The Attainment of Evangeline

Chapter 3

-Two Years Later-

Evangeline sat expressionless as she looked out into the despairing night. The view out her window was obstructed by the heavy raindrops that had gathered along the glass, but she didn't mind because she wasn't even paying attention. The house moved beneath her when thunder followed the lightning that streaked across the sky, and every so often it would startle her and shake her concentration.

She felt as if she had been in the same position for the past six months; sitting on her bed, blankly staring out the window. Of course, realistically, she had done more than that in the period of six months, but it all felt like a blur, whirling around her. The predicament she was in was not a fair one, it was not ideal; it was heartbreaking and upsetting. But what else was she to do? Her mother was gone and life itself seemed to be unworthy of living. Colors were dull, smells were muted, and even the sounds of existence were mere annoyances. Life was no longer beautiful.

The way it all came to pass was still a mystery to Evangeline, how it could have even happened was mind boggling. Her mother, who had been out among the people of London in the market on the crisp fall morning had come home complaining of a headache. It was small at first, but it quickly worsened, so much so that it sent her mother to her room for the night. The next morning, the headache had restricted her mother to her room, all light shunned from her presence, for the rest of the day. On the third day when the headaches had not even given way and tiny bumps had begun to rise on her skin, her father called for a doctor.

Smallpox, the doctor had said, the beginning of smallpox. All color left her father's face and he collapsed in the nearby chair. The question of it being curable was brought up by her father, although he already knew the answer. Evangeline knew herself too, despite centuries of the smallpox circulation, nothing could be done about the more severe stages.

The doctor gave them strict instructions to say their last words, pack their things and leave. He explained to them that smallpox was very contagious and caught on quickly. He said it was a blessing that they hadn't already contracted the disease. The doctor told them how her mother would be moved to a hospital where other smallpox patients were held until...he had stopped, everyone in the room knew the last words. Until she died. He promptly left to arrange transport after giving his condolences, afraid that he may catch the revolting ailment.

Evangeline looked to her father, who had begun to sob. The full effect of the situation had not hit her until that moment, for she had never seen her father cry. She thought her father incapable of producing tears as a child due to the fact that nothing fazed him. Thoughts raced through her mind; how on earth had her mother been infected? Why? What had her sweet, beautiful mother done to deserve this death sentence? Her father started to ramble, he talked of how he had no idea where they were to go, what they were to do without Lauraine. He ran around the house, grabbing things of no real value such as cups and books, and he occasionally stopped to put his head in his hands and cry like a small, frightened child.

He yelled orders out to Evangeline who only wanted to see her mother; it was all happening so quickly. Her father left her to do what he had commanded as he went to the room where her mother lie, and shut the door behind him. But Evangeline just sat on the couch, unaware that tears were streaming down her face, or that she was shaking rather violently. After two hours her father emerged from the room, his eyes red and swollen, sunken deep into his face. He did not say a word but instead began the duties he had left for his daughter two hours before.

Evangeline slipped into her mother's room, shut the door, and burst into tears. It's alright, her mother assured her. It was her time. She loved her so very much. Even in a time when her mother knew her life was at an end, she was brave and carried herself as a leader. Evangeline cried even harder when she thought of how brave she herself was not. Her mother told her she had best leave now, because she could not stand to see her daughter get sick as well, and she didn't want Evangeline to remember her the way she looked at the moment; minor and grey in color, covered in bumps, and sweat, and death.

Her mother had accepted her fate, but Evangeline would not let it go. She was not a fighter, but she fought it until the doctor returned, and her father dragged her from the room, both of them crying. The last words her mother said to her were to never be afraid. Never be afraid of what her heart told her to do. To always be strong. Never be afraid.

Her mother had died eight days later, she had heard, in the care of nurses who risked their lives to be with the patients until their last breaths. Her father had moved them to the coast, to a little town called Folkestone to get away from memories, and from the sickness. Shortly after, her father started to drink heavily; he would come home every night, drunk, and then pass out. After the alcohol had ceased to be magic for her father, he moved onto Opium, and he would be out for several days. Her life, for the past six months had consisted of taking care of her drugged father, of hiding his drinks, trying to sober him up, of sobbing at odd hours of the night and staring out the window from her bedroom.

The sound of thunder came again, again, and again. Then she began to realize that it wasn't thunder, but that someone was knocking furiously at the door. She stood up, sighed, and grabbed the lit candle from her bedside table. The knocking continued, heavy and persistent.

"I'm coming!" she said under her breath.

Setting the candle down, she opened the door and was instantly hit with rain. She wiped it from her face, and saw a man leaning in her doorway, his hand clutched to his stomach. It was a chilling sight, one that might have been written out in a book about spirits and other unworldly things that made young women faint and swoon.

"Can I help you?" she asked over the storm, a bit weary.

He did not have time to reply, for he doubled over and fell to the floor at her feet. She screeched and kneeled down beside him, not quite sure what to do. The man was lying on his stomach, his face turned away from her, filthy and soaking wet. She remembered the storm and shut the door to keep the weather outside where it belonged. She then grabbed the candle, which illuminated the body that lay at her bare feet. She had not noticed the puddle of blood that was beginning to pool around the man until she stepped in it. Suppressing her horror, she began to panic. She grabbed the man's face and turned it towards her, and she was struck dumb. She knew this man, knew his face, but from where? Everything about the man was so familiar, it scared her. Then, the name formed on her lips.

"Jack Sparrow."