Collection of Stories

Poisonberry Ice Cream

Word Count: 10, 447 words | Estimated Reading Time: 1 hour

I couldn't bring myself to change out of my nightgown or even shimmy into my tea gown. The days were all but the same: a horrible and miserable mess. A pessimistic view, I'm aware, but when the heart breaks, everything does. Your world crumbles at your feet, and your reflection stares back at you, dark shadows underneath your eyes, hair no longer in their prim and proper curls, and face as swollen as if it were stung by a bee. 

Begrudgingly letting myself out of bed, I shuffle across my chambers and into the bathroom. I would have preferred not to stare at myself in the glass while I got ready for the day, but there I was. My black hair was tangled into a bird's nest and not even a pretty one like the fashionable hats these days. What many describe as my deep brown eyes like chocolate were dull and lifeless. My skin didn't fare so well either. It was a mess. I was a mess.

After getting my hygiene in sort, I turned to look at the calendar on my bedside table. It was a small one, barely the size of my notebook. My mind rattled and scrambled to figure what day or what month we were in. I took out my spectacles, those which I was supposed to wear every second of the day, and squinted at the date.

Funny how there's a bright red circle on the 15th of August.

Fifteenth of August. Fifteen...One and five...

My eyes grew wide and the towel I held dropped to the floor. I rushed to my wardrobe, picking out one of my more formal gowns. I pulled out a mustard yellow gown, detailed with lace, and in the fashionable puff sleeves of today. I shuffled around my closet searching for the corset that had been forgotten. Chemise, stockings, corset cover, petticoat, all of it, they were somewhere in here.

I don't think I got ready faster than I did that morning. I refused to look at the clock. I knew it was past eight in the morning. The milkman already knocked. He was a kind man, unbearably kind, and so were my neighbors, sickeningly  kind. I could feel all their eyes, Mrs. Smith's bright blue ones and Mr. Smith's hazel ones along with their children's pair of eyes as they watched me shuffle along the steps of my home and out into the brazen sun.

"Off somewhere, Ms. Vincente?" Mr. Tattlenickle asked, a hint of mocking in his voice.

I nodded and put a meek smile, "Quite so, Mr. Tattlenickle. Do you know the quickest way to Greyfield Manor?"

Mr. Tattlenickle only chuckled, "Aye, right so. Greyfield Manor is in Bath, is it not?"

I nodded.

"Right. Go down to Temple Meads and there should be a 10 AM train going to the Bath Spa. From there, take a hansom cab to St. Luke's Church, and walk about ten minutes or so, and ye should see Greyfield."

    I thanked the old man profusely and ran as fast as I could to my bike to pedal like my life so dearly depended on it.

    Temple Meads wasn't as busy as I had worried. In fact, there were scarcely any people. If I hadn't brought my coat, then my mustard gown would've stood out amongst the greys and the beiges of the common folk. 

"All aboard for Bath!"

The short lanky signalman's voice boomed through the station. Barely anyone shuffled along the platform and onto the cart. I turned and watched as barely a dozen or so people, dressed in varying shades of black, some even wearing a smidge of white, hopped on the train. I bowed my head and gave my ticket to the conductor. 

The car was silent. Everyone stared elsewhere, out the window, on a newspaper, or even at the door leading to the next car. I noticed some carrying white lilies, carnations, and the occasional yellow variations of them as well. They were in intricate patterns and arrangements. While some were small bouquets, others managed to shove in whole arrangements through the tiny doors. Some women bowed their heads, shielding their faces with black tulle veils. I stood out from the dreary compartment with some of the mustard fabric poking out through my coat. I looked like a sore thumb.