Seventeen years, ten months, two weeks, three days...
Each moment is agony.
Every second of every day, George Beaumont is reminded of his young wife's untimely death. With every glimpse of that painting up on that mantle, with every glimpse of his...
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Edited
Autumn of 1870
The blue light of dawn shines on Anne's wrists, making them glow a pale, milky white. The veins stand out, blue and prominent. She thinks of the blood that runs in them. How nice it would feel to... she does not continue the thought.
She has not slept at all since her Eleanor left, despite how exhausted she feels. She hasn't done anything but think and think and think when she should have been sleeping, but truly, what else is there to do? When someone that has constantly tormented you since childhood calls you yet another derogatory name, the only human response was to think, but Anne's mind had taken it too far once again.
Squinting, she studies the paleness of her skin in the blue light, before looking over to the fireplace. She sighs.
This too, shall pass. Anne knows the true meaning of the phrase, but that does not stop her from thinking about it, nor does that thought stop her from wanting to curl up under her bed and wait for her body to turn into dust. Somehow, the thought is more comforting than anything else her mind tried to show her.
It would be months before she could see him again, but once she did, he would be all hers. Until then, she couldn't bother him, despite how much she needs him. He has to deal with more important things. Things that are more important than her.
No, stop. Don't say that, she thinks, but it is too late. Her poisonous mind whispers, But is not that all you do? You always bother him. If you sent him a letter now, he will tell you that you are a nuisance and you are bothering him while he studies.
She thinks of him; happy with his schoolmates, the troublesome sick thing he has for a best friend confined to her bedchamber, at the back of his mind. It is better that way, but good things are not always easy. He wouldn't be smiling if she made him comfort her, would he? No. No he wouldn't. And that is her answer. He is happy without her. She could think of nothing to counter that notion with.
Regardless, she knows that he is the only one who can help her. No one else knew how to make her laugh. He could protect her from the malice people had begun to treat her with. They had found out that she had epilepsy, and now it had begun to ruin her life. Rumors flew around that her father was a demon. She does not know. Her mother had told her that he had left when she was a baby. She is possessed, they claimed. She needs to be hanged, drowned, burned like a witch... She knows that eventually, her inheritance would be taken from her. She wouldn't be allowed to marry.
A tear drops onto her lap. What good are her and Ray's promises to each other, then? Only you. No one else, they had sworn to each other when they were young; hands wound tightly around the other's. She buries her face in her hands as the thought of her living alone forever seeps into her mind. Ray would tire of her tears. He would marry someone else. He would forget about her. Irrational, her conscience whispers, He loves you. You love him. You know that. but a tiny, toxic voice fired back, He will tire of you soon. You are just an ill little girl that no one will miss. She has to stop overthinking things, but the dark voice in her has a point, oftentimes. Raymond would be better off without her. Happier. Why does she lean on him so much?
