Collection of Older Works

Flashbacks of a Fool: Chapter Three

Chapter 3

Shaken and tongue-tied, Annabelle stumbled back. The room spun wildly, growing cold and closing in around her. Air. She needed air, but her lungs locked painfully, refusing to contract. How could she possibly breathe when the man whose memory saw her through her mother's death, through her losing every possession even that of her own name had reappeared? Only it wasn't him. He had been erased, replaced. The man whose words wiped her tears at night with his promise to come back for her had indeed returned, only to mock her of her foolishness.

The world collapsed. Winded, Annabelle coughed desperately for air, bracing onto the bedpost as pain and realization tore through her body. Not only had he not returned for her, but his only motivation in reappearing was to marry Madeline!

Running to Annabelle’s side, Beatrice genuinely sought to ease her, wrapping her arms about Annabelle’s shaking frame, but Annabelle just trembled. Fully clothed and near the fire, she shivered violently.  There was no easing her ache. Sympathy hurt far more. She didn’t want empty soothing words of which while being spoken to help only offended and mocked her further.

How could she truly believe all would be well? Or that it would all pass? How was that possible when the one thing she wanted most was what she couldn’t have? When what she wanted more than air, no longer wanted or even remembered her?

Jerking back, Annabelle dashed from the room. The walls being her only support, she dragged her crumbling body down blurred corridors and shifting stairs. Upon reaching her dark quarters, the world went still with the closing of the door.

Lifeless, Annabelle slid against the door until but a bundle of tears remained on the hard floor. Gripping at her hair, Annabelle screamed, but there was no sound.

Voices echoed then through the house. It was Madeline welcoming Lord William Hamilton with arched praises. Sounding more like millions of marbles crashing on the floor, Annabelle cringed. But possessed by masochistic tendency, she pressed her ear to the floor.

She wanted to hear him.

She needed to hear him.

She had to prove to her aching body and accusatory conscience that it wasn't Nathaniel she saw.

Straining to hear him, even a faint vibration of his voice, Annabelle froze. Hollow footsteps thudded lightly toward her door. Like a frightened child, Annabelle scurried back. There was a light rap at the door.

"Martha, it's me, Beatrice."

Clumsily wiping her tears and struggling to regain some composure, Annabelle rose. "Come in," she said, her voice rusted and hoarse.

Beatrice opened the door and poked her head inside, her body gradually following. Though wanting to seem unruffled, her movements were saturated in worry. "Martha, are you ill?"

Tears stung Annabelle’s eyes. Flushing, she smoothed her apron down meticulously. "I had a hard time breathing is all. I'm much better now. Thank you," she lied no further, turning away from her friend. Resting her hand softly against the wall, Annabelle wished in earnest to melt into it and disappear. Disappear or die.

"That's good then,” Beatrice replied, a strange cautiousness in her voice, “Because Mrs. Melbourne requests your presence downstairs."

The ground shook underfoot. Or at least it felt so to Annabelle.

Horrified, she tried to speak, but dry heaves claimed her. "W-w-why does she need me? Is it not something you can do?" Annabelle found herself gripping the wall to keep from falling. Could her luck really be such? She couldn't go downstairs. Nathaniel would be there, and he would see her. What if he remembered? Mrs. Melbourne might mention something that would strike a chord in his memory as to who she was. Not only would he then know who she was, but he would know what she had become.