Far too often, we let things slip through our fingers. In my case, I talk about such basic things as life, love and everything that ever touched me deep. Since these things are the three pieces that make a person, a legit question from your side would be "Then, what is left of you?" And I will tell you, nothing at all. I live but I'm not alive. Then, what's the difference? Let me explain; when you 'live', you breathe, move, talk and your heart beat and when 'you are alive', you feel things, get emotional and put value to your existence and everything you do.
I'm sure my emotional state sound boring to you but it is very much easier this way than walk around a million pieces of my heart tearing in my chest. I smashed your heart to nothing because of my fear and clumsiness and that is what hurt me the most. I write it as if it happened before because, like I said, I no longer feel.
It's quite funny how both you and I have become perished goods even though you are the one who's gone both body and soul. We were so similar and we'd made a great pair if I had taken the chance when I had it in my lap. I'm so bloody stupid. Stupid enough to make life laugh at me. I could have joined its laughter if it wasn't so that every fibre of my laughter had left my body and followed you down under the earth. You took my laughter. But I don't blame you, I wouldn't have any use for it now when you're gone anyway and since I took your heart and smashed it to the ground and never gave it back so you could fix it like you fix the clockworks, it's not more than right that you take something from me. I just wish you'd taken my lungs instead so that I could join you and your "life" and leave this sad living state. To take my heart would've been for no use since you already have it, even if I never told you.
Jimmy folded the letter to a shape so that it would fit the small, light brown envelope. Both the paper and envelope were the expensive type, they had cost him almost half his wage but Mr. Barrow, Thomas, was worth it. Earlier that day, Jimmy had walked down to the lake to choose the most beautiful stone to put the letter under so the wind wouldn't blow it away from the grave.
Thomas sudden death had been the most traumatic experience in the blond footman's life ever. It had taken him all his self control not to scream out loud when His Lordship declared the news that the Under Butler had died because of sudden pneumonia. Jimmy had felt completely empty and that had shone through his eyes and straight out for public expose. Luckily, the only one who saw that, and the bad hidden tears in the corner of his eyes, was Anna and she walked over to him to give him a comforting pat on the shoulder and a compassionate smile.
The blond had allowed himself to be lost in grief for that one day when Lord Grantham had held his sorrowful meeting and after that he'd put on a stone face and pretend like the lost of Thomas didn't bother him at all. He'd gone into his emotional coma.
They had held the funeral a week after Thomas's death and the fact that only two or three of the 'mourning' were in need of a handkerchief made Jimmy annoyed enough to almost hit Alfred, who sat next to him, hard in the face when he sighed loudly for the fifth time in a quarter. He was tempted, but he never acted. Instead, he whispered in a sharp tone how rude and disrespectful Alfred was and that he could get the fuck out of the place if he wasn't interested in what they were doing there. Of course Jimmy didn't cry himself, he wasn't going to break his own promise with himself and despite that he didn't want to give anyone the impression that he was sensitive and emotional.
After the burying of Thomas's body the blond footman had hurried back to the house. He'd, after all, promised himself that he wouldn't mourn more. Some hall boys had cleaned up in the room where the under Butler used to sleep and collected all his belongings in two boxes. For a moment Jimmy had considered to open them again and keep some things, as a memory. Perhaps he could take the books? He knew Thomas used to make small notes in the margin of the page and to read them would give Jimmy some sort of closeness to the only man he'd ever loved. But as fast as the idea had hit him he pushed it away. To take someone else's personal belongings is stealing, whether you love the person who owns them or not. The purpose of the stealing isn't relevant either. Instead, he had gone to his room to get prepared for bed. Before he left the cemetery he had told Mrs. Hughes he wasn't feeling well and she had told him to rest in bed and not come up before the next morning.
Now, two weeks later he was on his way back to Thomas's grave again. This time he'd brought the letter in his left hand and the small stone in his right. To stay away from crying was not a problem, for Jimmy's heart was as cold as the snow under his feet after two weeks without any feelings.
But when he saw the small white cross with the name carefully and precise written on he could no longer hold back all the emotions he had pushed away for fourteen days. It may not sound much, but to Jimmy it felt more like fourteen years and he missed Thomas terribly. All the guilt for his rudeness earlier came over him and he felt warm tears falling over his cheeks and down in the snow. There was nothing the blond footman could do to stop it and he fell, shaking and sobbing, to the ground. A moment later he heard steps far away and they seemed to come closer. Jimmy did his best to get himself together and sat up and dried his puffy eyes with the back of the hand. It was the steps of a woman, but not any woman, it was the steps of Daisy. She was on her way to the grave too and started to run when she saw Jimmy in the snow. "Are you alright?" she asked him and sat down next to him. For a while Jimmy didn't respond, he only stared at nothing in front of him but suddenly he mumbled quietly: "Don't know really. Everything's just too late now, I suppose."
Daisy sighed and picked up the stone and the letter that had fallen out of Jimmy's hands when he fell and put them next to the cross. Then she crawled back to her previous position and said: "It's never too late, y'know."
"In my case I'm pretty sure it is, actually."
Jimmy quickly dried a new tear from his cheek but Daisy had seen it and now she tightly wrapped her arms around him. "Why don't you tell me what it is and we'll sort it out together?"
He let her hug him and hoped that what she just said would die out because the last thing he wanted was to explain his situation to anyone, even though Daisy was to prefer if he had to tell someone.
Daisy let him go and for some minutes they just sat silently before she asked: "Are you going to tell me or do I need to put you under pressure with questions?"
"Feel free to ask."
"Fine, I'll start with an easy one. You liked Thomas, didn't you?"
"I did. Just like everybody else" Jimmy answered with his empty voice.
"Yes, but you really liked him, right?"
"I'm not goin' to answer that question."
Daisy smirked and said: "Then I take it as a yes"
Jimmy sighed and Daisy stayed quiet for a moment. It was so hard for the footman to talk normally when the tears were loaded in his eyes and a great sob grew in his throat so he speak as little as possible.
"And you miss him?" she finally continued.
"I do and I doubt you'll ever understand in what enormous amount."
Daisy suddenly rose and was ready to leave but before she walked away she smiled light and answered: "Look, we can't get him back but we can honour him by paying attention to the fact that we'll always carry him in our hearts. Now I need to go 'cause Mrs Patmore expect me to come back with the eggs I bought so we can make the desert for today's dinner, I'll see you later"
Jimmy heard her steps fade away and as he watched the small snowflakes fall to the ground he got absorbed in his own thoughts. I don't want him in my heart, I want him here with me. And I know it is childish to think like this but there is no way around it. I want him back, but I never will. You can't bring people back from the dead, that's for sure, but you can bring people from the living to the dead.