Sunken grey clouds hover solemnly on the saddened, grey sky;
looking over the lost city of London. A fog sinks into her and diminishes
everything in green, leaving a bitter ambience; a weight on the shoulders of
working men, women and children. Who have everything, yet, nothing to lose.
Who is to blame the woman falling pregnant, at the hands of
one who has touched her? Or the mother who allows her child to sink into the
earth, because she herself cannot afford medicine? Or perhaps the doctor who
should heal and help all, but lacks humanity? Or maybe the creator, God. He
creates an all manner of person, but that person can sin, and sin again, yet
they are welcomed into the kingdom of heaven.
A man walks into his mansion, greeted by his butler as he
proceeds to his private chambers. His brooding character was only matched by
his cold demeanour, as he sat, staring at the fireplace in deep thought.
Perhaps he was brooding over his lost love? He never forgot. Not whilst her
portrait sat above the roaring fire; like his own anguish engulfed in flames.
He still blamed himself.
How could something so pure have been destroyed in a single
moment? Maybe it was his fault…he shouldn’t have claimed her as his own.
A flash of thunder and a knock at the door interrupts his
“Master, I have your tea.” His butler calls out.
“Enter,” he booms.
The tea arrives, hot and simmered in the finest china teapot; decorated with
mysterious blue flowers, she told him they were called: ‘forget-me-nots.’
His butler pours the tea and looks into the eyes of his
master, whose gaze had fallen to the swirling concoction in the cup.
“Bellamy, do you believe we pay for our mistakes?” The butler looks at him,
“Why would you ask such a thing, master?”
“No. Never mind. Forget I said anything.”
The man stays silent, his lips pressed together in a thin line of impatience; that
was Bellamy’s que to leave.
He sleeps in the same bed they shared, under the crimson covers
of love he would never forget. The scent, the feel, the taste. Everything was
still fresh in his memory. At her bedside, lonely was her flower sitting in the
vase, with the bible, her Holy Book of forgiveness, and yet by his… there was
nothing. He had everything he needed when she was there, but now she wasn’t.
What did he have left?
Asphodel and a book. It wasn’t enough, he grew angry that
she had more faith in her God than she did in science. Or did she not have
faith in her husband?
His future is ruined, stained with the blood of his beloved
which he can never wipe away. Red was the only colour he saw in his life now,
the colour of misery’s passion. The colour of flushed cheeks on silk and sadly,
also the one of death. ‘Forgiveness is a flight of fancy,’ he believed, as he
argued with his wife in her warm-hearted days.
“Our Holy Father understands, man makes mistakes and he forgives us, is that so
wrong?” She once asked him.
“The holy father does not exist!” he grumbles and looks upon
the crucifix on the wall with displeasure. She gasped and the look of hurt came
across her beautiful face. He couldn’t bear to see her look like that.
“We all walk a broken path if we try to please God, we need to live as
ourselves. Don’t live to serve him, my dear.” He was gentle with her, he never
wanted to hurt her. Ever. She visibly shrunk at his touch but relaxed when she
realised he only grazed her cheek.
“But God helps us all, the least we must do is give our
thanks and give prayers.”
He looked at her and she stopped talking, the left side of her ribs still
hurting as she held it in remembrance. He walked over to her and held her
shoulders, making her stand up and look at him. “Don’t make me do that again,
the last thing I want to do is, the last thing I want, is, is to hurt your
pretty face,” he stroked her lips with his thumb before digging the nail into
her lower lip and cutting it. She gripped his wrist and flinched in pain while
the blood gently trickled down.
“Beautiful…” he growled as he kissed it clean, took her hand and led her
upstairs to their bedroom.
She had been warned of him before, in her innocent days as
the virginal soon-to-be bride. To another man. What had she done wrong?
Nothing, she was: the perfect daughter, well educated, polite, beautiful and
the perfect match for any a man. Only, he had seen this, and took advantage of
She had been deflowered by him.
This Lily living a lie, no more did she possess her purity,
but she had been bound by matrimony to the one who preyed on his own animal
He released himself from her and played with her hair,
admiring the dead look in her eyes when they finished.
“You’re thinking about something, what is it?” He laughed mirthlessly, he
rarely laughed. “Heaven is a lie…”
“Are we not free to believe what we want?”
His eyes turned almost black with anger and she knew that she had overstepped
“I-I didn’t mean…”
But her regret was too late.
He had locked the door, he had the key and she had no
“You know what to do.” he said simply, as she stood up shakily, kneeling before
the bed and lifting her nightdress above her waist, and he returned with the
riding crop he reserved only for her. Should she have felt special in those
moments? Or… humiliated?
“Say it…” he growled in that dangerous tone that meant he
was excited, as he whipped her and she whimpered weakly.
“H-heaven is a…lie,” she whispered.
“I can’t hear you.”
She chanted what he wanted, with the obsession of hearing her weak voice
obeying his every command. She didn’t know when he stopped, it was only when
she realised she was in her armchair in front of the fire, sitting sorely on
her bottom, forced to remain in that position through the submission of a
“I only tell you to say this because it is the truth, my
dear. I do this for our love.” He said gently now, how quick he was to roar yet
settle, like an unappeased male animal with the primal instinct to mate.
He was quick to observe her emotions, knowing when to take
advantage and how to entice her to satisfy him. She didn’t know how he did it, his
silver tongue and sweet words, perhaps, but she submitted every time.
She couldn’t escape. She wanted to. She would rather have drank
the sweet nectar of Lobelia’s poison, than spend another second in bed with
But to kill oneself is sin!
She had to live by God’s virtues and be unselfish in her own
life, even if unhappiness paved the way to nothing but misery. Belief in God
will be rewarded in death. She knew this but she still did not want to remain
on the earth, but that day would soon come.
When Maladies sweep through cities, they bring death; no
survivors and a memory of her woeful waltz. Though this was not a dance to
celebrate. Sadly, she had not passed as her weak corpse lay on the same bed he
would mourn upon. Her limp figure glaring into the eyes of the healing master,
who promises to return life, but she knows that life is never in their hands.
Her eyes fall to the dying embers of the fire.
The next winter approached. By now, her dying wish seemed
more obtainable. She’d taken more pennants at the hand of her husband. She
still believed in heaven, but with that, came the belief of hell. Was she to
burn for her sins? Even the thought of suicide was frowned upon.
She was dirty. Impure. Her body marked by her husband’s
riding crop. Does the Bible not say:
‘Or do you not know
that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, whom you have from
God? You are not your own, for you were bought with a price. So, glorify God in
“Please…no fire, I can’t breathe,” she begged and the doctor
“That could clog her breathing.”
A sudden sparkle came to her husband’s eyes, he had another
Later that evening, when the moon reigned over
the earth, Robert lit the fire. Cinders danced in the air and his wife began to
cough. He kissed her