A wan afterimage

One month, it’d started. Then, three. Six. At last, one year.

Wind buffeted against windows, muffled by drooping curtains. The thick blanket enveloped Oskar in a fragile warmth, though pinpricks of coldness gnawed at his fingertips. A sigh danced upon his lips.

Every night, it was the same. The icy sweats, his parched mouth, the trembling in his muscles and the pain grinding against his skull. He’d toss and turn, he’d clutch the blanket, he’d suck in slow and steady breaths that quaked his chest. Sometimes, he’d get up and head into the bathroom, staring at a bloodless reflection that he no longer recognised.

The pillow was hot against his nape. His tongue felt like bark in his mouth. Inhale, exhale. Thud, thud, his heartbeat pulsated in his throat.

And, as always, the raging tide of memories splattering against his quivering mind, a surge of blurry images. He jolted upright.

The low tick-tocks of the grandfather clock bounced off walls. A cloying darkness clung to his skin, like the cold tug of the sea. Sighing deeply, Oskar slumped his head on his hands, ribs bound by an invisible coil of rope.

He stood like that for a while, with his fingers digging into his forehead, with his eyes half-open and stinging. Then, he sighed again, and heaved himself off the sofa.

The clatter of bottles. The empty packet of instant soup fizzled under his touch. He passed by the ajar door of the bedroom, before backtracking and slamming it shut.

The cold bathroom light had a sterile look to it. Oskar grasped the edges of the sink, the muscles in his throat contracting in a dry gulp. A deep hollowness rooted itself in his stomach.

He didn’t look up. Hadn’t looked up ever since her spectral face had flashed in the mirror, dark eyes flattened to slits and warm brown skin dulled to a bluish-purple hue, as if it’d been steeped in bruises.

Presently, Oskar bit on the inside of his cheek. That metallic taste prickled his tongue, but he didn’t care.

I’m so sorry.

A wet sensation slithered down his cheek at that one thought.

I’m so sorry, Soledad.

By the time thin streams of light crept through the open window, Oskar was asleep on the icy tiles, curled up in a ball. He woke up somewhere between noon and evening, with the sharp twinges of a migraine throbbing in his temples.

Oskar took a long, icy shower. Threw on some drab clothes and a long coat that huddled around his body.

The rattle of bottles, the hissing of packages. He didn’t need to turn on the lights to make his way to the shelf shunted in the corner of the living room.

The urn was light in his grasp, as her hand had once been. Soft and blanketed in a misplaced warmth, the ceramic against his shaky fingers. In and out, he breathed. A knot formed in his ribs.

The steering wheel had shuddered in his grip the whole time. As soon as he reached the lake, the knot turned into a jab.

Cradled by a frail cluster of trees, the dull water shimmered, tinged orange by the overspilling light. The air was redolent with the smell of wood and wilderness. Oskar took a deep inhale, followed by a half-step.

A refuge, that’s what the lake had been for them. They’d sit by the mellow water, with a bunch of home-baked pastries, and talk endlessly. Well, it was mostly her who did the talking. Soledad had such a gift of the gab that she could ramble about anything and everything, without one spare moment of silence. “You’re doing my head in,” Oskar often told her. “Just shut up for once.”

The comforting taste of vanilla hovered in his mouth as he took another tottering step, a wan afterimage. I’d give anything just to hear her prattle on and on one last time.

Oskar halted abruptly, clutching the urn. The water flashed, a foreboding glint, akin to the sword of a headsman before the final slice. He dropped to the soft soil.

The soughing of the wind rippled through the canopy of branches. His shuddering breath mingled with the susurration of water as he unsealed the urn. The gesture reminded him of the many times he opened jars for Soledad, how he tightened the lids on purpose so that she’d come to him for help whenever she was upset.

An intimate hush descended over the area–– the wind died out to a faltering waft; the water froze, embalmed in primordial stillness.

His eyes smarted. Oskar lifted the urn.

A thin curtain of silver-grey ashes gushed out, swallowed in an instant by the muted-blue of the lake. He gave the urn one vigorous shake after the other, though only a few more specks drizzled out in a pathetic slump.

His wrists ached. The urn toppled next to him, half-sinking into the mushy earth.

I’m sorry. I’m so darn sorry.

His ghastly reflection stared back at him, purplish hues framing his eyes. Oskar rubbed the bridge of his nose hard, teeth sinking into his lower lip. How I wish I could go back in time and appreciate you more, save you from your fate. All I did was take you for granted.

“Sorry to bother you, but would you mind taking a picture of me?”

Oskar’s muscles locked in place at the quiet voice. He jolted upright.

Blood rushed from his head and swam behind his eardrums. A dark-haired woman trod delicately towards him, with a digital camera clasped between her slender fingers.

Luscious curls framed her round cheeks, which were sprinkled with tiny freckles, shimmering like stardust in the fading light. Thick brows, gentle brown eyes and plump lips, dappled with a lush shade of pink.

The back of his neck heated up. She was a spitting image of Soledad, save for her sheepish smile. Soledad never had even a sliver of coyness in her smiles–– she grinned from ear-to-ear, smirked with radiant smugness.

The woman was trussed up in a colourless coat and a pair of billowing pants. Soledad would’ve never worn that, he thought. She was always spruced up the fullest, even when running errands.

Her smile faltered into a line when her gaze landed on the urn.

“I’m… I’m so sorry,” she said, swallowing hard. I can’t believe it. Even her voice sounds the same. “I didn’t…”

“It’s okay,” Oskar said, forcing away the quiver in his voice. “I can take your picture.”

“Are you sure? I mean, you––”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry.”

He flashed her a wooden smile. With slow steps, the woman filled the distance between them, and handed him her camera. Oskar followed her with his gaze as she moved towards the edge of the lake.

For a moment, he expected her to strike a confident pose, the same way Soledad would have, and for a big grin to split her face. Instead, she stood there stiffly, lips twitching into a tiny smile. Oskar lifted the camera.

The picture came out in pallid tones, like a fading memory. Her face had a haunting beauty, caught between a blur of light and darkness.

“Thank you so much.” The woman gently took the camera from his hands. She didn’t look at the photo. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

She went past him. Oskar stared at her, pursing his lips, before blurting out:

“You look just like her.”

The woman whirled around. Her initial expression of surprise settled into a frown.

“My late fiancée,” he muttered. He burrowed his hands into his pockets. “Her name was Soledad. You…”

A gulp. He righted himself.

“You look and sound just like her,” he said, studying the soft lines of her face, the way her eyebrows lifted in a sharp arch. As stupid as it might have been, part of him believed it was really Soledad, that the memory of her drowning in that same lake was nothing more than an awful nightmare that he’d finally managed to wrench himself out of. That the past year had been just a figment of his imagination.

Chills skimmed over his spine. He inhaled sharply, staring at the woman, whose face was stuck in a puzzled frown. She expected a big smile to pop on her face, for her to rush into his arms and say, ‘Because it’s me, silly. You really thought I’d leave you in such a cruel, Soledad-less world?’

Instead, she shook her head. “I… I’m sorry. Seriously, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

He gave a frail nod, two small dips of his chin, kicking at the ground. It’s not her, you idiot. Sol’s dead, just accept that already. She’s not coming back.

“That’s alright.”

He picked up the urn, wiped at it with his sleeve. “It’s been one year, anyway.”

Oskar took one last look at her, at her mellow eyes and fawn skin, before making his way back to the car. Gusts of wind rumpled his already tousled hair.

“You must’ve really cared about her.”

Oskar stopped in his tracks. He glanced over his shoulder at the woman, whose gaze had softened.

“Yeah, I… Of course. She was my fiancée.”

“If you cared so much about her,” the woman continued, and he slowly turned back, a hot thickness pushing his chest, “then why did you let her drown?”

A blade of frost sliced him in half. The urn tottered on the edge of his arm.

“What?” Only a puff of air escaped his lips. “I didn’t…”

“You could’ve saved her.”

She advanced towards him, eyes beaming with that same innocent coyness. “You thought she was messing with you, like the many times before, when she was trying to convince you to teach her how to swim.”

His stomach churned. Sweat turned his vision blurry at the edges.

“You didn’t teach her how to swim, didn’t take her to the beach, only to this stupid lake, just because you don’t like the sun and sand.” Her voice was calm, tensionless, as if she was merely stating facts rather than accusations. “You didn’t even buy her any flowers or gifts, because in your words, they were just a waste of money.”

She stopped a few paces away from him, head tipped up to look at him. The edges of her coat fluttered as wind sprang up, and her curls bounced around her face in swaying motions.

“All you did was tell her that she was too much.” She dropped to a whisper, voice like a thread. Oskar’s breath hitched in his throat. “Skewer her for her way of being, which begs the question…”

A ripple of water chopped across her words.

“Did you really care about her? Or are you simply convincing yourself that you did so that the guilt is not as burdensome?”

Cold perspiration sluiced down his cheeks. She’s right, one resigned thought swirled around his mind. A lump weighed down his throat. She’s so right. I’d always wanted Soledad to be more toned down. Softer, I guess. Not so loud and bubbly and cheerful all the time. Not to stand out so much.

Bile poked the back of his throat. I want her to be just like this woman. So damn ordinary.

He swallowed, clearing his voice.

“Who even are you?”

A grin split her face, twisted the corners of her mouth to unnatural angles.

“I’m whatever you want me to be.”