Collection of Older Works

Flashbacks of a Fool: Chapter Twenty-Two

Immature love says: I love you because I need you. Mature love says: I need you because I love you.

-Erich Fromm

8 months later…

The day was unbearably hot. Lounging in the partial shade offered her by the blossoming willow tree; Annabelle glanced at her sweating glass of lemonade, the blades of grass clinging to the droplets, desperate for relief. A cool breeze whispered past—thankfully; Annabelle slowly lying back as if the gentle draft were arms easing her down.  Closing her eyes, she let it wash over her as a long sigh stole from her lips.

It had been a good day; the word no longer holding its normal definition. When fits of panic failed to seize her day and fiery nightmares claim her night, Annabelle thought it a blessed day…there had not been too many of those.  But slowly, by and by, their appearances were not as rare as they were since—

She shook her head. No. She could not think of it. Blinking her eyes, she forced back the tears, her conscience reinforcing her resolve,

She would not cry.

Had tears not consumed all her days for the past eight months?  On occasion did not too fits of silent madness in which she would remain in bed all day, wordless, staring at empty walls painted with melancholy memories and unlived dreams? 

But not that morning—

That morning, she did not wake in suffocating screams; sweat dampened sheets clinging to her shivering frame while she frantically called his name. That morning she did not grieve upon realizing that the man lying beside her, smiling with glinting blue eyes was a mere hallucination, a phantasm.

No. That morning, there had been warm rogues from the sun shining onto her face; the calming song of the wind hushing through the trees, carrying within it the gentle melody of the birds, waking her for a blessed day.  A good day.

While she had not cried, the confusing emotions remained, waiting patiently for her to waken as they had every day since the fire; Annabelle not able to fully comprehend the events of that cursed day. Although Milton had shared with her his last discussion with Nathaniel in which Nathaniel voiced his concern that Mrs. Hawkins might become dangerously violent; that being his reasoning in having persuaded Annabelle into taking Logan to the park, anger seared within her still. Why had he been so damned stubborn? Why did he not let Milton stay, or Richard? Did he not think of her, and of Logan?

Annabelle squeezed her eyes tightly, her heartbeats pounding harder with each question. And in heaving a trembling sigh, the last question cruelly surfaced—did he even truly love her?

But stop! She mustn’t think in that manner!  In sensing the familiar descent to infinite depression, her conscience rebuked her bitter half, readily offering the only words that ever cooled her nauseating rage,

“I have always loved you Annabelle.”                                                          

And he had. Surrendering her eyes to black, Annabelle swallowed the knot in her throat, letting his words surround her; his gentle voice a calming whisper. Of course he had loved her. Had he not confessed that love against her lips each morning? Did he not prove that love to her with ever glance, every whisper of a touch, every smile...God, that beautiful smile. Annabelle drew in a sharp breath—

She would not cry…

Turning aside, she curled into herself, smoothing her hands over the green blades of grass with furious restraint. There would be no tears, because he had indeed loved her. But then, as always, bitterness emerged waging the last of its rancorous war; a single thought lingering behind like a dying ember,