The Fireplace - Chapter 6

TRIGGER WARNING: mentions of gore and violence.
Ready? Let's get to the beginning of the end.

Venice was standing on the roof. It was morning. Venice was standing on the roof of the SNC. It was a cold morning in February. Venice was standing on the slanted, tin-plated roof of the SNC. It was a grey, cold morning in February and the ice hadn’t melted from the roof yet.

The roof of the SNC wasn’t as high as a skyscraper, but it was high, nonetheless. It was a roof, after all. It was around twelve meters from the ground since the SNC had two floors and an attic floor. It would be lethal.

Yes, it would be lethal.

And yet Venice was standing on the roof.

It was an early morning (had he mentioned that?), and not a lot of people were present at the SNC yet. Only around seven – eight – were there. They were all standing below the roof of the SNC, staring up at Venice, whose black robes flapped and whipped in the wind.

Yes – in the wind of February, Venice’s figure seemed to sway.

Fern shook his head to organise his thoughts – shook his head vehemently to ensure he wasn’t seeing false – shook his head confusedly because he didn’t know what was happening – shook his head in a panic because he had to think of a way to get Venice down from the roof.

Fortunately, as he sprinted to the SNC, he saw that Venice was looking down at a group of people calling out to him, but the young musician was not paying them any attention.

Everything was muted to Fern. Only the panicked rushing of his blood beating against his ears was audible. He could distantly hear the words of Daphne, soft but urgent, urging and begging Venice to come down so she could give him another flower crown. He could distantly hear Alder, calling up to Venice and displaying his newly bought vintage version of The Seasons by Tchaikovsky, published by Henle. He could hear Florence, who was unusually soft in his tone, saying something that seemed half under his breath.

And dammit, Fern didn’t know what he could do. He didn’t know what he could do! Everything was slowed down and speeded up in front of him; he could not seem to move a foot and only stood there as Venice’s robe flapped slowly up – billowing down – rising – billowing down - all of this in slow motion. But later as he tried to remember the scene, all he could see was the frantic whirlwind of footprints on the ground.

He was given the order by someone – perhaps Florence, he didn’t remember – to fetch Sage. Sage was in the SNC, still in a slumber. Fern pushed Sage awake and told him Venice was on the roof, at which Sage started up, his eyes wide and pupils dilated, and he bolted to the stairs. Everyone was very unusual today, and so was Fern. Somewhere, a nerve ticked, and he thought it was a bad omen, as the Oriental books had said. He thought there was something missing – but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

He ran outside to tell Florence that Sage had run, but he forgot this task as he looked up.

Florence and Venice were still talking. Fern couldn’t hear them – ah, the truth was closer to his brain would refuse to document and remember their voices – and there was a long pause. Venice was sitting on the edge of the roof, chin in his hands, feet dangling dangerously off.

There was a pause of perhaps three minutes, during which every motion stopped and nothing, but soft whispered sounds lingered in the air. They were still talking.

Fern observed – oh, how he hated himself for only observing. How he hated himself – if he had run back home and grabbed his thin mattress, maybe he would’ve been back in time. Maybe he would’ve.

But he just stood there and observed as if looking at a drop of water that threatened to drop from the faucet. He stood there and watched as the small trap door leading up to the roof was slowly raised, was slowly opened without stirring Venice, as Florence diverted his attention. Sage’s rough hair and dried flower crown showed from the hatch. His brown eyes were intently fixed on Venice.

Fern watched in half hope, half terror as Sage emerged from the hatch, slowly, carefully, not displacing a single piece of dust from the roof.

Fern watched in relief and joy as Sage lunged forward, grabbed Venice’s coat and dragged him towards the hatch. He breathed a millionth of a breath of relief.

Fern watched in horror as Venice struggled, extracting his arms from the coat –

He watched, he watched as Venice slipped on the ice on the roof – he watched, his mouth opened as if his tongue needed to see the show, and all his teeth too – he watched as Venice slipped on the ice on the roof and tumbled down. He watched – oh, he stood there and watched as Venice’s figure, too thin in his black turtleneck that clung to his slender frame – he stood there as Venice’s body tumbled down the building and watched as the spine – the spine – collided with the ground.

There was no sickening crunch. He forgot to flinch. His ears were ringing urgently, and he was suddenly liberated from his posture as Venice reached the ground. Florence and the group of onlookers were suddenly liberated from their postures as Venice reached the ground… as Venice reached the ground…

There was a scream from the crowd as Venice reached the ground, and some rushed forward, regardless of their own safety. Fern was too far away to help but he ran in that direction, nonetheless.

But all he saw as he arrived seconds late was an unconscious black figure, not yet dead as Florence desperately announced the presence of a pulse, and some bone sticking out from Venice’s arms, which he had instinctively put under his body to cushion his fall.

In that second, Fern’s only thought was it was good that he was alive. He didn’t consider anything else.

It was a Saturday. Fern thought (so selfishly that he wanted to box his own ears at it) that Venice had ruined their sharing tomorrow. He threw that thought away, secretly pinching himself with his nails until he was sweating from the guilt and the pain.

And that afternoon, as the morning workers trickled into the SNC, many of them asked what had happened to the poets’ section. Florence was gone, Sage was huddled in a corner with Venice’s dark coat over him and drowning himself in liquor, Artemisia, Alder and Clover were missing from the group because they went to look after Venice, Daphne was tapping her foot restlessly on the floor, and Fern was so desperate he was just sitting there, stunned. The most concerning for the stragglers, perhaps, was the absence of the dark figure draped over the piano.

As Diaz shooed some other onlookers away, Fern finally stirred himself. He gulped in a large breath as his lungs burned at the sudden movement, his head slightly dizzy. Looking around as if he had just woken up, he decided to walk towards Sage.

The poor man was huddled in the corner sofa, his legs tucked under him, eyes so unfocused he might’ve been dosing. Fern wanted to comfort him. Fern knew why Sage was like this.

“It’s not your fault,” he started with the most comforting line ever.

Sage looked up at him with solemn, almost baleful eyes, and the green in them was dimmed to a brownish colour – like the colour of drying autumn leaves.

Fern sat down beside him and saw how the other man clutched the black robe tighter to himself. It was Venice’s jacket, and Sage was holding on to it as if he could save Venice’s life if he kept doing it. Sage was holding on to it as if his life also depended upon it. There were two empty beer bottles on the floor beside the sofa already.

Fern shook his head, “You really have to understand,” he said with all the earnestness he could conjure, “it was not your fault. Had you not gone up, he would have--” Here Fern stopped.

He would have what? Would Venice have slipped if Sage hadn’t been there?

Sage looked at him with doleful eyes, identifying Fern’s acknowledgement.

“But--” Fern tried his best to be comforting, “you did what you did in good heart. You meant well. You wanted to save him like the rest of us. Don’t feel guilty about it, it’s not what Venice would want.”

He threw all the cliché cards out, stumbling over one word after the other, not doing anything to help. After a while, he stood up abruptly, picked up a beer bottle silently from the bar counter, opened it, and brooded next to Sage.

Something was missing.

The cheerful chatter from the crowds was missing; presumably someone (Daphne, Diaz, or some of the people who had been there this morning, he couldn’t care less) had told them about what had happened.

Something was missing.

It was the first time the poets’ corner had been as empty as the music corner. He missed the people who would sit around the rectangular table. He would even like to see one of Florence’s episodes if it meant everyone was back.

Something was missing.

There was no black lump of dreary vitriol spilt over the cover of the piano, no fingers were clanging on the keys restlessly, and there was no Venice in the SNC.

Something was missing and Fern could feel it inside him.

He felt as if something would break soon.