Prisoner in velvet

The scent of pancakes cooking was wafting from behind the door to the kitchen, the sound of a knife meeting a chopping board could be heard. Chop, chop, chop. She imagined fresh fruit as she stood behind the door, her hand met the white finish and the sounds seemed to vibrate against the soft wood.

Butter sizzled as it melted and added to the slow building symphony of the breakfast that she was certain was being prepared. She tried to remember the last time someone had made her breakfast as she stepped past the door and walked into the kitchen.

A large pan sat atop the stove, the flames beneath lapping, kissing the aluminium beneath as it reached. Inside liquid was poured, slightly golden. Thick, gooey as it laid out along the bottom of the pan and muffled the butters chorus as the figure slowly moved back to the board on his right.

Her heart skipped as she scanned the expanse of his back, her eyes widened. He stood at almost six feet, his long, dark brown hair cascaded down his shoulders and the sight made her smile.

She swiftly came up to him, stealing a piece of bacon that was already cooked and said how he looked like a pot head with his long locks, he hated it. Her ribbing, it would always made him go red and bring out the jovial taunting between the two. He saw it as artistic and swore that, when it was cut, he lost his creativity. Like some, Shakespearean Samson.

Though, however much she made fun of him, she loved dragging her fingers through the long, thick, silken waterfall of darkened velvet that was his hair. The scent of mixed berries was ever present in its furls.

The fragrances of the breakfast feast that was slowly being built, bacon she'd stolen sat piled near by and a fresh pan was filling with pancakes along with all her favourites. Her heart, her heart skipped. Pounding hard in her chest, painfully so as something slowly began to dawn. She found herself begging him not to turn round. To stay like this for but a brief moment more. But it wasn't to be.

Slowly, he turned. His gaze lighting up to see the one woman who had made his heart skip and yet, her heart sunk. Not this dream again, not this. She thought to herself, struggling with his smile that brought more pain than ever.

His hair was held back by one of her hair bands, bright purple. He always wore it when he cooked for her, always. She tried to walk back but found herself frozen, he came forward and her eyes darted to the floor. Please don't... Please.

She looked up to his voice and there he was, like some Adonis to her. One draped in velvet curls. Hers. His hands came to lovingly claps her own, he was repeating "Its okay..." over and over. Trying to comfort her. He always tried but he never could, nothing could. Not until she finally woke.

And it was in that moment, when her lips found his closing the distance between them. She took a breath and rushed forward for that failed last kiss as tears fell, harshly down her face in streams. The floating feeling took over and, with a jolt; Like she fell from a great height. She woke, bolt up right in her bed and wiped at the still rich streams that coated her cheeks.

"Another dream... Just a dream..." She whispered in a slow, tantric way. Over and over, in some shaky attempt to calm herself and ground back to reality. Self affirmation that, even after all this time, she was back in their bedroom and he was still gone.

She struggled with the memory. With his memory. The built up emotions that have been left, her life, long since touched.

She missed his voice. And his terrible, terrible singing that he had always assured her that she would wake to. She remembered a rendition of I'm yours that was as off key as her then will to leave the bed. She missed his voice, more then that she missed his scent.

She stared at his jacket she left hanging over the back of his favourite chair in front of her mirror, the mini make up studio he had brought and set up for her was always wonky. He was not the most handiest of men. She would often complain about it to him, but now. Now she wouldn't have it any other way.

Slowly stirring from her bed, her emotions still felt like sharp needles prickling her every nerve ending to remember. The sadness spun in the dark pools of her eyes. She wondered then how she held together with little more than memories.

Standing before the chair and his Jacket, she ran her hand slowly over its surface. Thick, expensive leather. His love for jackets was a borderline obsession. He wouldn't wear something unless it was aged or out of the ordinary, which included a peculiar tartan grey thing which was neither blazer, jacket or hoodie but somewhere in-between.

But the jacket, this jacket was his favourite. Thick, heavy leather. As her fingers disturbed it and she drew closer, the smell of the leather filled her senses. The taste, the scent, the touch. She slowly peeled it from where it rested upon the ghost shoulders of the chair. Inside was padded, designer. One of his pride and joys sourced from a local market.

She recalled the last Christmas they spent together, how he had carted her away from her Mum. Arguing as they slowly opened the presents that morning over something, silly. Stupid even.

Though the argument was a distant memory, what happened was not. She saw it flash in her mind, the last time he wore it. Her mothers words blurred as he stood up, silenced. How he defended her, as her Mum sped fourth her old fashioned bull shit. Marriage, life of sin and all the crap that existed from that of her mums generation. He had carted her away, marched them out the door and into the cold before she would have said something she'd regret.

She remembered the cold, the snow falling down around them. She had forgotten her coat, the Christmas morning made her shiver. He draped it over her shoulders, shielding her from the harsh winter weather that year. As he talked her down. He held her close and did the one thing she had never had expected as he got down to one knee, she felt the hard lump in the breast pocket. It lay there still. She preserved the memory, perfectly.

Tears threatened once more to overwhelm, as she felt his ring dangling around her neck. The cool metal brushing against the soft skin above her breasts, her engagement ring. It was incomplete, he could only afford the band and as she slid into his sleeves, his scent now overwhelmed her and she was lost fully in the embrace that day. Every embrace they had ever shared, his scent.

Taking a slow breath, she made her way downstairs in his Jacket still, she wasn't prepared to fade into the day to day just yet. The reality, her loss could wait for the moment. She slowly set the kettle upon the stove, the flames lapped at the steel bottom as the water slowly began to boil. She prepared breakfast piece by piece, she never usually with the meal but today. Today was special.

She brought his cup down, sitting it next to hers. His favourite yellow lilies adorned its surface. Tea bags dropped in and then the sugar; One half for him, two for her. The milk sat idle as the kettle finally whistled loudly and she poured the cups, filling her own almost to the brim. Leaving his almost three quarters open. Now she added the milk; offensively milky for him, not so much for her.

And there, in that moment as she brought the teas to the table and turned to his chair, she brought him back. If only for a moment. She took deep, slow breaths and sighed. Her eyes closed, tightly as she tried her hardest to fight the tears. Tears that would not stay down, tears that flooded her vision. In this brief, fleeting moment he was there.

"Happy..." She choked, she hadn't uttered his name in almost a year. Almost a year and she dreaded. Fearful that her Prisoner in Velvet furls would leave. Fighting her emotions.. struggling with herself. She took a long, deep breath and spoke. "Happy Birthday... Isaac."