The Fall of the Hatchet Man

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On a crisp morning of September 27, 1849, Edgar Allan Poe awoke early to get dressed and pack for the journey from Richmond, Virginia to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania up North to edit a collection of poems for a friend of his, Mrs. St. Leon Loud, being a minor figure in American poetry at the time. It was funny because he was hated for his criticism on other pieces of work, people calling him "the hatchet man" because of how harsh he supposedly was. May it be an insult, he was quite fond of it, making him feel rugged (in a sense). Looking into the mirror, he saw the bags under his eyes and sharp cheekbones were getting more prominent. Sighing, he ruffled his thin, chestnut-brown hair, gave himself a nod of approval, and departed his home. Exiting his stone house and closing the black window-framed door behind him, he inhaled deeply and stepped onto the cobblestone road, the click of his heels echoing off the quiet buildings. It was silent as usual around this time, nobody out yet in his area; however, he didn't feel so alone, almost as if somebody in the shadows casted by the buildings was watching his every move. A pit of uneasiness formed in his stomach, making him elongate his stride. The train to Philadelphia was going to depart soon, but he had to bid a specific someone goodbye. Making his way down the road, he felt oddly exhausted and began sweating, even though chills traveled up his spine. Tightening the black wool suit around his body, he wondered if he should just stay at Richmond and recover from the fever he unmistakably had, proclaimed by his doctor the day before. Shaking his head as a red-brick house surrounded by iron gates came into view, he firmly decided he was to go.

Approaching the white stairs that ascended to a black framed door, he rapped on the wooden surface joyously and waited patiently, absentmindedly adjusting his suit. As he was about to knock once more, the door cracked open and he saw a blue eye appear, staring into him for a moment; a moment long enough for his heart to begin racing as the door opened more, revealing the most beautiful angel he ever laid his eyes on, Sarah Elmira Royster. His  Sarah Elmira Royster. Right then, his face began to heat up, but his heart began to sink. Not long ago, he had asked her for her hand and a future that they could share, but she said she wanted to think about it. He figured her hesitation was because of the pressure from her sons and father, who didn't like him much. He always thought it was because, compared to her, he was rather poor; not having the brightest of pasts, a biological family to introduce her to was nonexistent. Therefore, it made him unsuitable for a woman like Sarah, but he was willing to propose to her. To prove to her and the rest that even though he wasn't rich, he would give her all of his love. He was willing to make her his lovely wife this October. Come to think of it, her features struck him hard: silky, thick, brown hair, delicately pulled up to reveal her fair skin, her fragile hands, and those piercing blue eyes that never failed to pry him of his soul. Snapping out of his thoughts, he realized the door was now shut. He must have already said goodbye without him processing it. Running his calloused hands through his hair, he turned around and made his way down the concrete stairs. As he was just about to reach the gate, he got hit by a nauseating sensation, sending his hand flying to the handrails to keep balance. Hearing the train's whistle, he knew the train was to leave in a few minutes. Grunting with effort as he managed to regain his balance, he dashed out and onto the cobblestone roads towards the train station.

As it came into view, it was bustling with men in sharp suits and women in their petticoats on the platforms. With his vision still swimming, he could barely make out the steam trains that were all lined up. Which one was it again? he thought, scanning the area. One in particular had smoke rising in clumps, looking ready to depart. Pushing people to try and reach the train, he could hear people retort and sniff in disapproval of his actions. Although everyone around him was a blur, he could make out a familiar black silhouette of a man, leaning against the side of the train he was trying to make his way to. The man didn't seem to be much in a hurry, even as the conductor and the whistle was blaring that the train was leaving. It was almost as though he was waiting for him...