Black Hollow

James

"

You're going the wrong way." My beatific friend Thomas' voice passed over the crowd that chatted merrily behind us. "You're going down a misguided pathway, James. You do not devote adequate time to your daughter. Here you are now with me rather than her." Thomas was ardent in the way he spoke, his eyes solemn.

I knew Thomas spent his time fretting about me, and that it was all out of goodwill, yet I wished he did not. We had been friends for as long as I could remember, and he had been there for me through every hardship.

In our youth, I was picked on endlessly due to my sharp beak-like nose, and oddly proportioned frame. Yet Thomas was always affable, always there for me.

As we grew grayer, we learned he was especially tender with the swooning ladies that grabbed his attention. They gaped at his intense gray eyes, freckled nose, and chiseled chin. Thomas had a way with women that I certainly did not, which I envied. Even my darling wife was fond of Thomas. She told me he was a reputable fellow.

Thomas invariably managed to find joy with women and, of course, a hearty ale. Through my cruelest of times, Thomas was unwavering. He would meet me at a tavern called "The Dusty Railroad". A diminutive establishment regularly visited laden with cheery people. Throughout the night on the streets of Boston, the shouts of mirth and delight would burst from inside the pub. The barkeep would even join in storytelling or drinking contests when the lively people wished him to.

Thomas and I had been going there for quite some time now and met most evenings to discuss the events of our days. He often inquired how I was, concerned about my feelings, and how I was supporting myself. I had never been the same since I had lost my wife, and he knew I drank to distract myself from the pain.

Every night was a night full of ale, each cup an endeavor to drown my deepest sorrows. I would drink till those unpleasant memories perished or until I fainted‒ only to awaken to the misery once again. Then I would stumble home to my daughter, Violet, gaze up at her staring out of the leaded window, nose pushed to the glass and hands on the edge of the windowpane, waiting. She would always be there, early in the dawn, watching me walk down the street.

My daughter, my sweet girl, was warm-hearted and gentle, just like her mother. She took much better care of me than I ever could of her. She would stay up all night, envisioning my return, and to my regret, I tended to be uninterested, arriving home later than intended. When I was home, I could not bear to look at my daughter, for she looked too much like her mother and the pain was overwhelming.

Violet.

She had such a resplendent name for a delicate child. A pure soul with no malice in her. She was at one time my whole world, although she never realized it. Violet would always be my stars in the night and the sun in my day.

Her mother Poppy had been just as breathtaking before she had passed—spirited and free as a bird. She always had been. A single dilemma could not put a damper on her spirits, for she constantly had a resolution to every query. Poppy was giving, and when I saw her smile, the rhythm of my heart would immediately feel out of place.

I had met Poppy in the woods one night. We had both gone there to find the peace we desired but we discovered so much more. We found each other. She seemed rushed when our paths crossed, but when we touched, it was as if all of her problems drifted elsewhere. It was just the two of us in this lonesome, cruel world.

I loved my sweet Poppy for six long years, but it was not enough. Our love was invincible, untouchable until the day she died. On, the day she passed, Violet was born, strong and healthy. My darling Poppy was left fighting for the little life she had left. My wife passed, yet she was still beaming and just as ravishing as the day we met.

"James?" Thomas called, drawing me away from my thoughts. "Where is Violet now?"

I blinked back the tears that begged to make their escape and cleared my throat, shaking my head as I answered, "I believe she is at home, awaiting my return as always. It is nearly dawn after all."

I could not help but glance at the drink in my hand. The tan color of my brew glistened as I shifted the jug, encouraging the liquid to touch the sides. My head reeled from the previous, unknown amount of alcohol Thomas and I had partaken of, yet I still managed a steady gaze toward my dear friend, only to see him lift his brow in disapproval. After all these years, he suddenly had an opinion.

"Why waste your time with a man such as I when your daughter is waiting for you?" he paused, leaning back. "Go to her! Rejoice in the name of love!" Thomas sounded sentimental despite shoving a glass in the air and humming a catchy tune after his initial look of disappointment disappeared.

I rose from my stool, nodded to my friend, and began to vacate the bar. Waving, I turned back to Thomas. Even his admonishment was kind.

I wandered out into the darkness to find the streets of Boston were fast asleep. Not one soul prowled the avenues. There was only red brick after red brick, clicking intermittently underfoot.

As I passed under the faint lights, a million thoughts ran through my mind. I was planning to embrace my dear Violet, which I had never done before. Thomas said to rejoice in the name of love and rejoice I would!

I desired so much to tell my daughter how earnestly I wished to change my ways. That I no longer wished to guzzle ale after ale, and only wanted to be with her, the only love I had left. To tell her about her mother and how we met, along with the many other stories I should already have passed on. She needed to know I would always be there for her.

Yet, everything shifted when I arrived home.

Frenzied hues of orange and red clouded my vision. The gathering storm made the heat intolerable. I observed the flutter of the flames as they tore through my home, consuming all that I loved. I hearkened to the deafening crackle—a mocking laugh—and realized Violet was inside.

Trapped.

She must have been struggling to survive, and I only wanted to save her. Though, all I was able to do was stand there in my shocked stupor as my home became a smoldering ash heap.

My feet could not move. I was frozen in place, incapacitated by the intoxication that filled my veins. The dreadful scene seized my eyes, and though I yearned to turn away, I could not. I could only stand there, the most hideous refrain echoing over and over in my head.

I had just killed my daughter.

I had nothing left—the clothes on my back were my sole possession. I had lost everything and everyone that I had ever held dear, and yet, I was somewhat unfazed. I remembered the heat, how it burned against my fragile skin and mocked me. On that very same day, just hours following the most tragic moments of my life, after being questioned by the authorities...

I met Elene.