William stared at his wedding ring. He was lying in his bed with an arm underneath his head as he moved the ring round and round. Harvey had asked him not to wear it for obvious reasons but now, William couldn't see the use of it for it had degraded to a mere piece of jewellery. He held the ring in his left hand, between his thumb and forefinger. He brought it closer to his left eye and through it, peered at the ceiling.
The white ceiling was the only wall without the graffiti that he had been gifted with. However, there was a crack that was appearing in the middle of the roof and for a moment, William imagined how relieving it would be if the roof collapsed while he was asleep and crushed him underneath the pile of concrete. Imagination was a fatal thing. It was tough to realize when it had left the brain and crept through the veins until it destroyed the existence of a soul from inside out.
If only he could die.
He had his book, 'Frankenstein', lying open on his bare chest. It was opened to the last page and placed upside down. He had finished reading it for the umpteenth time in his life. It was his only solace. His father, Joseph Ray, had introduced his mother to the book. His mother, who couldn't read due to her dyslexia, was troubled when he read it to her for the first time. What troubled Judith Ray the most was the death of Victor Frankenstein's little brother, William Frankenstein, a boy of five, who was unfortunate enough to have suffered death by strangulation at the hands of the wretch his older brother had created.
Judith had found the book devastating due to the death of that happy, playful child and she had often found herself wondering how William would have grown up to be. Her wishes to see William Frankenstein grow up were fulfilled when she held her newborn boy for the first time. His bright blue eyes, just like the doomed fictional child, made her name her baby boy William Ray.
He never told the story to anyone. Not even his wife knew it. He had slowly and cautiously lost that story as he grew up. It's not like he disliked speaking about it but the usual routine of being made fun of made him discard the narration. It would never hurt to be named after a character Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley had invented because Mary Shelley was William's second mother.
He was eight when he first stumbled upon her creation, 'Frankenstein'. He was young and could only understand a few parts of the book but as he grew up, he kept reading it. He read it every day until he finally completed the book and was so overwhelmed by it that it became his favourite. He read many books after that but Frankenstein was what had given birth to the author in him and thus, Mary Shelly became his mother.
Mother. Mom.
That thought made William put the ring down and he got up to sit. He picked up his book which had slid down to lie on his lap and placed it on the bedside table, putting the ring on top. The small diamond shone as the faint afternoon sun rays hit it.
Mom.
If only she was here but she wasn't; she was dead. His mother was dead and she would no longer speak to him, hold him or give him advice. She was gone, except she wasn't. She was still here, alive and breathing, in a little house at Hilltown. She was probably binge-watching Friends, sitting on the couch in the hall and laughing her heart out.
He wanted to call her, to hear her voice, to let her know that her daughter-in-law, who she loved and adored like a child born out of her womb was now just...gone.
Eliza.
He felt his heart sink as he thought of her. He hadn't talked to her in three days. The snow had started to fall and William was glad when he found that his poor shelter at least had a heater.
He hadn't left his house ever since he came back after the last day at LunaVale University. He was flushed, exasperated and as soon as he got home, he locked the door shut and made sure Eliza wouldn't just barge in.
She had kissed him and for a moment he almost forgot that she was not his Eliza. For a moment, he felt like he was kissing those familiar lips of his wife and he was happy to have her in his arms but then, something clicked and he let go of her. She was puzzled and agitated, he could see that written all over her face. She was hurt but all William could think of was — she hurt him too.
He missed her. He missed talking to her and he missed how she always knew to push the right buttons to agonize him.
(Make love to your wife)
She was feisty and rebellious, unlike his wife and he often pondered over the question of which Eliza was the real one. His charming, kind and soft-spoken wife, Eliza Ray or the feisty, seductive and outspoken girl next door, Eliza Scott.
He could see the differences, not just in their behaviour but also in the way they looked. When he saw Eliza Scott for the first time in the classroom, he noticed the dark circles underneath her eyes and her hollow, pale cheeks. She looked sick and when she fainted and he carried her in his arms, he felt how light she was. She didn't weigh anything and that worried William. But soon, he found out the reason. He was passing one of the classes when he heard voices from inside one of the rooms that wasn't much in use. He inched closer and peeked in through the keyhole.
Inside he saw Eliza's group. She wasn't with them, however. William instantly realized the items the group had in their hands. He knew about drugs as he had done extensive research on them when he wrote his second book, 'The Last Flight'. He had spent hours going through their usage and reading articles about their effects. He was disgusted by the sight he saw and realized that if James Dawson was doing it, it meant Eliza was doing it too. Thus, the solemn look in her eyes which finally spelt the truth.
He had wanted to talk to her but then thought the better of it. She already didn't appear very glad to have him around and he didn't want to spoil the remaining normalcy he had with her. That day, when she kissed him and he grabbed her hips to pull her closer when she was sitting on his lap, a part of him could feel her low weight and that's when he pulled apart.
Eliza must be so furious with him. He would sometimes peek out the window and stare at her as she sat on the steps of her porch and read a book. Frankenstein was the book she read and he had felt pleased and jealous at the same time when he saw her holding the book like it was her whole world. She bit her bottom lip and often at times, he saw her eyes sadden a little and he was pretty sure the reason was the untimely demise of one of the many characters. He smiled to himself as he watched her. He wondered where her boyfriend was. She was always at home and would frequently take a glance at his house, an action which made his heart remorseful. He wanted to go and talk to her, to ask her why she was torturing herself with those toxic things but he always stopped himself. He didn't know what to do and he wanted to talk to his Mom to ask her advice.
With shaky hands, he picked up his phone that was lying carelessly on the bed and with even shakier fingers, he swiped it open. He remembered his Mom's phone number and he was going to call her.
He just wanted to hear her voice. That's it. He would just hear her voice and he would know that everything was going to be okay.
With his heart thumping mercilessly, he typed her number. He prayed for her to pick up. He wouldn't be able to gather the courage to call her again. This was it. He dialled and then, brought the phone to his ear.
It rang. Once, twice, thrice and for a fourth time. William felt his heart sink deeper and deeper with each ring. He was about to press 'End Call' when the ringing stopped and he heard her.
"Hello?" the voice from the other end said.
Mom
William couldn't speak. He was so overjoyed to hear her voice again that it felt creepy, hearing that after he had laid his mother to rest forever, not even a month ago.
"Hello?" his Mom said again.
Mom. It's me. It's William — he whispered in his heart.
He couldn't speak. "Hello?" his mother said again.
I am in so much pain, Mom. Please tell me what to do. I don't understand anything that's happening Mom — he kept calling in his heart.
He couldn't bring himself to say the words. His mother didn't say anything for a long time and William feared that she might cut the call. He could hear her faint breathing and he could hear the sound of his own beating heart.
Mom, please help me. Hold me in your arms and tell me that it's going to be okay. Mom, please don't leave me. I'll be a good boy, I promise. I promise. Please come back — it hurt but he kept calling without a voice to reach her.
"William?" his mother said, with a voice so soft and low that William felt like he would go sick with this turn of events.
Tears rushed down his cheeks but he couldn't speak. He shouldn't speak.
"Will? Baby? is that you?" his mother said, her voice laced with concern. "Are you okay, sweety? Please talk to me, honey. Are you okay? You're scaring me, sweetheart. Please tell me you're okay. Talk to me, honey. Talk to Mom. Hello? Hello?"
Her voice, so soft and pleading that William couldn't take it anymore. With a heavy heart, he ended the call and threw the phone across the room, not wanting to touch it anymore. It landed on one of the cartons kept unopened.
He pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them as he cried with his head lying in between. Hot tears rushed out of his eyes and it stung him. He felt so much pain and melancholy, and he had no-one to console him. He was all alone.
He straightened up and tried to put on a brave face as he wiped the tears off his cheeks and got down from the bed. He moved towards his desk and picked up the box of cigarettes he had brought before with the money Harvey had lent him. He had quit smoking three years ago but now, it seemed to be the only way of relief. He took out one and pressed it between his lips and then went to search for a lighter. He opened one of the cartons that Lorna had sent him and he hoped he could find one. However, it wasn't a lighter that he found. Instead, he found the notebook that he had discovered on his first day along with the set of pens. After much thought, he picked up the notebook.
It was a simple, black notebook with plain white pages. He stared at the copy and soon, an idea struck him. He picked up the set of pens and brought them to his desk. He pulled out the chair and sat, placing the notebook on the unstable and rusty desk. He scanned through the pens and picked up one with the black ink. He opened the notebook and tore a page from it. Placing the page on top of the notebook, he began his work.
He opened the cap of his pen and sat down to write a letter to his wife, the first of many to come. He started writing, completely forgetting about the cigarette resting between his lips, unlighted.
'Dear Eliza'