Yesterwary

Bastian sat at the foot of his bed, incapable of doing anything other than chain smoking as he stared at the wall, hoping he would wake up to find Demi sleeping at his side. But the waking never came, because he was not dreaming. He wasn’t stuck in some terrible nightmare where the person about whom he’d cared most had just been swallowed up by nothingness. He thought he was certain that he would never see her again, that she had willingly walked into her own death. And so, he mourned. He mourned in all the ways he knew how.

He moved himself to the living room, Mr. Goggles tucked under his arm, and sat patiently on the sofa, hoping that Demi would walk through the front door with a smile on her face. For a brief moment, he tried to deny Demi’s existence entirely. He tried to convince himself that he was still surrounded by the white walls and barred windows of the psychiatric institute. That he had imagined all of Yesterwary, including its inhabitants, as a coping mechanism for the loss of someone who once loved him. But, in the depths of his silent heart, he knew he could never actually believe something that was so clearly untrue.

He hurried to the kitchen and swung open the refrigerator door. He grasped at the food Demi had made before they’d lost the baby, and heaved the plates and bowls against the wall. With each resounding shatter, he felt his chest become a little emptier.

Rushing out into the back yard, he dropped to his knees, shouting at the fog that he would do anything to have her back. “Anything. Just bring her back.”

Then the sadness came, filtering out all other emotions in a rush of tears and regret. He wished he had just been strong enough to go with her, or good enough to make her want to stay. He caressed the pillow where Demi’s head had been resting only hours before. He opened the wardrobe, searching for any sign of her that may have still remained. There was none. He curled up onto the bed, pulling his knees to his fractured chest, and let the despair consume him. But his eyes fluttered open for the smallest moment, and his gaze landed on the empty books on the dresser. They were all dusty, except for one.

Bastian reached for the book that was covered in fingerprints much smaller than his own. Poking out from the top was a bookmark made of a paper flower. He flipped open the cover, expecting little more than the blank pages that had always stared back at him, but instead he found a note. No, not a note, but a story, scrawled in Demi’s handwriting:

This story starts in the same way as life. It bursts in like a new star in the night sky, filled with possibilities, and hope, and love. It simply begins...

The story’s words formed one final hope, left to him by the woman he would forever wish he could have loved. But, I’m afraid, those words were meant only for Bastian’s eyes, or, perhaps, for his heart. A recount of all the wonderful things he had brought into Demi’s life during her time in Yesterwary. A confession of love where none could have possibly been. A promise that everything begins with a beginning, and ends with one as well. A combination of words put into an order that dried Bastian’s tears, and spread a smile across his lips, and led his feet out the front door. Past the tenements, past the Wok Lament building, past the clock tower, past the library.

He found comfort in those words as he gazed at the fog. They weaved around his mind in a flurry of memories—some good, some not. They filled his still and silent chest with warmth. They hugged him, and held him, and quietly urged him to step out into obscurity, into faith, into hope.

“Bastian…”

This story ends in the same way as life. It fades out, void of certainty, or reassurance, or promise. You can hope, and wish, and search, but the answers for what comes next inevitably arrive just a moment later than when they are most needed.

It simply ends.