’s here! Over here, with me,” the ghost screamed, hoping by some Christmas miracle that she would be heard.
The trigger clicked. A split second later, the pin clicked forward, the primer exploded, a small lead ball pushed into her brain, ripping apart neurons and synapses in a spatter of blood and grey matter.
Mariah’s shoulders slumped, blinking as though she had tears to stave off. “Merry Christmas, sweetie.”
Author's Note: I could've tacked on a semi-sweet ending, but I liked this better. You can imagine a happy-ish ending if you want, though.
Happier holiday stories will come. I'm planning a 12 days of Christmas thing. Yummy. :)
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