A few weeks after the Crucifier had been caught, seasons changed and it was finally winter.

The white on the tree tops, chimneys and other sky-high buildings displayed itself in the glamour of crystallized icicles and snowflakes.

Window panes sniffed the frost which created a blur canvas for kids to play on and draw pointless sketches.

Thin ice lay on every open space that was once a calm lake and every one with good legs, soon became an ice skater irrespective of their age group.

Wesley Stark and I were truly free. Free to love. Free to roam the earth. Free to laugh from our hearts. Free to love others. My nightmares became mid-night fantasies. Good fantasies, which looked like visions that held a glimpse of the joyful future ahead of me.

I did have joy. Joy that was clearly more than a million fold, for there was no human I did not smile at while, I walked the streets of Los Angeles, escorted by peace.

Yes. I did have joy in my soul but one curse never left me.

Some called it a gift but to me, amnesia would have been my closest friend, for this curse was called ‘Memory’.

It had curled itself in my brain, trying so hard to enclose the beautiful dreams I often had.

Sometimes, I felt like individuals educated in the field of science, had lost their minds. How could they say, memories were developed and stored in the brain, when my heart bore unbearable pain at the remembrance of all whom I had lost before I found peace.

My mother, my father, Mark, Rhonda, Andre, Mr Conner, Jamie, Nathan…Every one of their faces were as clear as a new polished crystal in the depths of my heart.

Their smiles, their laughter, their tears, all of it still remained in my memories. Their deaths, their stone cold faces, their pale skins and the red liquid that flowed unsteady from a hole in the centre of their chests. I could never forget it. I could not.

The red roses remained the flowers I detested, which was aided by hate and dread.

I tried so hard to forget all of it. I opened my heart to the wonders of therapy. I took yoga classes which made my limbs flexible, but my heart remained a steady rock and my memory was as sharp as ever.

I watched almost a thousand and one movies, some of which I could not understand the language used.

I did so much exercise; I burnt fats that were not even in my body.

Music classes, Acting classes and even Kung Fu classes, just for the fun of it, nothing worked. Not a single thing.

Nothing on earth could distract me from the thoughts of those I had lost. Nothing could erase their dead faces from my cursed memory.

But there was one thing that worked. The one thing I was grateful for. Wesley Stark.

The sight of Wes wiped out images of the past, along with unusual beats in my heart. I had stolen Wesley Stark’s heart and he had stolen mine. The love we shared made me see life in a whole new perspective.

The blessed gift called ‘love’ had given me something greater than joy. Something better than hope. It was something I could not describe, but every day I remained grateful to God for the existence of Wesley Stark.

The dead were dead and love filled the air in the perfect season of Christmas.

The single moment in the year, where the world believed in miracles blessed my soul with gladness, for it was the season Wesley and I decided to say our vows.

A simple wedding in the midst of white blankets and lucid ice was not one I dreamt of.

I never had the chance to dream about my future wedding.

As a child, my father’s constant yelling and my mother’s absence gave me the worst view of marriage. The union of a man and woman for the sake of love was utter rubbish to me. Even when my heart had started to flutter from the time I loved Wesley, I never thought of marriage, since death chased me endlessly.

Finally I had the courtesy to think about the kind of wedding I wanted, just like a normal woman would. And I had decided to go with a very simple wedding, beautified by the presence of snow, icicles and a beautiful setting lit by the stars and colourful bulbs.

I did get that simple wedding. The perfect wedding was what I called it.

The middle of the labyrinth behind Wesley’s huge home was the venue. The fountain had embraced glass like ice features at every corner, but its waters flowed continuously in the beauty and grace of the shimmering rays from the moon, which lit that night.

A lot of couple got married and held their reception at day time, but not Wesley Stark and I. We had decided to say our ‘I do’s’ in the splendour of twilight.

Flowers and young buds had been shut to the birth of stars above, but I was grateful to the stars below. Fire flies. The little insects danced in the air and on small patches of grasses which had been wondrously untouched by the mean frost of winter.

My wedding gown was elegant and beautiful. Arrayed cautiously by crystal beads and white pearls, stitched in silver coloured and snow white threads, the dress was long enough to kiss the ends of the stair case in Wesley’s home.

My arms were covered by graceful sleeves that were hand-embroidered with silver threads, glass beads and sequins in a baroque floral design.

The pretty wedding gown, hugged my waist tightly, which gave me a figure I was not sure I had. The figure men would call sexy.

My face was spotless and I wondered if my reflection was actually a bounce-off view of my person. It was perfect. My pink lip stick, dark-lined eye lids, full and darkened eye lashes, curled hair, it was all perfect. Too perfect. I looked like the Queen of a fairy tale land that knew of nothing but beauty, elegance and perfection.

Wesley Stark was my King in the fairy tale land that was filled with beauty and perfection. He was all so handsome in his white suit that had secured a pretty black bow on his neck and white shirt. A very office-like and yet eccentric shirt with a few touches of black and blue patched on white background, in the form of exquisite French lace.

A pair of white Italian shoes, with soles darker than coal kissed a pair of socks which remained unseen and hidden underneath the white trousers that fit him so well. His curly hair was well combed and it matched his perfectly cute smile.

The best part of my wedding after we had exchanged our vows and said our ‘I do’s’ which was followed by tears, laughter and thunder-like applause, was the dance.

Our wedding planner had arranged a stage. A glass stage lit by colourful lights, which followed our every step. The rays of the moon touched the glass stage and created rainbow like lines on my dress and Wesley’s suit. It all looked like a scene from a very fancy Walt Disney movie. I loved it.

I danced with Wesley as Mrs Ramona Stark and it sent goose bumps all over me. I loved love but I was sure I felt something deeper than just love, when Wesley and I danced to the graceful tune of the song ‘The Way You Look Tonight’, with the voice of the angelic Harrison Craig in our ears.

We took gentle steps, forward, backwards, left and right. Wesley’s left hand caressed my waist in boldness and strength, while his right hand held mine in warmth and calm poise.

My left hand rested on his shoulder as I felt safe and my right hand was clenched to his.  Our elbows lifted by affection and joy.

My heart leaped about my chest cavity. The temperature of my skin had risen by what scientists would never call a thousand fold. My breath was about to cease at every second, but I had never felt so alive.

I stared at Wesley Stark. He was beautiful. He was my beautiful angel.

A tear rode on my blushed cheeks. Wesley knew it was for the sake of happiness, but he bowed his tall being and kissed it. The tear was gone but I wished more had poured like the River Nile.

The night glowed at every step we took, closely bounded to each other by love and in the name of marriage. I was truly grateful and I loved that night. I loved every bit of it.

The wedding was over and three months had passed by so quickly.

The lucid ice structures and frozen lakes had begun to melt, giving way to nature in a new birth.

Time may have run in haste but I enjoyed my honey moon with Wes. It was in one word ‘amazing’.

We went to Paris, during the first month and the second month we spent in Romania and the third we were in the lovely Spanish home of Puerto Rico.

After we left Puerto Rico, Wes and I travelled to Denmark to honour my parents’.

It had been years since I paid a visit to my parents’ graves. I knew there was no way I could receive blessing from the dead, but I felt it was the right thing to do before I moved on with my married life.

I had to totally break free of any strings from the past, tied to my heart.

Wesley Stark, the understanding husband he was, followed me to Denmark, without question or complaint.

In a car, Wesley’s Range Rover, we rode through the coal-tar padded streets of Denmark.  The granite encrusted ground shone under the sun.

In an hour or two, we arrived at a cemetery.

Angel statues and crosses mingled in the still silence of the graveyard. 

Wesley and I walked towards the centre of the graveyard. A short sycamore tree that had tiny green buds on every inch of its very thin branches stood sturdy and sheltered my parents’ graves.

The rock-like graves were just a few inches apart from each other. There my parents’ bodies lay underneath the graves, which were surrounded by very short grass heads.

The names ‘Mr Johnson Taylor’ and ‘Mrs Tina Taylor’ were boldly inscribed on both graves.

I placed a bouquet of beautiful flowers on the graves.

After Wesley and I had chanted the words ‘Rest in Peace’ in the most sober way, we turned to leave the graveyard, when my eyes caught the sight of an object. A horrific object.

I rubbed my eyes until they hurt.

The object remained on top of my mother’s grave. My heart dropped to the ground and I fell down. Even Wes was confused as it took him quite a while to get me back on my feet.

There it lay, clear as day. One flower that was not in my bouquet.

A rose. A red rose.

I glanced at my father’s grave. There was no rose on it, but a well folded paper played with the wind, while it was being held steady by a stone.

I looked up at Wes’ eyes. His brown eyes had fear. I had seen all in those eyes, but not fear. Definitely not fear.

Maybe I had not solved all the mystery buried in those brown eyes. Still, who was I to blame the man because he was scared,  when my limbs shook vigorously and cold sweat had found its way on every path of my skin.

I picked up the paper and read its content.

Written with what looked like red ink, the content of the paper in six questionable words read;

“The Dead Are Not So Dead!”