What Must Not Be Told

The Drunken State Of Anne

Anne

As Elliot and I finally reached our chamber, the late hour whispered of the impending dawn, the clock on the wall ticking steadily towards the birth of a new day. Typically, I retired early, but tonight held an unusual weight, a solemnity that belied the festivities outside our door. Though my friends reveled in joy, I found myself unable to share in their merriment.

As we bid our farewells to our companions, Elliot spun a white lie, attributing my absence to a sudden bout of illness. In truth, the only ailment I suffered from was a mild intoxication. Guiding me into the room, Elliot settled me gently onto the bed before bustling off to fetch a glass of water.

"Here, drink this. It will help," he offered, pressing the cold glass into my trembling hands.

I couldn't help but chuckle, the edges of my speech tinged with a slight slur. "Water will not mend the wounds of my heart and soul, Elliot," I replied wistfully, my words heavy with the weight of sorrow.

Elliot remained silent, as I had anticipated. His stoic presence offered little solace in the wake of my turmoil. With a heavy sigh, I rose from the bed and returned the untouched glass of water to him, my movements listless as I wandered aimlessly around the expansive room.

Eventually, I halted, turning to face Elliot with narrowed eyes. The words spilled from my lips before I could halt their momentum, fueled by the reckless abandon of alcohol. As a child, I had been taught the importance of measured speech, yet the intoxicating haze blurred the boundaries of my restraint.

"You never offered your condolences to me after Andrew's murder, Elliot," I accused, the bitterness of betrayal lingering on my tongue. It was a truth I had long harbored, a silent grievance festering beneath the surface. Elliot's silence on the matter had been deafening, his avoidance a stark reminder of Andrew's absence.

Once again, the weighty silence enveloped us, a familiar companion in our shared solitude. I had grown accustomed to its presence, resigned to its unyielding grip. There was little use in pressing further, little hope of coaxing words from Elliot's guarded lips. So, with a resigned sigh, I abandoned any notion of salvaging a conversation and resigned myself to the solace of my thoughts.

As exhaustion began to weigh heavily upon my limbs, I made the decision to bring the evening to a close. Weariness tugged at my senses, urging me towards the sanctuary of sleep. A bath, a change of clothes, and the promise of oblivion beckoned me with their soothing embrace.

Just as I prepared to retreat into the water closet, Elliot's unexpected question shattered the silence, catching me off guard. "Would that matter?" he inquired softly, his words piercing through the stillness like a whisper in the night.

Furrowing my brow in confusion, I turned to face him, my curiosity piqued. "Pardon?" I echoed, my voice tinged with uncertainty.

After a prolonged moment of silence, Elliot lifted his gaze to meet mine, his eyes holding a solemn intensity. "Would my condolences have truly made a difference for you, Princess Anne? Did anyone's words of sympathy bring you any solace?" His question hung in the air, a weighty reminder of the futility of platitudes in the face of profound loss.

His words rendered me momentarily speechless, for they struck at the heart of a truth I had long been reluctant to confront. Condolences, however well-intentioned, had offered little comfort in the wake of Andrew's death.

When I remained silent, grappling with the weight of his inquiry, Elliot continued, his voice tinged with a touch of regret. "Forgive me for my silence, Princess. I never intended to be dismissive, but I understood the emptiness that accompanies such well-meaning gestures. I couldn't bear to contribute to the echo of hollow condolences you must have endured."