Lament

by Stewart, Lynsey M.

  Before her life changed forever.

  Alexander’s deep voice could be heard off camera, a man besotted with his daughter and trying to capture every milestone on camera.

  ‘Eli! Eli! Look at her, Lisa. She’s trying to grab onto the camera.’

  ‘Hey, pretty girl! You can’t have it. Daddy won’t be very happy.’

  Laughter, smiles, adoration. A beautiful family ripped apart by cancer. Lisa came into view, a scarf covering her head. The effects of the chemotherapy treatment taking force. She was bright and vivacious, despite the trauma her body was going through. The scarf was brilliant blues and deep reds and it suited her wide smile perfectly.

  Alexander started singing, his voice deep but light. A children’s nursery rhyme that made Eli squeal in delight. He took her hands in his, helped her make the actions. Eli, Eli! He twirled her hands, tickled her, blew raspberries on her tummy. Smiled.

  ‘He was so taken by her,’ Maggie said. ‘His world starts and ends right there.’

  ‘He’s a good father.’

  ‘He does his best for her, Nat. He’ll be back there, breaking his heart through his cello, imagining you thinking badly of him.’ The clip ended and went on to another. Alexander shirtless, a resting Eli on his chest. He was singing to her again, stroking her arm with his thumb, occasionally twirling her soft curls around his fingers. ‘He’s always been intense, but something changed when he lost Lisa. It was almost as if he thought being playful with Elise was inappropriate or unwarranted. That they should stay in a permanent state of sadness.’

  ‘I understand,’ I whispered, enjoying the playful Alexander I was watching on the screen. Another part of him that he’d tried to abandon. ‘Thank you for showing me.’

  She pushed a mug of tea towards me and I wrapped my hands around it, welcoming the warmth. ‘I wanted you to see the real him. The one he feels he should hide away.’

  ‘Can I speak to him before I leave? I just want to reassure him that I’m not judging him, because I think I may have done it in the past.’ I thought back to our arguments about Eli and what I felt she needed. A warm, present parent. The one in the video clips. ‘He isn’t the only parent who’s late picking up their child from class.’

  ‘I’m sure he’d appreciate that,’ she replied. ‘Follow the music, but make sure you knock before you go in. He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s composing. It’s his private space. Not even Elise is allowed in there.’

  14

  Nat

  Alexander’s house was a complex mix of warm and cold. Much like the man himself. A strip of carpet ran down the middle of the hallway, thick and soft as it swallowed my feet, but if I put one foot wrong, I’d be on the cold hard floor at either side. The artwork on the walls was impressive and stark. An abstract painting of a man made out of rough circles, leaning over his cello in despair was mingled with bright and vivid framed drawings by Eli.

  I wasn’t able to hear music, but I could hear the deep echo of a bow sliding slowly across the strings of a cello. A repetitive cry. A lost and lonely sound. I stopped outside the door containing it and knocked lightly.

  ‘Who is it?’ His voice startled me. Rough and harsh.

  ‘It’s Nat,’ I said, leaning in. Silence engulfed me. I knocked again, unsure what to do, feeling the embarrassment of being ignored. ‘I’m about to leave and just wanted to say bye…and…something else.’

  A voice finally came after what felt like forever. ‘Nat?’

  ‘I’m still here.’

  ‘Come in.’

  Opening the door slowly, afraid of what I’d find, I stepped inside. The room was filled with low light, a desk on one side with all the usual paraphernalia of a home office. A chair was tucked underneath, a phone and an Apple iMac sitting stylishly on top. There were framed photos on the walls, but before I could see what they depicted, I stopped on a deep gasp.

  Alexander was on the floor, a bow in one hand, his cello leaning majestically against the wall next to him. His legs were outstretched, he didn’t look up, failing to acknowledge my presence as he continued to draw the bow across the cello in a dangerously slow pace. The cry from the instrument reverberated around the walls.

  I knelt down to him and placed my hand over his, stopping the sad wail. Taking the bow from him, I placed it on the floor.

  ‘Your hands tell me you’ve been playing a lot.’ They were calloused and tight. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve actually taken my advice about consciously channelling your emotions through your music?’

  ‘I play for work and that’s all,’ he said, barely lifting his head.

  ‘Play for pleasure.’

  ‘Yours or mine?’ he rasped, gripping my wrist, telling me to stay beside him instead of moving away.

  I dropped my eyes to where his hands circled my skin. I liked the feeling. The need he had. The grip.

  ‘I’ve always thought of grief as the sound of a thousand-piece orchestra playing loudly all at once,’ I said, sitting in front of him. ‘I’ve changed my mind tonight. Grief is the sound of a single cello as the bow is slowly dragged along the strings.’

  ‘Why are you here? On the night I’m struggling the most? It’s like you knew,’ he mumbled, covering his face with his hands. ‘Music has always been there for me when there was no one else. A constant. A friend. But now, it’s an enemy.’

  ‘Grief is the enemy, not music,’ I replied.

  ‘Isn’t it just,’ he sighed, his head still down. ‘It strips you and pieces you back together in a broken, irregular form until you’re someone you don’t recognise anymore. Someone you don’t like. Sad. Vengeful. Battered. Hanging on to life with one single nerve until it twists.’ He marked the words with an action. A mid-air turn. ‘I don’t want to be this person. Grief made me this way. I hate it the most for that. Having to steel yourself to do the things you cherished.’ I spotted a glass of liquid on the shelf to the side of him. Amber. Whiskey? Bourbon? Sitting next to a classical music award. ‘Bathing her became something I would dread. Do you know why?’ I shook my head silently. ‘She would ask me questions I didn’t know the answer to. Do I look like her, Daddy? What was she like? I don’t remember. She’s starting to fade. Grief, you sick bastard. Look what you’ve done to me.’

  ‘How long have you been on the floor?’ I asked, feeling his head. He was hot. A raised temperature would affect his coherency.

  Or was it the glass of amber liquid?

  ‘All day. Hours. I’m supposed to be composing but nothing comes.’

  ‘You need a break,’ I replied simply. He was dead behind the eyes. From lack of creativity or alcohol, I still wasn’t sure. ‘Sleep would also be good.’

  ‘Can I stop today?’

  ‘Stop what?’

  ‘Making music.’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ I replied. ‘You need to rest and then you need to remember why you wanted to be a musician in the first place.’

  ‘It’s in the bloodline. Expected. A generation who went to the Royal College of Music. It was a given that I would do the same. Not that I wanted to do anything else,’ he muttered.

  ‘What part of your career has given you the most pleasure?’ I asked, trying to get him to see the light if only for a second.

  ‘I performed on the soundtrack for the new Star Wars films.’ He finally lifted his head and gave me a lopsided grin. ‘My proudest moment.’

  ‘I never would have guessed. Alexander Blayren, a secret Star Wars fan.’

  And then Alexander made a sound I never thought I would hear leave his mouth. A sound that startled yet made me smile all at once. The greatest Chewbacca impression I’d ever heard.

  ‘I want to get inside your head,’ I laughed.

  ‘You already are,’ he replied, raspy, a little breathless.

  I leant in on instinct, my face tipped to meet his. I was expecting…no…hoping for lips but I felt the faint trace of the tip of his finger running along my jawbone, across my mouth, until finally – as his thumb b
alanced on my chin, the rest of his fingers clutching my face – he tilted my head.

  ‘Dance for me.’

  ‘To your one haunting note?’

  ‘I’ll play for you. I like to watch you dance. I learn everything I need to know about you when you dance.’

  I shook my head, averted my eyes as I crumpled under his appreciative stare. He brought me back to him, both hands returning softly to my face. ‘Why?’ I whispered.

  ‘I told you,’ he said, his thumb settling on the arch of my jaw. ‘I appreciate art in all forms.’

  ‘Am I art to you?’

  ‘The purest kind,’ he replied, dropping his hands like he was remembering himself, where we were, and what this could lead to. A deep sigh flowed through him. The weight of the world returned to his shoulders. ‘You should go.’

  ‘Is that what you want?’

  ‘No,’ he replied, shaking his head. He looked so pained I wanted to cry for him. I went to move back but he caught me by my wrist. ‘How long has your hair been short?’

  ‘Not long. A few weeks.’

  ‘You keep going to brush it away from your neck.’

  ‘Must be a habit. It used to be down to my waist,’ I replied. ‘I needed a change. It signified a fresh start.’

  ‘You have such a positive outlook,’ he said. ‘So refreshing.’ He brought my face back to his with his fingers. ‘In a world where grief has consumed me, it’s hard to search for the light.’

  ‘There’s light in every room. In every street. A car, a bus, even a fridge.’ I smiled, moving closer to his mouth. ‘Light is everywhere.’

  ‘You’re the light.’ He leant into me, studied my mouth. ‘My light.’ He pushed his thumb down my lip. ‘I shouldn’t do this,’ he whispered. ‘This isn’t right.’ I knelt forward on my knees, hoping for some strength to continue holding myself up. ‘But I want to so badly.’ I felt his hands hovering to the bottom of my spine, not quite touching my skin but nearly. So close. So intimate. And then I felt them, a grip, a grasp. Need and want and so many complications clutching at my waist. ‘Are you my muse, Miss Bevan?’ he asked. ‘Because you ease the chaos in my head and make me want to write music.’

  ‘How can I be your muse?’ I gasped. ‘You hardly know me. You normally shout and growl at me.’

  ‘I bite too.’

  I moved closer, turned on by his words, meeting him in the middle. His lips touched mine and brought me to him. The need grew stronger. We were limbs and body parts and desire all colliding together at once. He dragged his mouth across mine, held onto me. Kept me upright. Kept me with him, feasted on me. I felt a slow ease at my back. The wrap I was wearing opened as he tugged on the bow. He pulled it down my arms, dropping it to the floor as his lips continued their assault.

  ‘You won’t want to know the things I’ve imagined doing to you,’ he rasped. ‘I’ll scare you. You’re made of good things, Nat. I’ll taint you. I’ll tie you up and–’

  I gasped. ‘You want to…tie me?’ Past conversations came into focus. Being restrained doesn’t have to be negative, Miss Bevan. ‘Is that what you like? Restraint…dominance.’

  ‘It’s so much more than that,’ he rasped. ‘I like…art.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I want to make art…with you, your body…ropes and knots,’ he replied urgently. ‘Until you’re begging for me, and I’ll fucking enjoy it.’

  I closed my eyes, focusing on the soft vibration through my body. Butterflies couldn’t explain the feeling his words created. Too small. Far too small. It was more befitting to the synchronistic beauty of a sweeping flock of birds, creating patterns as they chased each other in the open skies. A freedom. An awakening.

  ‘You said you’ll taint me.’ I watched as he nodded slowly. ‘Well, I’ll disappoint you then.’

  ‘How is that even possible?’ he asked, perplexed.

  ‘Because I won’t beg,’ I replied. ‘I’ll be willing. And so will you.’ I gasped as his lips stole my breath, finally meeting the assault from his mouth. I lightly pulled at his bottom lip with my teeth and he let out a shaky moan, a noise that made me feel renewed.

  ‘Sit on my desk, spread your legs and wait for me.’

  I was ready and eager to climb onto his desk, do as he said, when three firm knocks pulled us further apart.

  Nadia pushed open the door as I stood quickly, turning my back to her.

  Alexander bowed his head.

  ‘Nat,’ she said, her voice pitched in surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘So glad you could finally join us,’ Alexander said, his words dripping in sarcasm.

  ‘You don’t look well,’ she said, her eyes bouncing between us. Our breathing was erratic, our lips swollen from heated kisses. She lifted his glass, sniffed the liquid inside and placed it down. ‘Have you been drinking?’

  ‘Sick or drunk, Nadia? Which one is it?’

  ‘Is everything alright?’

  ‘No, it’s not. Nat had to bring Elise home,’ Alexander replied, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Because you fucking forgot.’

  I cringed at his words, his tone. She took a breath before dropping her eyes to my discarded wrap on the floor.

  ‘I thought you were collecting her tonight,’ she replied shakily. I narrowed my eyes, thinking back to earlier when Nadia had clearly told me she would be collecting Eli herself.

  ‘You know I’m working on a new piece!’ he shouted. ‘I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed.’

  She looked from him to me. ‘I’m sorry for this disturbance too,’ she replied, her smile fading. ‘Nat wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me.’

  ‘Don’t let this happen again, Nadia. It’s not fair on me or Elise.’

  ‘Of course,’ she replied before her hard stare settled on me. ‘Nat, let me show you out.’

  ‘She can stay,’ Alexander said.

  ‘It’s nearly eleven.’

  ‘Nat can stay,’ he repeated firmly.

  ‘Fine,’ she replied sharply. ‘I’ll see you in the morning. I’ll be here to make us all pancakes.’ She glanced at me.

  ‘No need,’ he said, reaching for his glass.

  ‘Then, I’ll see you for lunch.’

  Nadia left the room when he didn’t reply, forgoing social cues by purposefully leaving the door open, allowing the magnitude of what had just happened between us to kick in. The amber liquid from the glass in Alexander’s hand sparkled in the soft light and I started to wonder how much he’d had to drink tonight and what role it played in his need to connect. I turned my back to him, feeling vulnerable and exposed as I started to reassemble myself.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ he said behind me. ‘Don’t start the regrets. Not until the cold light of morning anyway.’ He put his arms around me and held onto my wrists, stopping me from putting my arms back into my wrap. ‘I told you to wait for me.’ He tried desperately to regain contact, but I started to feel like alcohol was leading the way in this change in our relationship.

  I lifted my head, the artwork on the wall of his office catching my eye. Three frames held black-and-white pictures of women in various states of binding. One showed the beauty of a woman’s back, her arms bound together with intricate fastenings and crisscross patterns, a thick braid running down her spine holding it all together. Another showed a torso, the ropes binding her breasts but keeping everything covered. Tasteful. Art. Intriguing. The final picture showed the curve of a woman’s body, her arms behind her head, her wrists wrapped together in a fascinating structure of knots.

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Kinbaku. It translates as tight binding. The West more commonly use Shibari, which simply means to decoratively tie,’ he whispered against my ear. ‘I prefer using the term to make visually stunning or sacred.’

  ‘Do you know these women?’

  ‘No,’ he laughed, softly. ‘It’s erotic art. I got them from a well-respected art dealer in London.’

  ‘You di
dn’t take the photos, tie those knots?’ He shook his head softly.

  ‘I haven’t practiced for a long time.’ He took a full breath before dropping his head. ‘I thought it was part of my past.’ I leant forward to get a better look at the intricacies of the knots and the deep marks they were making on their perfect skin. Beautiful. ‘It’s stunning, isn’t it? Look how the rope frames her body. The bindings are exquisite.’ He stepped back a little, kept his hand on my waist, assessing me, taking in my reaction. ‘Do you…like them, Nat?’ he asked, his voice low.

  ‘I think they’re–’ Intriguing. Prepossessing. Stunning. Arousing. ‘Captivating.’

  A sharp sigh, jagged and in pieces cut through us both.

  ‘Do you know how long it’s been since I wanted to do this…to bind someone else?’ he asked, drawing his eyebrows together in his own confusion like he didn’t understand it himself.

  ‘How long?’ I whispered, feeling that I knew the answer deep inside of me, but was still afraid to hear it come from him. He shook his head, a sign that said don’t ask me…please. ‘I have another question.’

  ‘Please ask.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘There aren’t enough adequate answers I can give you,’ he replied against my skin. ‘All I know is I want to tie those knots to your body. Frame your breasts, hold you down for my pleasure.’ A feather-light finger trailed down my arm as he gave me a deep look of appreciation. I was ready to burst through my skin, senses on overload, until a voice came from the doorway.

  ‘Alex?’

  ‘Yes,’ he snapped, gripping my waist, stopping me from leaving him. The restraint awakened a part of me I hadn’t known existed, hadn’t been aware excited me. An undiscovered desire to be claimed. A need to be held in his complete adoration. I wanted to be his possession. A sparkling diamond of a girl who had the power to light up the saddest eyes I’d seen in my life, change the sorrowful look on his breathtaking face. Make him live again.

  ‘I called in on Elise as I was leaving and she’s asking for you,’ Nadia said quietly.

  Alexander sighed. ‘I’ll be there in a second.’