The last Duchess

chapter one

Leicester, England, 7th April 1964

The bitter scent of lemons flood through the halls of this hospital. I'm not fond of hospital, I have to admit.

I twirl a broken locket around in my fingers, I catch glimpses of the three, meant to be four, figures that are frozen in time, and Mitya, his leg is tapping on the floor, the sound is irritating but I daren’t say anything.

I should be anxious; I know I should be.

I placed my hand on his thigh, and his tapping slows, I squeeze his leg a little.

"It'll be fine, Dmitri, please don't worry." I whisper to him, whispering only for I can feel the glares of the others waiting for their news, hoping to prolong anything bad. I know it's a lie, it won't be fine, it won't be. If anything, these years have taught me, bad always follows me. He nods to what I said.

And we both relax, and as I turn the locket once more, I feel pinching on my bare skin, it feels as the diamonds, emeralds, rubies once did, the ones that made the bullets ricochet. Nausea washes over me as soon as I realize that. Screams echo through my ears, I feel as if the blood is back on my hands, I feel the scars as if they were newly done. My vision goes blurry, and I start to worry, my hands moving around desperately, my breathing grows hurried. I feel a hand being placed on my thigh, a level of comforting that came with it.

I make out that it's Mitya, my breathing slows, and the screams and cries of the terror eventually die out, but I can still smell the scent of metallic blood on that gore covered basement floor, the sharp smell of gunpowder, the sound of dull but hard bullets that come into contact with human skin, causing thuds as it did. The silence that followed, the blood that stained my clothes, my torn then armless blouse.

"You alright, my darling?" He asks me now, my focus is now solely on him, my vision can only make out him, any one else is not there, blurred out or erased to me. I nod staring at him, strands of grey wisps from my loose hair covering some of my eye view.

I look again now at the locket; I see now that I did not do a good job with the scribbling, I did of the fourth girl. Her eyes peak out and her strong pose that demonstrates her authority, is still held.

My eyes no longer hold a sparkling glint to them, no longer the eyes of a Romanov, but merely blue eyes. I have changed in these years, my complexion has changed terribly, however I prefer it this way.

"Olga Novikova." A nurse reads from a clipboard, overhearing ears perk up in nosiness. I sigh before getting up, collecting my bag, placing the locket inside before travelling in the woman's direction, Mitya following shortly, his cane hitting the floor as he made his way.

My God, to my friend, let this all be happy, and let us leave with good news.

-

"The cancer is back," she swallowed a breath, "Mrs Novikova."

I do not freeze up at this, but I feel a clenched hand squeeze mine, I looked up at Mitya through my eyelashes, he looks at me back, his lip quivering, silent tears streaming down his pale cheeks.

"Oh, my love!" I cry out, raising a hand to caress his cheek, he bits his lip in retaliation, and shook his head side to side. And he makes an unsure smile.

I do not feel like that with this news. I have beat this once, I am sure to do it again, and I have been through worse, me living is human proof of it.

"And so, what does this mean exactly?" Dmitri asks, worry lacing his voice, his fingers intertwined with mine, his foot now clicking up and down on the floor, the nurse stares at the foot, with an annoyed look plastered on her face.

"It means, the cancer that your wife once had, never completely went, the cancerous cells most of them were destroyed but there was an estimated three that managed to survive being wiped out, and as soon as they could started infecting the healthy cells, allowing the cancer to spread, and unfortunately it has, and at a rapid rate." She said, a pitying look in her eyes whenever she looked at me. I avoided eye contact with her, I do not want or need her pity.

Dmitri nods, worry chewing at him as he processes this, his thumb now rubbing my knuckle.

"Your wife will have to almost immediately start chemotherapy." The nurse says, her clipboard is left unattended to at the desk, as she directs the conversation, that is about me, to Mitya.

"That will be all well and good, but who's to say that this treatment, this therapy, whatever you call it-"

"Chemotherapy." She interrupts, he shoots her a look, and she immediately backs down and he continues, I can't help but laugh to myself.

"Whatever it's name is, who is willing to promise me that it will work? We believed last time it would, and look what has happened! Olga is dying, and no one can tell me whether this treatment is actually promised to work or not. I do not wish to be lonely the rest of my life. I want Olga to be my companion!" His voice raises as the thought of being lonely when he dies engulfs him. I look at him now, and he looks back at me, I bring his hand up to me and I place a tender kiss on it. He does not smile back at me; worry is still haunting him.

"Sir, your wife if she starts chemotherapy immediately, will have an upped chance of survival!" She hisses out.

"Then do it, please. Don't let my wife die."