Sweet Satisfaction (Purple UGC Winner 2014)

Sweet Satisfaction - Fifty-Seven

Fifty-Seven

John and I had just enjoyed a night together, dancing and drinking a little, and we were still awake in the early hours, laughing at petty jokes. The brandy had eased the pain away in my ribs, and it was numbing my screaming heart. I was laying in his arms, listening to the breeze, when someone hammered on the door.

“Tell them to go away,” I whispered, looking up at him, for I didn’t want anyone to disturb us. I liked it just being the two of us; it was only through his patient and attentive care to me that I realised that I did love him, as we forged an unlikely bond.

“Perdoname, señor, señora, pero soy muy impaciente!” (Excuse me, sir and miss, but I am very impatient!) Called a sing-song voice.

“Damn it.” John scrambled out of bed, grabbing yesterday’s clothes off the floor and pulling them on in a flurry.

“John?” I shifted up in bed, clutching the quilt suddenly. He wrenched the door open.

“Sorry, Sarah,” he said sheepishly. Sarah?

*****

“You could have told me,” I hissed.

“I’m sorry, I forgot,” John snapped, as I bustled down the corridor after him. How can you forget that your cousin who speaks nineteen languages, is a fashion designer in Rome, and is Countess of the Doggett Islands is coming to stay?

*****

“Of course,” Sarah scoffed, swirling the wine in her glass around, “I only left because Italy declared war on Turkey on the 21st and on Germany on the 28th last month. I wouldn’t want to become a war widow, since I’ve heard that Britain is going to introduce conscription. I couldn’t have that coming to Italy and Thomas being sent off and blown up by a- what is it?- a machine gun.”

I felt for John’s hand underneath the table; one of his other distant cousins had fallen at Ypres, and he had left a widow, and she was proud that he had served his King and country.

“Thomas will join us soon, if that is alright with you, John?” He barely had time to stutter ‘umm’ before she was off again, tossing her brown, bouncy hair, which was cut in the fashion of the new bob.

“Of course, it has been simply ages since I last saw you.”

“It was only a couple of months ago,” John replied dryly.

“Exactly! At your must cultivated wedding! Oh, but I am married too now, you know. I had to make this little love child here legitimate.”

Sarah’s eyes suddenly grew as moon-shaped as the face of her pale-skinned daughter seated beside me. She jumped up, scattering the china, rushed around the china and seized my hands.

“Oh my, talking of weddings… Oh this is such an honour… to meet you, the fabled Elsie Kingland!”  immediately burst out laughing, and pressed my hand to my mouth quickly as her expression changed to one of an injured puppy.

I felt guilty for being big-headed enough to laugh for when someone got my surname wrong, when I was the Elsie Kingston. Why was I famous? Probably because my brother’s death was splashed across the pages of every newspaper, so every could pity me. Pity me. Splashed. Drowned. Pity me, the girl who was made to look a fool by her secret lover and her servant, the girl who was in car and bomb accidents, the girl with the cracked rib and bleached hair because of Ludmilla. Ludmilla.

“Elsie, are you quite alright?” I realised my jaw was clenched, my nostrils were flaring, whilst my whole face was burning.

“Excuse me,” I muttered, limping out into the bathroom. Limping. Pain was laughing at me, as I whimpered. I stared at my scarred face in the mirror, which reflected the trauma I had been through. I couldn’t take it any more.

I hurled my fist at the glass, letting out the anger swirling inside of me, smashing. Smashing. Hard. The blood trickled, pure and red off of my knuckles. Shaky gasps escaped from my mouth. Sarah burst through the door.

“Leave. Me. Be.” I slammed my first again, the glass wedging in. Letting out a cry, Sarah wrapped her arms around my waist, trying to drag me away as I screamed and sobbed.

“I want revenge. I want them all to pay. Pay-ay-ay-ay-ay-y.” Own scream wringing in my ears, I collapsed to the floor, rib searing, hands turning into bloodied claws as I gritted my teeth and screeched, as if that would cure the horrible ache in my chest.

Then John was on the floor beside me, grabbing hold of my wrists, as I tried to hit him. I wanted to lash out at anyone, to destroy, to hurt. Horror was in his eyes.

“You are surely as mad as your grandmother.”