ALMIRA THORN- Knowledge of Another Kind. [Editing]

ALMIRA THORN- Knowledge of Another Kind

 Copyright - All Rights Reserved © Isabella Gelston 2013

Almira Thorn

Knowledge of Another Kind

 

 

Prologue

“He went that way!” the voice boomed across the street, the footsteps gaining speed. The muffled sound of a click twitched into my ears, my brain recognizing the sound but not reacting fast enough. An explosion of pain ran through my thigh just as the shot sounded, my leg failing me as I collapsed onto the ground and the footsteps reached me.

A prick of pain hit my neck before the arms grabbed me by my coat and dragged me along the moonlit streets. My vision beginning to blur as their voices became nothing but a low drone, that slowly began to fade as darkness came from everywhere.

The agony easing and leaving me numb...

It’s touch soothing me to rest my eyes.

But I knew that if my lids shut, they would never open again and I could never warn her.

Dear God, what have I done?

 

CHAPTER 1- A comfort to last.

 

 

Dear Almira Thorn,

It is with great regrets that I must inform you of the disappearance of a Mr. Alexander Thorn on Thursday the 16th of October 1864. Our condolence's and utmost sympathy for the current situation,

Kind regards,

Officer Phillips.

As I read the telegram again, my heart reacted the same way. A painful wave of loss that made my corset dig into my body and choke my silent tears into a gasp of air. I would have thought the news of my father's disappearance would have eventually gotten easier to handle, something that faded through time. As memories do. But the feel of the crumpled paper in my hands was as heavy and solid as it had been when the coachman delivered it days ago.

I swallowed the lump in my throat that threatened to cause me to sob again and laid it down on the side table. Slowly rising from the chair, his favorite chair in the room he adored sitting and smoking in. Even now I could smell the faint odor of pipe tobacco rise from the chair, as if he was still here, telling me of his tales of the 'good old days.' I looked around the room that had once held so much laughter, so much happiness and felt nothing but a deep loss that no giggle could ever cure.

The fire was lit and keeping the cold of approaching winter from the residents but it held no warmth to me. It was as if Papa was what made this room warm and content to sit in.

The great mantel surrounding held the clock that made the tick-tock break the silence of the room and match the interior. The dark red curtains covered the windows and the walls matched with wallpaper that was dark enough in the room to look almost black. It made the old wooden tables and paintings a perfect match for the interior as if they were made for this room.

The paintings were of wars through time. Father would tell me as a child, stories of the heat of battle. The way one sacrificed so much for a man they never even knew. I never forget the look in his eyes as he told me again and again. They showed a pain and determination that I had not noticed until I grew older.