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Description
Burton often stooped on the bridge before the evening, enjoying the light of the fading day as the Sheffield lake bathed in red one last time before the sun set. A faint scent of vinegar mingled with the galling odor of fish, perhaps from one of the nearby restaurants beyond the trees. The aged man watched a group of young girls pass him by out of the corner of his eye, not daring to stare directly. Their whispers and piercing gazes were enough to tell him all he needed to know. People seemed to avoid him these days, especially since the death of Alice, his treasured fiancée. Perhaps they sensed that he was dangerous, he mused that Monday as he partook in his evening ritual at the lake. Like a child sneaking out of the house, slowly and stealthy, the dark memories he had usually kept locked away during the day began to slither out and swallow his conscious whole, as they did each night.

He soon found himself interrupted by an unusual occasion. From across the lake, a string quartet began to play a tune of a simple waltz that he had heard many years before. He frowned in concentration as he tried to recall the source of familiarity. Had it been from a wedding? Or perhaps a concert? Burton struggled through a cache of private thoughts he had kept to himself, pent up from years of isolation, becoming fully absorbed as snapshots from his life floated along in his mind. For the moment, he was Burton Seeley, the brilliant naval advisor and soon-to-be-married. All was forgotten, all the dark and masochistic memories he kept locked away, as the music took him far away to the night where he had indeed first heard the song: to when he had first met Alice.

She had seen him, and only him, even though many people thronged between them. Her ebony hair glittered like hard onyx as she threw it against the Czech sun, matching her sunglasses. A busker could be heard off in the distance, serenading the tourists on the Charles Bridge with “ INSERT SONG HERE.” Their tour group had consisted of many elderly adults, several of which needed the aid of a walker or wheelchair. He had been talked into going on a two week tour of Europe by his parents; he almost instantly regretted his decision as they had flocked with their aged group after arriving in the Parisian airport around their guide five days ago. What a way to spend my first semester off from college, the young man had thought to himself.

Of course, she was something else as the tour guide introduced herself to the group; Alice Bray. Burton had found her extraordinary, unlike the other girls back in Sheffield, or even England, although his friends would’ve disagreed. She had a pale face that reminded him of eggshells, and scars were alabaster on them, although curiously placed and oddly intriguing. Also unlike the catty girls back home, Alice didn’t have a skeleton figure either. She was “curvy”, he had heard his mother comment the guide, something that was a taboo to be in this age. Still, Burton could feel as though she had stamped him, branded him down to his core.
“You know,” she began the one night they were alone, after all the group members had drifted off to sleep in a train station lobby, waiting for an early morning train to Berlin, “I’ve never had a boyfriend before.” She softly giggled to herself, glancing down at one long scar that ran along her forearm. “My crazy mother and her bad memory,” she had muttered. Burton had heard the story once before, on the first night he and Alice had wandered around Paris together.

One night, Alice had returned late from her job at the hospital. She had hurried home, afraid of leaving her mother, suffering from dementia, alone in the small house they shared. It was bad timing on Alice’s part, for when she opened the door, the smell of booze was heavy in the air, and something about the house made the hair on the back of Alice’s neck stand up. Before she had known, her mother, mistaking her daughter for an intruder in her fading memory, attacked. The rest of the story had been too painful for Alice to continue, but Burton didn’t need to hear it as he cradled the small woman in his arms. “Never let me get like that,” Alice had whispered into his shoulder.

The quartet stopped playing, and Burton came gently out of his reverie only to feel his stomach plummet. He watched the players pack up and those who had stopped to listen depart in one herd. Burton let his mind wander, trying to wade his way through another onslaught of dark memories. No one knew the whole story of Alice’s suffering or death, the failed suicide attempt he had pulled, or even Alice’s disease, besides Burton himself and an apathetic therapist. He glared hard into the lake, staring at a monster he had made himself, and his breathing became ragged and uneven. Closing his eyes, Burton held back tears at the sin he had committed, the one he regretted and lived with every day. He had kept his promise, but at what cost?

Description
Burton often stooped on the bridge before the evening, enjoying the light of the fading day as the Sheffield lake bathed in red one last time before the sun set. A faint scent of vinegar mingled with the galling odor of fish, perhaps from one of the nearby restaurants beyond the trees. The aged man watched a group of young girls pass him by out of the corner of his eye, not daring to stare directly. Their whispers and piercing gazes were enough to tell him all he needed to know. People seemed to avoid him these days, especially since the death of Alice, his treasured fiancée. Perhaps they sensed that he was dangerous, he mused that Monday as he partook in his evening ritual at the lake. Like a child sneaking out of the house, slowly and stealthy, the dark memories he had usually kept locked away during the day began to slither out and swallow his conscious whole, as they did each night.

He soon found himself interrupted by an unusual occasion. From across the lake, a string quartet began to play a tune of a simple waltz that he had heard many years before. He frowned in concentration as he tried to recall the source of familiarity. Had it been from a wedding? Or perhaps a concert? Burton struggled through a cache of private thoughts he had kept to himself, pent up from years of isolation, becoming fully absorbed as snapshots from his life floated along in his mind. For the moment, he was Burton Seeley, the brilliant naval advisor and soon-to-be-married. All was forgotten, all the dark and masochistic memories he kept locked away, as the music took him far away to the night where he had indeed first heard the song: to when he had first met Alice.

She had seen him, and only him, even though many people thronged between them. Her ebony hair glittered like hard onyx as she threw it against the Czech sun, matching her sunglasses. A busker could be heard off in the distance, serenading the tourists on the Charles Bridge with “ INSERT SONG HERE.” Their tour group had consisted of many elderly adults, several of which needed the aid of a walker or wheelchair. He had been talked into going on a two week tour of Europe by his parents; he almost instantly regretted his decision as they had flocked with their aged group after arriving in the Parisian airport around their guide five days ago. What a way to spend my first semester off from college, the young man had thought to himself.

Of course, she was something else as the tour guide introduced herself to the group; Alice Bray. Burton had found her extraordinary, unlike the other girls back in Sheffield, or even England, although his friends would’ve disagreed. She had a pale face that reminded him of eggshells, and scars were alabaster on them, although curiously placed and oddly intriguing. Also unlike the catty girls back home, Alice didn’t have a skeleton figure either. She was “curvy”, he had heard his mother comment the guide, something that was a taboo to be in this age. Still, Burton could feel as though she had stamped him, branded him down to his core.
“You know,” she began the one night they were alone, after all the group members had drifted off to sleep in a train station lobby, waiting for an early morning train to Berlin, “I’ve never had a boyfriend before.” She softly giggled to herself, glancing down at one long scar that ran along her forearm. “My crazy mother and her bad memory,” she had muttered. Burton had heard the story once before, on the first night he and Alice had wandered around Paris together.

One night, Alice had returned late from her job at the hospital. She had hurried home, afraid of leaving her mother, suffering from dementia, alone in the small house they shared. It was bad timing on Alice’s part, for when she opened the door, the smell of booze was heavy in the air, and something about the house made the hair on the back of Alice’s neck stand up. Before she had known, her mother, mistaking her daughter for an intruder in her fading memory, attacked. The rest of the story had been too painful for Alice to continue, but Burton didn’t need to hear it as he cradled the small woman in his arms. “Never let me get like that,” Alice had whispered into his shoulder.

The quartet stopped playing, and Burton came gently out of his reverie only to feel his stomach plummet. He watched the players pack up and those who had stopped to listen depart in one herd. Burton let his mind wander, trying to wade his way through another onslaught of dark memories. No one knew the whole story of Alice’s suffering or death, the failed suicide attempt he had pulled, or even Alice’s disease, besides Burton himself and an apathetic therapist. He glared hard into the lake, staring at a monster he had made himself, and his breathing became ragged and uneven. Closing his eyes, Burton held back tears at the sin he had committed, the one he regretted and lived with every day. He had kept his promise, but at what cost?