Thinly Veiled Creases

By Paula Llorens Ortega

Her veil was a shroud of mourning: a callous sobriety that bore too much weight but which the wisps of wind could carry. It hung loosely, swaying like a tendril of hazy mist. 

There were promises that it would get easier, on how the wind would bear the weight through murmurs, on how the night would obscure the murkiness of her thoughts, on how it would slacken the discomfort coiling around her lungs. But cruelty was not known for loosening its taut grip. Cruelty would always demand for more. It would be unjust. It would bite, gnaw, be wild and unrestrained until the veil was there to swathe it; the dusky, pallid veil, the embroideries of lilies stitched by her own bleeding, trembling fingers. 

Black, turned darker through velvet. 

She stared at the remnants of the world through her lashes, distant and uncaring, a wraith lingering in a barren hall. Underneath her was ebony, poorly cushioned, rocking back and forth as those foggy gray eyes remained fixed on the clock. Its rusted hands turned methodologically, a mocking click resounding across the room. A chime ensued with an echoing brutality. Or was that before? 

Time made Adeline feel older than she was. Wrinkles crackled over her skin, painted on  like porcelain sherds. It extended to the corner of her lips, wistfully tugged. What remembrance she was calling upon, she did not know. All she realized was that it was from long ago. A figment of the past she imagined more often than she should. It was then when Adeline realized she could still see him, a haunting image so fond it became angrily hurtful. But even amongst the hurt, he always wore a grin, sheepish and maddening. Drawls lovingly rolled off his tongue, too charismatic, too lonely. A shred of dignity was burrowed in his lanky frame, from her hand stitched shirts and tilted bowler hat. 

The folds in the veil grew thicker. 

They formed his face. His torso. The silent beats of his heart. She saw him, like a delirious fantasy, staring back at her. Her husband cast her a daring smile, bowler hat shamelessly slanted. A frown fell upon Adeline’s lips, her hand swatting his arm as if scolding insolence. She straightened his hat. He tilted it sideways. In that instant, she viewed him with precarious clarity. She could almost feel the physicality of his touch, of his callous hands encompassing hers in a swarming warmth. Time could not make her forget how adoring he was: how it made her heart clench and induced such senselessness that it eradicated all remorseful thoughts of a life without him. Adeline clung onto this notion of love too dearly. It unfurled from her, making her laugh and sob in a rotten glee. 

“Do you remember,” he whispered, arms enveloping her, “when we got married?”

Of course, she wanted to say, I remember the moonlight, the glittering dress, the suit threaded with tears and the poppies by the altar. Instead, she nodded, flustered, his proximity too distantly familiar. His hold tightened, head craning down to meet her stare.

“We promised we would do something special one day,” he said.

Adeline hummed knowingly. “And is that day today?”

“One day,” he drawled. His grip around her wrist was gentle, guiding her before the rickety open door. Beyond, the sunset was raging, its rays softly ablaze in amber and mellow against skin. Flaring out in explosive tears of verve, the countryside’s ribbon paths bloomed in the wake of spring. Amongst the blossoms, their front garden melted away the harsh winter. That garden would always be one of Adeline’s unwilting devotions, the hem of her linen pants caked in dirt. The same soil was stubbornly encased under his fingernails, too. Only he could understand her greed to nurture life, just like greed for honesty. The garden was for her, as much as it was for him. 

She turned to face him, his eyes already upon her. A tight feeling grasped onto her chest. It was relentless, too tangible it scared her. Never would she understand how he made her feel so revered with solely his gaze. Caressing her arm, his chin signaled towards the horizon. “We could leave this place for a while.”

How glorious. How glorious it would be to flee from their ceaseless nightmares to chase dreams that ran too fast and took too much. Would their chase have made a difference, or was it hopeless to wonder? To wonder if one was capable of disregarding a deathly fate? Was it incessantly selfish or ambitious for her to yearn for? Death said no.

“What would we do once we left?”

“Great things,” he decided. A haloed outline was cast by the sun, smudges of his hair cast in pronounced unruliness. “We could start a shop.”

Adeline’s nose pursed at the idea, humor in her voice. “A shop?”

“Anything else then, then.”

She paused, pondering on the suggestion as her head rested against his shoulder. Her fingers curled around the yarn of his sweater, searching for the weaves that were not there. “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

Smiling, he drew her closer, pecking the crown of her head. He smoothed out the flyaway tendrils of her hair, the touch so gentle it made her eyes flutter shut. She felt happy, Adeline decided. Torturously happy. So, she didn’t understand why a throbbing pain coiled in her gut, or why her mind was plagued by unspeakable, longing thoughts. The crimson thread of her imaginings was becoming too deeply tied. Double-knotted. Worn. None of these feverish dreams felt right, but it was the only thing that could make her feel.

“Why are you wearing that?” he suddenly asked. 

His voice made her jolt. Never had he posed that question, or deviated from the control orchestrated within her head. Their conversations were engraved, lost in time, rehearsed, but never forgotten. When she looked at him, Adeline saw how her husband watched her in a way he never had before. 

She masked the discomfort with a laugh. “What do you mean?”

“On your face,” he clarified. “I can’t see you properly.”

Reaching her hand to her cheek, her fingers felt a silky, unmoving fabric. A foreign feeling, but one so familiar it made her want to stumble to the inescapability of her mindless imaginings. Panic surged through her - a shard penetrating sanity. He saw. He was aware. 

As her hands glided across the fabric, the creases blurred, its sharpness dimming. Her husband’s face turned hazy, bowler hat straightened. Pity was in his gaze, as the sun turned pearly, flowers wilting. “Let me see you, so you can do the same.”

She stilled. Head shaking frantically, she held pleadingly onto his arms. He made no moves towards her, made no attempt to console her; a phantom with memories under graveyard soil. 

“I can’t,” she told him.

For a moment, Adeline thought he would return her plea with silence. Instead, he smiled sadly, “Grief does not bode well with obsession.” 

An argument built up in the back of her throat, frustration welling within her. Adeline could not abandon the creases, the torment of his laugh. He would be embedded in her mind for eternity, no matter how faded or vivid. She knew she couldn’t do it. Hearts were so fragile that they had to be encased by bones. Bones that could break as easily, and pierce skin with equal ferocity. Adeline hesitated. She lingered between obeying and clinging onto a crumbling reverie. 

Calloused hands surrounded her own. They were his, more real than they should have been. He led her hands towards the veil, steady as if to give her time to withdraw. She had an urge to break his grip, but she didn’t. Staring at his bleary figure, she remained immobile, until her fingers clung onto the edge of the fabric. It was coarser than she remembered. Crueler. His lips did not move, and she did not recall the moment she began lifting the veil. She did not remember when the hem crossed his features, erasing them, leaving no trace. Only his hands endured, tenderly firm until the veil was draped behind her. 

Stillness replaced the turmoil. 

Adeline’s eyes flickered around the room, one which had once possessed fervor. The hall was not as dim as she remembered, now devoid of the tulle’s obscuring sheen. The closed door was welcomed, but resented. She looked down, grazing her wrist as she felt his phantom touch: an abomination of her imaginings and their temporary reprieve. The dreams had only fueled her desperate detachment, as he latched onto her like an accidental leech. She should have loved him, instead of yearning for him. Hesitantly, Adeline reached to remove the murky veil haphazardly pinned onto her matted hair, laying it on her lap in discomposure. With shaky hands, she smoothed out the fabric, casting the wrinkles of his words and actions until only a distant, muffled murmur remained.

By Paula Llorens Ortega