Page 68 of Fragile Wicked Things
My beloved Trinity.
Keats was her favorite and she would giggle like the young girl that she was. I would bring her wine, watch her as she turned her eyes downwards, brought her silky lips to the tip of the glass and sip. She had a nervousness in her manner until the wine worked its magic, and she would relax, blink those gorgeous large eyes of hers and face me, hiding a smile behind the wine glass. For a long time, she was my favorite. My time with Miriam was so long ago. I have almost forgotten the rapturous taste of a virgin, how I would sink my teeth into her youthful skin and how the drawing of her blood would bring my sweet Miriam to moan in ecstasy. My memories are playing tricks with me; I can almost smell her virginal scent as though she's here with me as I'm speaking to you.
The Earl grieved for his son; my presence there made life bearable for him, just as the new life he had given me eased my pain. I was drawn to the light rather than the darkness that pursued me. It was always there, sometimes dormant, and I waited with anxiety for it to be unleashed, dreading its fierceness if it were to escape.
I was provided with an education—the Earl taught me to read great literature, to articulate using proper speech and regaled me with stories of his adventures across the globe. The details in his stories were so vivid that I felt I was there, traveling alongside him. He dressed me in his dead son's clothes and twice referred to me by his son's Christian name. Each time he recognized his mistake, he fell silent, lost to a memory. The Earl regretted many things, the most painful being the estrangement from his son. It had been years since they last saw one another, and despite numerous letters from his son begging forgiveness for abandoning his father as he had done, the Earl never responded. One day, his vision blurred and worsened over time until an illness blinded him. The end would soon come, and he had nothing to show for his life except an empty castle and empty lands across the United Kingdom. The Earl reached out to his long-lost son, pleaded with him for forgiveness and planned his return. The Earl would have received absolution had his son not had the misfortunate to meet me in the woods.
Yet, there I was, rewarded for my beastly actions that I embraced wholeheartedly, believing it a second chance. Left alone that night in the woods, I pled for death to take me. Instead, I was given a rebirth.
There were nights when the Earl's men traveled into the village, drank themselves into oblivion, and did not return until the following morning. The Earl asked me on several occasions if I wished to go with them, but I remained adamant that I did not wish for that, which he took as a sign of good character. Considering my experiences with the villages along my journey, I was not tempted to risk unleashing the demon. I told him I was content to spend evenings by the fire, reading to him, keeping him company when the truth was that while I gave him a second chance with a son, he kept the demon in check.
This went on for several years until one afternoon, Miriam's screams woke me, and I raced down the dark stone hallway to the Earl's room. He lay in bed, peacefully asleep, but his face was cold to the touch, and the sole heart I heard beating in the room belonged to Miriam.
"My father is gone," I said. There was a striking pain in my chest, and it was then that I understood that even though I was a creature of the night, I was still capable of love. My heart had been broken.
It was not possible for me to attend his funeral, even though it was a dreary Scottish day. Villagers thought me heartbroken, that I was too devastated to bury the man they believed was my father. Other than the few servants who were there that night, no one in the village knew the Earl's true son had died and they mistook me as his prodigal son who had returned home.
The castle had become my home, and I remained for several more years, having inherited all that belonged to the Earl, including his title, as I was his one remaining son. His lands were numerous, spread across Scotland and England, but it was by the North Sea that I remained, spending many nights along the steep cliff while the wind pounded against me and the sea crashed the rocks and spread a foamy mess upon the jagged beach below. I had tried to read Dante and Shakespeare to Miriam, but never did she show interest or understanding. I longed for the companionship of a vigorous brain and over time, I began to resent my father for abandoning me in such a desolate place, far from humanity and from the grace of a lady. The lessons he gave me were meant for an aristocrat, and they had seeped into my skin, destroying the poor farmer I had been. Now I wished to have an intelligent creature by my side, but when I looked around the castle and its nearby village, I found no one who could fill the void.
One evening, I followed the men into the village and paid for their ale, food and women, entrusting myself not to drink to drunkenness and wake up with the sun beating down on me, burning me alive. The barmaids took turns sitting on my lap, one voluptuous, smelly creature after another and I played along. What a clever boy I thought I was to entertain the men and in all that play I forgot my promise to watch the amount of alcohol I consumed and eventually, my senses left me. My speech slurred, and my head spun. I was not used to ale and succumbed to it in a hurry.
Another wench sat on my lap, giggling. Strands of hair had loosened from a bun and hung haphazardly down her neck. I leaned in, resting my head against the softness of her bosom, mumbling poetry, but I must have sounded incoherent because she looked down at me, smiled and talked over me. Taking me by my hand, she led me out to the back of the alehouse and said things I will not repeat to avoid embarrassing you, Jane. Despite having fed over the previous three nights, something happened at that very moment. I had been lonely and so tortured since the Earl's death that, for the first time in a long time, the darkness resurfaced. I tore into her neck and she let out a scream, silenced by the songs of the drunken men in the ale house. I could smell her fear, which empowered me; it was easier to feed the monster. Her body now limp, I pulled back to discover what I had done. It horrified me. It had been years since my last kill, and there it was again; the demon had overtaken me.
I struggled with many thoughts. Rochester's men, the villagers, Miriam—they would all turn on me, they would never see me as separate from the creature and would destroy me, set me afire, find joy in my state of languish. Clarity was needed to determine what my next move would be as I could not be found out, not when my life was seemingly in order. Lifting her heavy body over my shoulder, I ran into the forest. Branches struck my face, leaves brushed my cheeks, and I continued towards the North Sea. By the edge of the cliff, I paused then tossed her body over, hoping she would be swept away to the sea and not mangled against the rocks. The wench's body fell, her arms seemed to reach out to me, and then she disappeared into a watery grave. I was safe.
I wandered back through the forest, traveling west to an area unknown to me. Exhaustion swept over me and I fell to the ground, wept over what I had done, over the loss of my humanity. I was a poor wretch, lost in a lonely despair and I alone was accountable for giving birth to that monster again, for allowing it to rule my destiny. By taking away the wench's last breath, all my hopes and joys were swept away.
It was true then—my Creator did indeed detest and spurn me. The reward of my newfound life did not come from Him but from some hellish place where my soul was trapped and tortured. Nothing good could come from the evil I had become.
A divine sound penetrated the forest. I stopped my sniveling and perked my ears, enchanted by the singing that released me from my darkness. The song was so beautiful that it drew tears of sorrow and delight from my eyes. The voice flowed in a rich cadence and I longed to see this nightingale of the woods. My feet carried me to where the voice had come from, and I hid behind a tree, peering through the branches so as not to interfere with the melody. The nightingale was no bird at all, but a beautiful angel resting by a pond, the moon so enthralled by her that it illuminated her. She had red hair like that of fire and wore a white nightgown, but I could see no more as her back was to me.
I stepped out from my hiding place and edged closer to her until I stood behind her. It was not until she saw my reflection in the water next to hers that she turned around, startled. She was indeed the most beautiful creature I had ever seen.
"I mean you no harm," I told her and, believing her to be a Lady, said, "I am Edward Rochester, Lord of the lands by the North Sea."
She gathered her feet, tucking them underneath her nightgown and shivered. My nightingale tilted her chin down, those large eyes stared at me and finally, her lips parted. "You have traveled quite far then, Lord Rochester."
"Have I? I had not noticed. May I sit near you?"
"The forest does not belong to me, my Lord." She glanced past me. "Where's your horse?"
"It ran off, stranding me here. Do you live nearby?"
She paused a moment before saying, "My family sent me to the nunnery over that hill. I escape most nights to be alone."
Her answer made me uncomfortable as I believed I disturbed her. "Apologies. I'll leave you be."
She laughed, throwing her head back and her ringlets cascaded down her back. "Don't be silly. You can stay. It's the Sisters and the life of the convent I need a reprieve from."
"I did not mean to interrupt you earlier. I had to see the face of the angel who belonged to that voice. What is your name?"
"Blanche. Blanche Ingram."
"A lovely name. You must be a Lady."
She giggled at my suggestion, but her mannerisms were those of what I imagined a Lady's to be. Truly, I knew no better. I stared at her hands and wondered about their softness. My thoughts consumed me and before I could comprehend what I was doing, I reached out and held her ivory hands in mine. They were softer than Miriam's, whose hands were rough to the touch, scraped by scrubbing, and chapped by water. A heaviness lifted from my heart and her smile filled that emptiness deep within me.
"You are strange, Lord Rochester. I like strange and have no use for anything ordinary and dull."
