𝘍𝘖𝘙𝘎𝘐𝘝𝘌𝘕𝘌𝘚𝘚 𝘈𝘕𝘋 𝘙𝘌𝘛𝘙𝘐𝘉𝘜𝘛𝘐𝘖𝘕 | ʀᴅʀ

Chapter Seventeen

Reminder I have a discord for this series!

https://discord.gg/NYBnhBZ7yn

1893: New Hanover

The first thing that seemed strange to Rosalie when they came upon Eliza and Isaac's cottage, was the lack of sound, and that she didn't see Arthur outside. When he visited, he spent most of his time outdoors, especially with Isaac, as the boy loved to see Boadicea and play with the goats. Over the years, they got chickens and a cow as well, and Isaac loved to play with the animals, so to see no one outside... was unnerving.

John looked over at her as they rode up. "You sure this is the place? It looks... bare." He said, his eyes skimming over the empty pens and the quiet home.

Rosalie grimaced, anxiety filling her. "No, it is. But..." She trailed off, not sure how to finish her sentence, as she was only fearing the worst now.

"Hey," Hosea said, gesturing to Boadicea who was grazing next to the house. "There's his horse. So where is he?"

They drew closer, and horror filled her at what she saw off to the side next to the goat pen, almost hidden around the edge of their little cottage. It was two dirt patches, measly crosses stuck into the ground to mark them as graves. There was no mistaking the larger and much smaller patch beside it for what they were, but there still was no sign of Arthur.

"Oh my god," Rosalie muttered, raising her hand to her mouth in horror, feeling sick. "Is that... are those...?" She trailed off, in disbelief.

"Shit," John said, confirming her fears.

Rosalie dropped off her horse, her boots hitting the ground as she sprinted toward the house.

"Arthur?! Arthur?!" She cried, panicked as she ran up the stairs, worried that something had happened to him too, and she would come inside to see him lying in a pool of his own blood, or worse. She wasn't sure what would be worse than that, but the thought already made her want to throw up.

She couldn't see anything else like Isabella again. She couldn't.

Rosalie slammed into the house, her eyes wide and breathing heavily in a panic at the sudden thought of seeing Arthur dead, just as she saw her best friend.

The house was mostly clean, save for the dining table that was tipped over, part of it broken, and the dried blood on the floor. It looked as though someone had tried to clean the floorboards, the red blood dry and faded, but it was still there nonetheless, not leaving much to the imagination about what had gone on here, especially with the dirt patches lying outside.

"Arthur?!" Rosalie shouted again, looking around the house for any sign of him. Her gaze skimmed over the house, panic filling her insides as she tried to control her breathing. She was beginning to worry that maybe there was a third dirt patch outside and she had simply overlooked it, until her gaze stopped in the kitchen.

There Arthur was, sitting on the ground with his legs outstretched, dozens of empty whiskey and beer bottles surrounding him. He leaned his head against one of the cabinets, passed out in the corner of the kitchen, his face puffy and red. His hair was a mess, brown strands hanging around his eyes, and a thicker scruff than usual lined the bottom half of his face as proof of how long he'd been here, alone.

"Arthur," Rosalie breathed, darting over to him.

She squatted down to his level, her gaze running over his face in concern as she eyed his dark bags and the pained expression as he slept, unconscious from how much alcohol he drank, and from his utter misery.

Rosalie's heart clenched in her chest as she looked at him, and even though he reeked of alcohol and body odor, she reached up and patted his face gently, trying to wake him.