Stories of a Lost Locket

The flames have almost died to embers in the pit in front of me. My cold fingers fumble beneath the blanket emerging between the fraying edges with a couple of small pieces of wood. The blanket had once been a vibrant colour, possibly purple, but it was now faded to match the muted monotone surroundings. I pull it tight around my shoulders and shuffle closer to the growing flames. And yet still the cold bites at my bones, finding me behind the rubble, under this roof of corrugated iron. A break between two concrete slabs reveals the wasteland beyond, the carcasses of buildings like this one lying where they had fallen as far as the horizon. Paper tumbles over debris. Flyers and birth certificates, magazines and office files. Now only fuel for the fire.

And those grey-brown clouds. As long as I can remember now, just clouds. What did sunlight feel like again?

Putting my hand into my pocket the metal is cold to the touch. I pull out the locket, silver with a flowing cursive engraving. Its weight sat comfortably in my hand, its heart shape nestling into my palm. The chain dainty and smooth, tangled, its clasp long since broken and lost. I twist the tiny links between my two fingertips, grit under the nails, feeling like silk against them. The metallic shine coiling brightly against the grime.

She had received it for her prom night, a gift from her proud father. Accompanying her simple purple dress and flowing dark hair, it had been the best night of her life. I see it vividly.

Through the years she had kept it safe, hanging pride of place on her dressing table, waiting for special occasions. Her aunt’s wedding where she danced the night away and met her future fiancé. Her friend’s twentieth birthday, where the locket found itself swinging above the toilet bowl and where she vowed never to drink again. Her parent’s anniversary, an embarrassing affair, her uncle had made a scene in the middle of the local Chinese restaurant. The police had been called and they hadn’t spoken to her uncle since. I see it vividly.

She kept that locket polished, even when it was not dirty. To be returned, hanging mirror side. That silver heart shaped locket. I see it vividly.

I turn it over in my blistering hands. Its glint against the drab of my surroundings sparking a something deep down, a foreign feeling. I think it might be hope.

It had hung around her neck with her black robe and black cap, and wide smiles. She posed in front of her university building, certificate in hand. The locket captured in the photos on their mantlepiece alongside the anniversaries, birthdays, weddings, and her prom night. I see it vividly.

And when they took her aw ay, she had taken it too. A macabre reflection of those times when she had fastened it with joy. It would go with her, but only the locket would ever leave. I see it vividly.

At least, this is the story I tell myself about the locket I picked up by that chain-linked fence, next to the camps. Camps now reduced to rumble as the rest of the world had been. This is the story that I tell myself about her. A different one every night. About the owner of that lonely locket.

“Abigail”

The engraving reads, the sound of my voice makes me start; misplaced amongst the cacophony of the wind and crackle of flaming wood. A name now more familiar than even my own. A woman I would never see, could never see. Who I’d never met, and could never meet. But who I know. My only company in this desolate world.