The longest story ever told - Part 2 (Five minutes freewrite)

The music coming from Vanessa’s room had become the background to his whole existence. He’d long grown accustomed to it, so his ears ignored it, but there was always a little part of his mind alert to the sounds coming from her room. Like a faithful dog, always by his master’s door. As long as the music kept playing, everything was alright.

The first time he’d met her she was humming to herself. Alone, on the bridge, looking at the murky waters with her blue eyes full of defiance, like she dared the river to catch her in its arms. As she leaned on the iron railings she gave off the distinct feeling she was weighing her options, at least that’s what he thought. Why would a beautiful woman be on a bridge at such a late hour if not to end her life? He sidled up to her, trying not to scare the woman lost in her dark thoughts, but what does one say in such a moment? ‘Please, don’t jump!’ That’s such a silly thing to say - maybe she had not intention of doing that, maybe she was just resting or waiting for a lover and some maniac comes out of nowhere urging her not to do something that had never even crossed her mind.
On the other hand, if she seriously wanted out of this life, why would she listen to some guy she didn’t even know?
God knows where did he find the time to consider all his options as it was quite a small bridge, but by the time he reached her he came up with the most pathetic pick-up line.
‘I know you must have heard this a million times, but you have the most beautiful eyes in the world’.
Even before finishing the sentence, he felt his cheeks flushing, not because he was shy, but because he had a deep fear of being ridiculous. The woman started to laugh, but there was nothing mean in her laughter. What he felt was nervousness and maybe a bit of relief that something unexpected had stopped her from going through with her plan.
If he saw gratitude in her eyes, that was his interpretation of the facts. For her part, Vanessa never acknowledged she was going to kill herself that night and she never spoke of the incident or what had happened to her before. It ate at his soul not knowing her story, but each time he alluded to the subject Vanessa would answer simply: ‘My story begins with you.’

And what a story - totally worthy of a man like him. Twenty-five years ago, when he met her, Ruben was already the acclaimed author of the first two volumes in his epic five-volume ‘History of the world’. His versions was to be the definitive one - there was nothing left to say. Nothing relevant, at least. It did not have all the dates or all the names, but it had something nobody before had managed to put in a history tome. It had meaning. Ruben Mallhour told you not only what had happened, but why, diving deep in the mind of emperors and conquerors as effortlessly as he presented the views of the common people - from the rebellious slaves to the citizens that marched through the streets of Paris. Everything made sense once you read his books. Reputations were tarnished, some kings were trashed, but they were all long gone and nobody cared anymore. Even his very few and spiteful critics struggled to find fault with his interpretation of the past.
When he started showing up with Vanessa on his arm at social events, nobody had any doubts a man like him totally deserved the young beautiful woman. He never tried to show off, a man of his station was above the vain ambitions of lesser men.

Their marriage was so low-key, the newspapers found out weeks after the event, when he invited his distinguished fellow professors and some literary friends to a charity ball hosted by Mr. And Mrs. Mallhour. She was amazing, in that light blue dress that matched her eyes, but more than her looks, the guests were impressed by the passion in her voice when she spoke about the foundation for sick children she and her husband had started.
There was only one thing that marred the memory of that night. He was not supposed to be there, the man who went by the inconspicuous Mr. Winston was never to show himself in public, at least not when Ruben was around. It was their unwritten agreement, yet there he was walking purposefully towards his young bride, kissing her hand with all the elaborate grace of a Latin lover from grandma Edna’s stories. Too bad he didn’t have the looks of one, too. Mr.Winston was short and had a yellowish complexion. That and his round black eyes gave the impression of a well-mannered cockroach, not quite bothersome, but certainly not someone you’d call friend.
Yet, Ruben had no choice but to present him as such. Anyway, Vanessa would soon find out the complexity of his relationship with Winston. Did he trust her to know the truth, all of it? Part of it was dying to confess to another soul, he was tired of carrying the burden of this secret all alone. If he had faith in her, it was not because she loved him, but of her debt to him - she owed him her life after all.
And now once again her life was in his hands. Literally. Winston had promised.

End of Part 2

Story written for @mariannewest's freewrite challenge, today's prompt was: I know! Check out her blog and join our freewrite community.

Thanks for reading!

Image Saint Jerome Writing by Caravaggio