Closing his eyes against the cruel lights of the plane and the uncaring laughter of those around him, Edward settled into his seat in first class. He glared the flight attendant off and sat back, waiting for the uncomfortable thrum of the engines to take him away into the awaiting arms of Death.
Someone behind him coughed violently, and an infant started whining, the flurry of thoughts forcing their way into his own musings on Death. He growled softly to himself. Death was supposed to be peaceful, and yet here he was, unwantingly aware that the woman across the aisle from him was having the most appalling thoughts about the man she was having an affair with, and that the gentleman in front of him was suffering from a spastic colon. Two seats behind him a man was flying home to his wife. In the cockpit the pilot was impatient to fly. Only there could he agree with someone’s meaningless thoughts. He was surrounded by the trivial, and he wanted to shake every single unwitting human on this plane to within an inch of their lives. Bella is GONE! He wanted to scream, but he sat in his seat, the only signs of his inner agony were the deep crease on his brow and the anguish in his eyes.
In the distant part of his mind, furious with the rest of the world not stopping when his ended, he considered what he would do upon arrival in Volterra. It was a perverse fact of his existence that suicide was hardly a solitary undertaking. The word ‘inconvenient’ floated through his mind, but he quickly squashed it, growling again at the slow progress the plane was making. They hadn’t even left the tarmac yet in Caracas, and he had an appointment to make. Death was anxious for him, waiting to carry him into blessed oblivion, even into Hell. But he had to ask to die—beg freedom from his unwanted existence at the feet of his ancient masters. And in their mercy, they would allow him his departure from the world in flames.
The infant squalled again, and with a silent snarl, he tore his iPod out of his pocket, stuffed the earbuds into his ears and sought relative silence in music. Frantically, he scrolled through his playlist, his already present sense of melancholy not measuring up to the gravity of his current situation. Mozart and Verdi’s requiems were considered and then passed over; his beloved Debussy only making him tear holes in the plush seat in brooding rage; the dark romance of Bruckner unsatisfying.
A solitary cello broke his frantic search. An oboe joined in, and a chord settled that screamed of the agony he felt. The cruelty of love was embodied in that soul-piercing vibrato, and he knew he’d found his temporary release in the original tragedy. Only Wagner had given it the scope it deserved in his five hour tribute to cursed and tortured love.
And such was his—his Bella lay dead, buried and cold, forever beyond his reach unless he joined her in that final cadence of Death. His forehead uncreased ever so slightly as the prelude continued to sound in his ears, the sweet pain in Isolde’s voice as she called down curses upon the man she would soon adore. He hardly noticed his surroundings, and he tuned out the thoughts of everyone around him as the tragic tale unfolded over five hours of drama in music. Somewhere over the Atlantic, when Tristan lay dead, and Isolde held him in her arms, his eyes flew open. He wished more than anything, to hold his Bella again, to see her porcelain features before him. But she was gone, gone. The final cadence, perfect in Isolde’s quivering soprano, washed over him as he glanced out the window at the dark ocean. He shuddered, incapable of tears but weeping all the same.
Soon, was his solitary thought as he flicked the Liebestod onto repeat.
He rose and fell with Isolde, dying a small amount every time she collapsed. He watched the ticker anxiously, willing the plane faster across the Atlantic to where his happy executioners waited for him. As the sun set across the ocean, forty thousand feet above the water, his dark and jaded thoughts of Death turned instead to a willing acceptance. The Volturi would grant his wish, he was certain, and he could die in peace before the next dawn came.
Almost unwittingly, he sought fresh music to accompany him to the grave, wanting the transport that music allowed him. He was grieving Bella as he flew to join her, leaping not from a precipice but into the flames to be consumed. Death was something to be welcomed, for he was going unto it with the certainty of the rising of the sun. A symphony to Death in his ears, his funeral march played while he yet breathed. The plane softly descended into Florence under a dark and moonless sky. Death is impatient, Edward thought as he stepped off the plane into the night. I come at last.