Forgotten Valentine, Michael Whitehouse [reading women TXT] 📗

I had managed to keep a healthy scepticism of ghosts, ghouls and all things supernatural until I was 28. I found most claims of such things to be dubious at best, and harmful at worst. I was very much in the camp of the classical sciences as I had studied physics at Edinburgh university several years earlier. While my profession has never taken me back into the scientific arena, I had until this time maintained a ruthless opposition to pseudo-science and superstition.

My friends often wonder about the change they saw in me at that time. What surprised them was that it wasn't a slow, steady change of heart, but rather a complete turnaround over night; a transformation, if you will. It may have appeared as if it occurred so very quickly, but in fact it happened over a slightly longer time scale; two weeks to be precise.

It was February, in fact it was the week of Valentine's day. Around this time I was going through a socially isolated phase. It's something which often happens in the bleak Scottish winters, where I become increasingly wrapped up in my own loneliness and passing bitterness at those who 'fit in'. It was, and still is, a neurotic hangover from my teenage years, one which has plagued me for far too long.

Two weeks earlier I had found myself wandering through the cobbled streets of Edinburgh to clear my head. Walking, as amusing as it may seem, has always been a great comfort to me. You are, in every sense, alone with your thoughts, but that part of you which craves the company of others is slightly appeased by being 'in' the world, even if you're only in it long enough to share a glance with a passing stranger.

Edinburgh is a very old city and has remarkably kept much of its former self. The cobbled streets meander down the steep side of what was once a volcano, breaking off sporadically into narrow lanes which occasionally open up into secluded court yards. These numerous court yards are often flanked on all sides by tall terraced houses, huddled together as if whispering of a secret and long forgotten past. The impressiveness of Edinburgh as a city is often lost on those who have lived there long enough to find beauty commonplace.

As often happens when gripped by depression, I hadn't been sleeping well. I had finished work the previous evening around 5pm and while I managed to get a few hours sleep, my mind just wouldn't let me relax. Come 6 in the morning, even though it was a Sunday and I could for once have a long lie, I conceded defeat in my attempts to have a proper rest and got up to greet the world, however reluctantly.

By the time I had set out it was still early morning and the cold January air stung my face. Although Edinburgh is, for want of a better expression, a tourist city, at that time it still seemed relatively deserted, even for a Sunday. A slight mist had risen out of the water of Leith making it feel all the more colder as I passed through the narrow lanes and down empty pavements, entirely oblivious to where I was going.

As the shops opened and the first trickle of tourists bled out onto the cobbled walkways from their hotels, I deliberately headed for a quieter, often forgotten network of streets. My wandering mind had indeed taken over, for as I broke through the haze of a daydream I found myself standing at the gates of an old graveyard. I had been thinking of turning back and heading home, but something about this place awoke a compulsion in me; I had to explore it.

I found it curious that the gates, constructed out of blackened steel rods, were lying unlocked as early in the day as this. Entering the cemetery, I immediately noticed the overall isolation of the place, enjoying the sound of gravel under my feet which pierced the silence, as I moved slowly along a path littered with small white stones.

It wasn't a large graveyard. It seemed to consist of two separate plots, with the older graves at the front, bordering the fence and gate, filing backwards up onto a diminutive nearby hill where the more recently deceased residents lay. The oldest graves bore the weathered scars of age, I found one which was dated 1776, but the epitaph was illegible. I felt a sadness staring at the headstone, wondering about who it belonged to and indulgently contemplating about myself as a forgotten or lost soul.

Eventually I moved off, wandering up the hill towards the newer graves. I found myself drawn to a large old sycamore tree which loomed over several graves below it, with an almost protective demeanour. I stared at one of the headstones, reading the words but not registering them, as my mind was engulfed by yet another daydream. The grave stood out somewhat from those around it. The headstone was white in colour, while those which accompanied it were forged out of a deep, black marble.

Without thinking, I ran my hand over the smooth stone feeling the occasional mark of the elements upon it. At the foot of the headstone lay a small, innocuous vase. It was made of a brownish metal (copper I assumed as the surface exhibited small veins which were blue in colour due to its exposure to the weather).

As I stood there, something rose up out of my mind. Something which bothered me greatly. At first I did not know what it was, experiencing it merely as a low, growing sense of discomfort. As this feeling of unease reached a crescendo, I suddenly realised what was wrong.

The name on the grave was Lisa Maine.

I knew that name well, everyone in the local area did. I had known her when I was growing up, as we went to the same school together. She was someone that I watched from afar, full of life and exuberance, while I was shy, reclusive, and reserved. I possessed that intense infatuation and desire for her which only a first love can produce.

The words on her headstone came into sharp focus; age 15. I was overcome with a tremendous sense of grief and loss, one which took me entirely by surprise, so much so that I had to leave that place; I just couldn't bear it. As someone who prides himself on being level headed and immune to flights of fancy, I could not shake the profound unease which often comes with outrageous coincidence.

I exited the graveyard as quickly as possible and headed home ignoring the now cluttered Edinburgh streets. I did not look back.

Over the following few days or so I was preoccupied. I was overworked and was having trouble sleeping, but that was not unusual for me. What was unusual were the immovable thoughts and memories of Lisa Maine, thoughts which now stayed with me wherever I would go.

I had been terribly affected by her death as we were only 15 years old at the time, but that was over a decade ago and I had not thought of her for many years. It was as if seeing that gravestone had awoken a sense of loss, a sense of pain which I had managed to bury so far deep inside of me, that I had persuaded even myself to forget it.

A cacophony of memories now haunted me; beautiful and terrifying. At any one moment I would be exhilarated by the thought of her smile, her hair, her kindness, and at the very next engulfed by despair at the image of her lying under six feet of earth; cold and alone. Once full of life, now a decaying husk, which had long ago housed that beautiful soul.

If I had told anyone of how I felt they would have called me overly emotional or sentimental, for the fact remained; I barely knew Lisa. Watching her for years across a classroom, I imagined myself talking with her, sharing those intoxicating moments which mean so much to a teenager; the first connection with someone you adore, the first feeling of being loved, the first kiss.

I had in fact hardly ever spoken to her until only a few weeks before she died. In one of those embarrassing manoeuvres which teachers often pull, the pupils were all forcefully partnered with someone to take to our first social dance. Social dancing was a torrid affair. For someone like Lisa it was fun and to be enjoyed, while for me it was something to be detested. I was embarrassed, possessing none of the talent to be a dancer and even more so afraid to spend time with a girl, held back by my own teenage awkwardness.

It was the end of January, and Lisa quickly set me at ease in social dancing class where we practised. I cannot convey the simultaneous sense of joy and fear which I felt when she asked me to walk her home that day. Some people find social interactions to be exhausting, much like myself always worried about saying the wrong thing, but some individuals can set others at ease with the smallest of effort; Lisa was one of those people. As we walked across an elegantly Victorian bridge towards her house, the winter sun bathed our surroundings in a cool, comforting glow. I couldn't have been more content to be in the presence of this happy, kind hearted girl. She was so beautiful, with an incredible smile and golden locks of hair which seemed more at home in a fairytale than our surroundings.

For weeks we walked the same route home every day. Talking, laughing (something I rarely did) and growing ever closer. When you are that age, everything is so potent. Most can fall in and out of love in a heart beat. I didn't have many friends, and I lived alone with my mother who was not a particularly affectionate women, so in that short time I fell in love with Lisa Maine.

On the 13th of February, we stopped outside her house. We stood talking for a moment and then for the first time Lisa became distant. She stared straight at me in a way that she had never done before. I felt uneasy, yet exhilarated. There was a moment, a tiny moment where we said nothing to one another, then she hugged me. Her fingers slid through my hair. I will never forget how sweet she smelled, how alive she felt, and how grateful I was to someone for showing me a kindness I had never previously known.

Lisa slowly let go of me and then skipped up to her front door. Just before she disappeared she turned and smiled at me one more time. Then she was gone.

Immediately I knew what I was going to do. For the first time in my life I was full of purpose and focus, a desire to do just one thing. I ran as fast as I could to the local shops. I was lucky as most of them were shutting up for the day. A kind old man who ran a rarely used card store allowed me in to his shop, even though he was just closing.

I was going to buy my first Valentine's card.

It had to be perfect. It had to be just right. After looking at almost every card I could afford, I found one. It was fate. The