7.
3 March 1805
8.
7 March 1805
10.
17 March 1805
11.
2 April 1805
12.
4 April 1805
13.
13 April 1805
14.
17 April 1805
15.
20 April 1805
16.
21 April 1805
17.
26 April 1805
February 12, 1805
-Twelve sets of canvas trouserswo buttons on blue coat sleeve
-Appt. with fancy fop, good money, lots oof compliments.
Sleep, eat, and go out for a drink.
Buy more tobacco.
Heaven's sake, I don't know what else I'm supposed to write in this damned
thing.
Can't find him anywhere... Damned Frenchie.
~~~~~Investigations are being held in regards to the mysterious disappearance
of two local theatre performers. It is believed that the older of the two, one
Christian Stanton, is actually responsible for the three recent murders in the
area. The younger, Nickolai-Dmitri Dawson (commonly
known as Chevalier), is thought to have gotten accidentally mixed up with the
French spy. It is assumed that Mister Dawson is either a captive in
The parents of Mister Dawson allowed us a few questions early yesterday
afternoon. It seems as though Stanton and Dawson made an appearance to gather
some of
Stanton’s old apartment has been closed to reporters, but a reader who wishes
to remain anonymous has told us that Stanton was a very reserved individual,
with a twitching eye, and a fiery temper. Among littered garments and
red-stained sheets, there are other signs of a struggle.
Valentine's day,
love. It was your favorite holiday, besides Christmas and Easter and of course,
St. Patrick's Day. You always dressed up in green. It clashed so horribly with
your hair, doll- but I never had the heart to tell you. You'd call me a contemptious leprechaun, and you'd laugh when I'd tell you
I had no hidden pot of gold. I can't remember how many times you laughed at
that... or how many times I tried to explain that Patty's day was a Catholic
holiday, and that you were protestant, if anything.
You never could understand that... and neither could I, I guess. And I guess it
never really mattered. I said a prayer for you... I never pray, remember? I
asked Him to forgive you for everything that you did with me, that I might go to
Hell in your place when I die.
Did I steer you the wrong way, love? I think you liked to get drunk too much,
personally. I never could tell you that either. But I suppose it was just cause you always wanted to keep up with me. I'm Irish
though, love, and liquor is cheaper than water where I grew up. I find myself
smiling though, chuckling even when I think of you swaying so uneasily on your
two feet- like a sailor with no land legs. It must have been awkward for you,
dancer and acrobat that you were.
Remember when you were walking on your hands through the kitchen, and you
managed to fall over and knock over all of that yarn... you got all tangled up
before you could even try to right the situation, and when I found you like
that, you looked so pouty. Your eyes were what always
drew me in, and at that moment, you were just tryng
to steal my soul- little nymph. I made sure to steal a kiss before helping you
out, remember? And that blush on your cheeks...
Red-stains, love? What did he do to you? What happened when you moved in with
him, and I was too late to come and protect you? Was it a test? Was I supposed
to run after you? Was I supposed to tell you... that I really did love you? I
was so confused and so angry- was that how you felt? God, Nicki... If I could
just have you back for one minute...
But I can't... and... that's very hard...
I finally started working on an order from the theatre today, though my fingers
were so stiff that I could hardly get them to move. I kept pricking myself with
the needle, and I think I scared away a few customers with my bad mouth. I
think I need to work on that a bit, or maybe just not work when they are
shopping around. I'm not sure for what-- but I don't mind when they browse
through my collection of materials, they usually get hooked on the more
expensive ones, anyways.
Well, there was that one time that Nicki let his niece wander
on her own, and I can't even begin to explain the mess she made of my things.
She liked the yarn, just like Nicki, and practically unraveled every scane I had. What a mess... and Nicki just gave her a
little pop on the hand and then a kiss to cheer her up. She liked me better, I
think, because I liked to chase her around. No, that's unfair. But she did like
me...
I'm almost positive she'll end up on the stage one of these days, and even if
I'm not her displaced uncle, I'll see to it that no bloke gives her a hard
time. Little angel, she is. I made her a dress once. It was a soft blue that
made her little eyes shine brightly. I put lace around the hem and on her
collar, and she was so excited. She used to play in it all the time- pretended
she was the Queen of England... but in time, she decided she'd rather be queen
of the faeries...
I remember when we'd all sit down together, and I tell both of them a story.
Nicki was so ridiculous. I'm not even sure if he was acting or not... but the
expressions he made and all of his reactions were very theatrical. Somehow, I
think they were sincere, and Mishka took that up as
well. His eyes were as bright as hers, only all the more lovely. They were akin
to the calm sea at dawn... Sometimes there was a hint of green in them. His
stupid smile and amazingly real gasps at the twists in those stories make me
laugh even now.
Trolls, gnomes, faeries, leprechauns... all the sorts of things Dounia never wanted in her little girl's head- Nicki and I
put them there. We never kissed in front of her though- but with a childlike
wisdom, she asked us one day if we were going to get married. I told her that
men don't get married to one another, and that sort of love only existed
between a man and a woman. I crushed him then, I think.
My joints still ache. The weather is too cold and I haven't a log for the
fireplace. His measurements are on that list... written down with the Frog that
stole his life away, that deadly gem... The pair of them stole the lead roles,
Captain Absolute and Sir Anthony. I wonder what the theatre will do now thay they are missing... two lead roles up for the toss.
His army coat is all ready, shiny buttons and all. It would have fit him
perfectly. I've never made a better piece. I don't think I'll give it up-- not
the coat at the very least. He would have loved it- I know, because he always
wanted to wear a lobster coat, heaven's knows why. This one is magnificent--
better than the ones I make for the real officers...
But it's not like they pay me very well anyways.
That fop is due to come in this afternoon for his suit. I haven't finished it
yet, and he's bound to be angry. My fingers still hurt and I really want a
fag... but I gave those up too.
Remember, God, I made you a pact... Said I'd give up drinking and smoking if
you'd bring him back to me... Someday...
I feel roten rotten wretched today. My
nose keeps dripping, which isn’t always great when I’m trying to talk to a
customer about the fabrics and then trying to show them the differences… and a
bit of snot drips down… and what am I supposed to do about it? Nicki always
said it sounded really gross when I sniffed it back up, and I can’t just wipe
it on my sleeve. It’s a nice sleeve. And I know that wouldn’t impress the
customers. Maybe I should start wearing a hankie in my breast pocket- that
would certainly help.
My head is all heavy feeling too, like a really bad hangover. Nicki had those a lot. He’d drink all evening and then I’d practically
have to drag him home while he swaggered around, making a spectacle of himself.
He’d run his mouth a bit too. Nonsense about knowing the Emperor of Russia, can
you imagine? But I never said too much about it, because he always seemed to
shut me out when I did. Nicki would get so sick though after drinking. But I
can understand that. He always went straight for the hard stuff- vodka and the
like. I tried to get him to just have a beer one time, but he started choking
on the froth, the idiot. I told him not to inhale.
Of course, when he woke up the next morning, completely wasted, he usually
blamed me for getting him drunk. There was no point in arguing with him, after
all. He was much too testy on those mornings. Best to just let him get it out
of his system- angry child that he was. I remember the first time we went out
like that. He was almost seventeen, and we’d been together for a good month...
A bit of a nasty temper, even then. He had some real issues with his parents,
but I don’t blame him, after all, they disowned him. Seemed like the only time
he was ever happy was when he was acting. Could get away from reality then… I
think one day he abandoned it all together.
Or maybe he just found happiness and hope. I guess that’s the happier
alternative, and probably the more truthful one. I just don’t understand how an
angry young man can suddenly reverse his way of thinking completely. One day he
was as pissy as any ridiculous young squirt, the next
he was gay and childish. Oh, wait…I remember the reason. I feel bad about it
now. I did get him drunk that first time, and I had my way with him. Quite
honestly, I remember just wanting to sleep with him and get him to leave. He
was an attractive little brat, after all, and I was tired of playing around.
Then he changed. A few hasty words of affection and promise, and I had him in
bed- completely wrapped around my finger.
But he didn’t leave that next morning… Just had a really awful hangover, and a nasty pain in his rear, I imagine. I felt
bad for him and stuck around to see him through it. I’m not sure he had ever
been drunk before, and I know he was a virgin. He told me so, through tears and
breaths between lurching into the loo bucket. His
hair kept falling across his face, and I braided it back for him. He never
would cut it. After then he started wearing it that way, at first having me
plait it, then eventually learning to do it himself. Funny thing is… he changed
after that. There was some strange light in his eyes that had been missing
before, and I had brought that to him.
His manner was completely altered. Instead of throwing periodic temper
tantrums, he’d deal with his problems more effectively by reasoning with
people. He gained a lot of respect that way, as well as developing a bit of
knack for talking to folks. Everyone liked him then. His acting career took
off, actually. Nicki was the star, and he said I was his inspiration. Of
course, at that time, I was a bit skeptical and annoyed by that little
confession. He stuck around me more and more, and he loved me.
I’ve never been a good fellow. And I certainly had never experienced anyone
seeking after me in such a fashion- not steadfast, anyways. I’d been in one
relationship before Nicki that was all physical, so I wasn’t used to all of his
childish notions of love. I know that’s what I feel for Nicki now, of course,
but not then. I became protective… and, even stranger, tender towards him.
Few months more, and he had his first real fit. One of
the shaking ones, you know? Epilepsy. My younger
brother Desmond has it though, so I knew what to do for him. I was suddenly
very aware that we were supposed to be together, and that I was supposed to
take care of him. I did… But merciful heavens! We somehow guided together. The
Lord Almighty had a hand in it, of course, though I’m
sure he didn’t want it to end up the relationship that it did. We are, after
all, an abomination according to the Good Word. I believe it, no matter how
good at heart we are, we’ll never see the other side of those pearly gates. But
I love Nicki, and that’s enough for now… and I’ll see him again, one way or
another.
I took care of him for seven years! We had a cat named Chevalier that he so
cleverly fashioned to be his last name later on in life- a cute little tabby
that completely wrecked my shop every rainstorm. It died last year… Broke our
hearts…
But I just don’t understand why he left. I can’t. I don’t know what I did, and
I don’t know how to apologize now. He was my everything…
and now I’m completely drained. I shouldn’t have been so bitter when he came in
two weeks ago. But he was accusing me of cheating! And I had never been
unfaithful to him…
… maybe he had moved on before I even knew it? Apparently he’d been seeing a
lot of that Christian fellow at the theatre. Talked an awful lot about him too…
but I never thought he’d leave me for the bloke. I thought we were happy… that
we were just like a married couple. We were stable. I thought he loved me- but
maybe he did and I just didn’t give him what he needed.
Maybe I should have told him more. Maybe I should have just tracked him down… I
did. I knew he’d be at Brendois, eating with his new
lover. Christian was absolutely ancient looking! I confess thinking that his
face looked as if it had been carved from a very old and worn stone- a bit shale. Awful gristle growing along
his jaw. Awful look about him entirely. But I just had to go and run my
mouth and drive him away.
I just thought he’d come back in the end. A week or two at the most…
But he didn’t… but I haven’t given up.
I need a fag real bad…
I need some sleep…
I was walking through my shop today, checking my stock of linens, when I
noticed, on one of my shelves, one of my many untouched books. This one in
particular is titled “A Recent Study of Tribal Warfare of Central Africa: The
Key to Land Ownership and Cultural Advancement,” and I had to pause and flip
through it. The pages are all musty, smelling of old paper and thick ink. It
makes me sneeze a lot. But I keep it… because it is among one of the many odd
gifts that Nicki gave me over the years. I think I had mentioned something
about tribal warfare once, and he mistook that for some educational interest.
Unfortunately the poor dear searched high and low for this manuscript (how he’d
even heard of it, I’ll never know) and sent a request to purchase it from some
private library in
I think I gave him a pair of silk slippers, which he wore every day until there
were irreparable holes along the toes. I can’t remember ever actually sitting
aside time to consider what he might like for me to get him, of course, and I
feel bad about that now. Well, actually, there was that one time for his
birthday that I scrounged up a pretty penny to buy a few bolts of an imported
silk and I stitched him up a fine pair of pajamas. They were a dark blue and
brought out the colors of his eyes. I loved when he would wear them. They
looked sharp on the hanger, but absolutely gorgeous on him. I could tell he
liked them. When he first put them on, he walked around with this very smug
grin, taking his time to flaunt his spritely form in
front of me. I couldn’t help but grab him round the waist and take him into my
lap to bury a few kisses onto his neck. I’m pretty sure he liked that too.
Christmas was always like that. I’m not too big on religion and the like, but I
do believe in the Holy Spirit, and typically try my best to stay away from
offending His Majesty. Just end up doing it anyways, you know? Funny thing is
that Nicki and I even attended the protestant services up the street. Always made sure to say a prayer right before entering the chapel,
asking for our sins to be absolved so we weren’t struck down by lightening when
we stepped across the threshold. The first time we went Nicki seemed a
bit fearful. He’d been part of the Catholic religion previously, or something
like it at least, but once I told him the faults, he converted. Is it so
strange that we try to be good Christians, and yet always break the rules? All
sins are equal in the eyes of the Lord.
The rest of my family is in
Desmond is a rat too, but a more docile one. He’s got a short temper, but a
sweet temperament. Always real affectionate like.
Enjoys hot apple cider… so do I. I like it best out of all drinks, I think, but
it’s real time consuming to make, and I like it best when it’s home made.
Nicki and I usually buy a good crate of apples down at the market around the
beginning of October and we spend an afternoon pressing apples into juice. Then
we add the sugar and seal it up until Christmas! It is always so much fun to
sit down by the fireplace and enjoy the fruits of our labor. When the firelight
flickered across his face he looked a lot like a cat, with sparkles in those
eyes that seem to be anticipating something. On such a day, it is usually the
gift exchange. He loved watching me open whatever mischief had led him to buy.
Oh, and there were so many odd contraptions and items.
Among one of my personal favorites was the llama figurine that was said to be a
coin bank—or that was what the merchant told Nicki—and it is a very lovely
little porcelain… llama. But it is missing the coin hole that would make it
into a bank, and the cork that would allow access to such a deposit… not to
mention I’m pretty sure it isn’t hollow. Still, it sits up on my desk proudly,
with a blank stare in its delicately painted eyes (complete with long lashes)
and a foul leer on its dislocated jaw. I’m not sure what the occasion was that
led him to believe that this would be a perfect gift for me, but it might have
been that time I mentioned having a pet llama back in Ireland for a time.
Chevalier was never without a gift either. Usually it was a piece of meat from
the turkey or ham we prepared, or maybe an ostrich feather brought in with some
of the cargo from
He’d be happy to know that I never take his locket off though. It was a present
for my birthday. Nicki was the only one to ever remember it. It was such a
pleasant surprise though, I hadn’t even remembered
what day it was. Came to dinner with a headache, and Nicki had prepared my
favorite meal of gnocchi (I know I said I hated pitaties,
but this is an exception) with tomato sauce- seasoned perfectly. He poured us
some wine, and lit the two candles in the middle of our ridiculous excuse for a
table- a stolen crate from the docks. After the lovely meal he presented me
with the gift, packaged in a golden paper I’ve never seen the like of before.
There were red ribbons surrounding the smart looking box, and I felt my heart
beating all the quicker for want to know what was inside the tiny thing.
When I opened it I uncovered the delicate looking oval locket. It was hanging
on a golden chain, and when I slowly cracked it open, I was amazed by its
contents. Inside was a miniature portrait of the grinning man sitting across
from me, down to his exact likeness- the simple light shining in his eyes that
I had put there. Opposite of the portrait was a pressed clover, with four leaves.
My heart raced as I stared at the gift- and my eyes began to water. I was, and
am, the luckiest man on earth to be in possession of such an item. I adore it,
and keep it close to my heart, just like my love.
This past Christmas was pretty bad. The food was nice of course, but we had
decided to invite Dounia and Mishka
over as well. Nicki was under the weather. He had a bit of a cold, and was in a
lousy mood after a hard day at the theatre. Yeah, they didn’t even cancel the
rehearsal… Dounia was a bit testy towards me. She
always has been… and Mishka couldn’t behave like her
normal self because her mother was present.
All in all, the afternoon ended badly. The two went home, and I helped Nicki to
bed. I remember feeling a bit awkward that night when I crawled in beside him
and he kept his back to me. I felt like I was getting the cold shoulder, and I
knew he wasn’t fully asleep yet. I did go ahead and kiss his cheek before going
back to my side, and when I woke up, he had curled up beside me and was holding
my hand.
It’s worse now without him beside me- but I finally got my order from the local
portrait painter filled. My miniature was delivered here by a kindly post boy
(I tipped him for his good service) and admired the fine work. I’m going to
give it to Nicki for his birthday this April. I just need to find something
meaningful to put on the other side…
If I could only capture a drop of sunshine…
Maybe I’ll get us a new kitten. He’d love that too. And some
new slippers…
That young lad finally came back in for his suit
today. I had finished it, and he was quite pleased despite its lateness. It
pained me to see him when he came out wearing the thing, for the colors of his
suit were just the same as Nicki always wore. Off-white breeches, black vest,
and that sea-blue coat...
I met him that way. He came in to be fitted for a costume, and I gave him such
a hard time about his little form that he smart mouthed me the entire first
week we were together. I broke him of that habit soon enough though... or maybe
the stage did it for him. Such a nasty little temper he had, a sprite through
and through. I swear that if he had come from
We were always so puzzled at how the sun managed to make a quick journey over
the horizon, and yet seemed to always take its precious time in crossing the
great blue sky. I am still bewildered by this phenomenon, but I try to pay it
little mind. I hardly get up that early anymore besides. Watching the sun rise
alone is a very depressing situation. It would be so perfect when we were
together though, a blank slate every morning, a fresh start... jam spread across
his lips and somehow up high on his cheek. Another
phenomenon. For instance, every Christmas we baked apple cake and made
peppermint sticks. Somehow during the middle of our small celebration dinner he
would end up with a bit of apple just up above his eyebrow. I would always ask
him how he managed... and he’d just shrug his shoulders, get an innocent grin,
and fit a piece of peppermint between his lips. He must have been a bit
tipsy... but still my sweet angel.
I remember one time we had to sacrifice buying sugar because of a financial
slump. We were drinking our tea plain, and I began to gripe a bit about the
slow business and how bitter the tea was... he didn’t say anything, and I
caught out of the corner of my eye a wicked smile being sewn on those lips. I
finally glanced over and cocked my brow at him, my best sarcastic face, and he
just broke out into a full grin. I asked him what the devil he was smiling
about when there was no sugar– and his reply was that a kiss would cure my
sweet tooth. Sweet Jesus, I remember thinking I had created the most alluring
creature on earth. I also remember that my cravings for sweets were in no way
satiated, because I simply could not get enough of my little nymph.
He was always a decent kisser, even at the start of things. He gave me his
first. It was a rainy evening and he had just moved in with me, a trap I
thought would bring me my eventual prize. The little tart was sitting on my
bed, telling me that I really should consider cleaning the place up. I told him
to shove his smart mouth comments where he would, and for some reason, he stuck
around. I think, in some way, Nicki enjoyed hearing things like that... Not that he wasn’t partial to sweet nothings, but everything
I managed to say would get a smile out of him. Some way or another, I ended up
sitting up across from him on the bed. After staring at him for a long while,
and he seemed completely awkward in the silence and out of place in the shabby
room, I finally asked him if he had ever kissed a girl before. He was a good
looking lad, after all, and I expected him to be quite experienced.
He didn’t answer, so I lounged across the bed with a grin and looked up at him.
‘A boy?’ I asked. His nose wrinkled up and he wouldn’t
look at me. ‘Anyone?’ I inquired further, making a
complete ass out of myself as I put a hand on his thigh. He hit me so hard that
I fell off the bed, and needless to say I was completely shocked. Well, hit is
too strong a word, more or less he shoved me away. I
said something insulting, I know, for he left the room in such a hurry that I
missed it entirely.
I apologized the next morning for what I had done and said, and surprisingly
enough, he said he had already forgotten it. I think he was more desperate for
a place to stay than anything else. He told me then that he had never kissed
anyone, and that he didn’t ever plan to. I shrugged my shoulders, thinking that
I had made a poor investment...Still, I couldn’t just turn the boy out so soon,
so I decided to just drop it.
Later that week when I was cleaning up the place, I think his words about my
sty had gotten to me, he came and tapped me on the
shoulder. I was currently kneeling by a pile of dirty clothes, and he came down
to my level and pecked my lips with his own. I was
suddenly very awkward, staring at his abashed face in wonder. He looked
completely different from the boy I had invited, so much more pleasant and
adorable. I must have smiled at him, because his own
face washed over with a smart smile. Those dirty clothes served as a nice cushion
when I laid him down on them, and we honed his skills until he realized just
how much he was an artist in this field. I created a monster.
I knew I had discovered something special. I know now that it was the discovery
of where my heart was supposed to be. Damnit, I am
such a sentimental sap at times... But it is strange now that I think of it. I
taught him the art of seduction and all that follows, and he became my educator
in the ways of actual love. Our positions were ultimately reversed, and now he
holds all the cards.
He’s a very good pickpocket, did I mention? Quite the little thief...
Just like that saucy fellow who only paid me half for that suit. I suppose I
should ask for pay in advance now... Nicki always advised that I did.
Hurry home, love. This wait is unbearable.
Everything has gone to shit since Nicki left. Stupid
bastard, up and leaving me.. And what to I get for my complete innocence? A load of heat from the
idiot’s family, that’s what. Tears me up inside!
This morning had started out reasonably well. I was sitting there on the porch,
sucking on a toffee for lack of a cigarette, and minding my own business
completely. There was a very interesting display going on across the street,
where the butcher was having a row with the baker. Everything was getting very
wound up, and a gentleman had even stepped in to try and mediate. The butcher
was waving his meat cleaver through the air wildly, his face a bright red,
nearly matching the few stains of blood on his cheeks and hands, while the
baker was shaking a floury fist in the direction of the other. I overheard
something about slander and lies, but I just continued to munch on the pastry I
had acquired from the same baker an hour before.
Said gentleman was desperately trying to maintain the peace, and he managed to
get knocked down in the process. A few officers came over and the festivities
were over much too quickly. It was around this time that I stood and began to
return to the cozy burrow of my shop, brushing a few flaky crumbs from my shirt
as I entered. Not long after I heard a few voices flood the quaint silence, and
I poked my head out of the back room (where I was stitching away at one of the
theatre costumes) to see that the officers had come to pay a visit. Despite all
of my better judgement, I put down my work and went
out to see what it was they had come for... and though I prefer not to dwell on
all of the details... let us just say that they came with ill-intent.
A few bruises later, and when my shop was in complete disarray, the gentleman
left, laughing and jeering. I can’t say I understand why such events occur,
when I do nothing to provoke them, but it seems that my thick accent stands as
reason enough to doubt my loyalties. Not only that, even though I am a tall
fellow- I have not the brawn to fill out a uniform, and with such a physique as
they all possessed, I am a very easy target for abuse. And I’m Irish... and
it’s ultimately their word against mine. Damn all of them...
So as I spent the morning cleaning up my scattered cloth and sewing supplies,
side by side with a nasty pain bringing stinging tears to my eyes as I bent to
gather things, I was completely shocked when another turn of misfortune came to
haunt me. A shadow fell across the doorway, and the creaky hinges of the door
sounded as it slammed shut. I was afraid that the men had come back for a
second bout of fun... but was even more disheartened when I looked up to see
the mournful face of Dounia Dawson– beloved sister of
my Nicki.
I felt myself swallow a few times as I sat up on my knees to look at her. All
at once and I was being embraced by the little girl I
though of as my niece, and I held her tightly in my arms as I continued to
stare up at Dounia. Mishka
was in tears, crying sorrowfully and loudly enough for a man to hear in
Completely shocked, I sat there, holding my face and trying to make sense of it
all... and then she began to open the flood gates. (It is so very easy to cast
the blame on someone who is already broken, after all). I was accused of crime
after crime, lie after lie... and it struck me very hard in the heart to hear
the second hand accounts that Nicki himself had once spoke. A complete brute,
am I? A cheating son of a bitch? Well, look where you
are now, love– rotting deep in the pits of hell.
Mishka continued to wail and wail until I finally
stood up and took a very threatening step forward towards her mother. It was
then that the little girl latched herself to my leg, sobbing and asking me if I
had killed Nicki. I balled up my fist, and it took everything in me to resist
knocking Dounia across the face. I was very clear when
I told Mishka that I had done no such thing, that I
had loved her uncle to the point of misery... but alas, her mother stole her
away from me again...
They left the shop as quickly as they had come, and I was left here to clean
again, alone and wretched. I hope hell is hot enough for you... seems that our
bed wasn’t warm enough...cheating lying....
________________________________________________________________
The evening is really cold, and the wet rag on my back
feels like ice. The lights are just fading from our bedroom window, and I can
hardly see it, or my own words, for the blurs that are shielding my eyes. I
love you, Nicki. But damn you...
What did I do to make you so bitter towards me? What did I do to deserve your
scorn and desertion? I am as much a wretch as you, and we have had so many hard
times... but couldn’t we just put this all behind us, and move on with a clean
slate like we used to? I want so very much to hold you again... make you love
me again. You love me more than anything... I know it.
I know you’re coming back.
And I’ll be grateful when you do... I won’t cry anymore over the past. I won’t
think about the wrongs we committed against each other, because those scars
will heal with time. I’ve had enough time to let them settle. We’ll be together
again, and everything will be perfect.
Won’t you fly home, angel? With wings as swift as the eagles that soar across
free skies... Let the light fuel your happiness, and may
you always flee from the darkness of night. I’m with you even then though,
tucked away in your dreams to keep you safe from harm. Just let me out, all
right?
Forget, Chevalier.
7 March 1805
The beating I received from the marines the other day managed to really cripple
me in terms of work. There’s a nasty bruise across my cheek from where Dounia slapped me (not an entirely comforting thing for the
customers), and my back is terribly sore. I’m not sure I mentioned last time
that one of the fellows had aimed quite intentionally for my hand with his
steel boot, and succeeded to smash the tips of my fingers before I could pull
them from harm’s way. Indeed, I was too distracted by having my a foot dug into
my back that I hardly noticed the fire that consumed the joints of every tender
finger on my left hand.
Crippled. I visited the local physician, and he said that one of them was
broken, but that the others should mend quickly enough. That doesn’t help me
any, of course, and I’m looking at a stack of work that I haven’t had the time
to finish. Luckily the theatre that contracts their costumes from me is
understanding, and has actually offered to send over one of their young men to
help me... I declined, of course, despite the natural desire to acquire free
help. They know me too well, and I think they have guessed at the deeper reason
behind my lack of enthusiasm for work. I wasn’t the only to have suffered from
the absence of my love. He had many friends there at the theatre, and everyone
knew his little secret.
And they knew mine by default. After all, how could they miss that detail when
he lived with me, was constantly having his clothes refitted, and how often I knicked away to his dressing room to enjoy a snog or two. Yes, I admit that I would take some time off
work to go and watch his rehearsals. I loved watching him flaunt himself about
in whatever outfit I had prepared for him- because it always fit him perfectly,
accented every feature of his glorious body. Glorious indeed.
It wasn’t the same without him there today. Everyone was a bit subdued. Nickolai’s friend, Daniel, a very straight individual with
a considerable reputation with women, was even distraught by the absence of
their lead player. It has been a month, even. They were excellent opposite each
other, and could battle their wit and sarcasm more thoroughly than any pair
I’ve seen... well, besides Nicki and I. When it comes to a battle of wit and
sarcasm, I always win.
Hmm. I was speaking with Daniel (who, as I found out, was very aware of the
relationship between Nickolai and myself) and he told me, much to my dismay,
that the audiences were a bit smaller now since the “murder.” Any attempt I
made to convince him that Nicki was not dead was quickly dismissed as denial,
and he gave me a pat on my back- the tart- and professed that he knew what I
was going through. Unless I am unaware of an affair between them, I doubt he
has any idea of what I am going through.
Regardless, I managed to give him a decent smile. It is a rare thing to find a
good one of society degrading himself in the presence of those with lesser
concern for their morals, after all. His manners were very well adapted to my
“kind,” as he so kindly put it, having been exposed to us for a long
while- and Nicki was a doll. Yes, but let us not forget, Daniel, that he is my
doll. At least I have the courage to hope for his return. I have the faith.
I have hardly even touched upon the impossibility of my situation as a tailor.
The only way I can earn money to eat is to sew. The only way I can sew is to
have good hands. Unfortunately, even before the mauling, I had been
experiencing odd cramping along the muscles of my hands, a pure aching of my
joints. Nicki said that I had arthritis, but I would eat my hat if I actually
understood the entire world that word encompasses. I am at a loss. And my
stomach is suffering because of it.
I miss the dinners that Nicki would make for me. He was a very good cook,
despite how useless he was at the beginning of our relationship. He acquired
many skills, obviously. Soups were his specialty. He could make any cheap broth
taste like it had been prepared for a king. I find that soups are an excellent
way to trick your body into thinking you are full... when there is really no
substance in it at all. There was one that was called minestrone that I enjoyed.
I tend to be fond of Italian dishes. Pasta is perfect, after all, and Nicki is
very good at making it.
Without him I feel like I’m starving, always. He had a way of making everything
seem fulfilling. Everything was fulfilling. Like dying inside him... how can
something make you feel so empty, and complete at the same time? His sighs of
gratitude were the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard, can only be compared
to the songs of the good people... I had nothing, and everything just as I
lounged lazily at his side, brushing the stray locks of hair from his flushing
face. He’d slowly open his eyes to gaze at me, resting his head on the crook of
his arm, and then he’d smile. I cried once, and for some reason, he didn’t seem
surprised.
We are complete together. Like a melody and a harmony... neither can really
exist without the other. Together we are complete. Even now, while he’s apart,
I can feel the pain his separation causes me, and I know that he is
experiencing the same. That’s why he’ll come back, because we were meant for
each other. My heart doesn’t beat as steadily without him, and I know that this
is truthfully love.
How can I describe this? Even attempt it? The slow fluttering of his eyes when
he wakes up in the morning, and that lazy smile that always greets me, followed
by that routine kiss. It is bliss. It is everything. Beauty captured in the
blink of an eye. But it doesn’t vanish as quick as that, and it never really
does. I don’t think I’d escape this torment even if I could. Nicki is everything.
Perhaps I really should try to get some of those costumes done...
12 March 1805
I found a most peculiar letter on my front porch this evening. It had been
delivered by the post boy, but I usually don’t pay well anyways (tight on money
at the moment), so he left if for me. It was addressed to Nicki, and was
written in the most elaborate scrawl I have ever perceived. It was a
delightfully loopy script, devoid of ink blotches and smears. It was a very
impressive envelope, and in a paper not commonly seen among my class. It
appeared to be from a woman by the name of Sasha (so
very peculiar– must be Turkish– but I can’t understand why anyone from Turkey
would write Nicki, especially a woman!)
Of course, I took it upon myself to open the letter. It might have contained
something regarding Nickolai, after all, and I am still keeping my eyes peeled
for any hint of him. I delicately unfolded the envelope and removed the
parchment, and to my surprise, I could not even read the figures I saw. I could
make nothing of it, for at least half of the page, and then suddenly the script
began to follow the words I was more accustomed to seeing. The sentences were
formed very poorly, and I wondered what fool had decided to write to Nicki in
code, and then not even have the common courtesy to write him a proper note of
explanation. In fact, I am not entirely sure it was anything to do with him,
seeing as the woman addressed her recipient as “Kolya.”
Perhaps Nicki has another nickname I am oblivious to. Well, I continued
reading, and the more I pieced the letter together, the more I realized that
this writer was presuming herself to be a very lofty individual! She kept
referring to everyone as the peasants and that there would be no possible way
to visit. My name came up, an inquiry made about my health. But... as I read
further still, I began to piece together the clues that my mind had always kept
subconsciously at hand. And there at the bottom of the page was the signature
of Alexander, Emperor of Russia. Nickolai-Dmitri...
How very oblivious I was!
He never did tell me anything about growing up, aside from that he had been
pretty well off before some family troubles. Well off, indeed! It seems as if
the Emperor is quite friendly with you, dear! Hah! He has very poor English
though, I am sad to say, but his handwriting is something to be regarded with
the deepest approval.
I suppose getting upset about it would be pointless however, considering that I
never shared much about myself with Nicki either. He asked a lot, but I always
just told him it wasn’t anything interesting. Perhaps I should have told him
though, despite the truth in my words. He was interested, and I shouldn’t have
taken that for granted.
Well, I am a bit sorry to say that I had a very simplistic childhood in
comparison to yours (or so it would seem, hah!), Little Prince! I was born just
outside of Dublin, a good fifty miles or so. I was the second child my mother
gave birth to, and I was born without the assistance of a midwife. Mum always
said I “seemed indifferent” about being in the world, and that “I didn’t cry
very much, bless my soul”. When I was four, mother had Desmond. I thought that
Randall, my older brother, would stop picking on me, but that was hardly the
case. Mum had her hands full with Desmond, and Randall took it upon himself to
take care of me. And by take care I mean the most extensive of brotherly
bullying. He was a master at making me angry, and then Da
would get pissed and threaten to take out the belt. Da
never took any crap from anyone, you see. He was a good fellow, smoked a lot...
Devout and all. Somehow, since I was the middle child, and not his first born,
I was the one that got the heat for everything.
And when Desmond was old enough to come out and play, he was the precious
youngest child. Da treated him like a baby, always.
He was coddled too much, and turned out to be a bit sensitive in his
adolescence. I kept Randall off of him though, because Randall was a brute.
Desmond was my younger brother, and my charge. It was my responsibility to
teach him the ways of the world... but he was the one that everyone loved. He
had an irresistible charm to him, and his innocent green eyes always sparkled
like he was a little angel. But he loved me and mum most. He was an epileptic too.
Had his first fit when we were down by the pond. I had just been about to teach
him to swim, and he was mortified by the thought of the water, and so he just
went ridged and fell on the ground.
I thought he was faking everything, but then I realized he wasn’t. I made sure
that he wasn’t hurting himself, and then just sat back and watched. Eventually
he calmed down, and was just lying there with his head lulling to the side. I
checked to make sure he was breathing, and then sat with him until he woke up. We
didn’t go swimming. He was six at the time. The fits got worse when I had to go
out to the field with Da and Randall to go help with
the pitaty crop. He was too little to come out,
because the other workers were a bit brute like too. In all honesty, I’m not
sure that I was strong enough to take their abuse, because they all acted like
Randall (he had been out in the fields for two years before me).
Their humor made me sick, and I didn’t like the way they talked about people. I
remember them speaking like my mum was just a worthless piece of flesh, only
good for breeding... and Randall laughed. I hit him in the head with a pitaty- chucked it right from my sack. Got in trouble for
that... I wasn’t built like my da or Randall, just a
bit lankier. I had a bit of strength in me, but you know, not all bulk like
them. Desmond was the same. We were runners, and not pack animals. Da recognized that pretty soon, when I was struggling with
a sack of pitaties. The others could carry two or
three easy, but I was a bit of a weak link... and I constantly was getting in
trouble telling the older people to shut their damned mouths about mum.
So, ultimately I was dismissed from that service and ended up back helping my
mother and Desmond. She taught me to sew and mend clothes while reading us
books... she taught us to read. Desmond was her favorite, but she loved me more
than Randall at least. Desmond was my favorite too though. He still writes to
me even now, and he really wants to meet Nicki. I’m trying to convince him to
come live with us. I think I’ve already written that, but I really want him out
of Ireland. He deserves better, and he’s such a smart fellow... he’s a bit of a
journalist.
But I left Ireland when I was fourteen. I paid a bit of money to catch a ride
on a fishing boat, and ended up in Portsmouth. Those first years were the
worst. Finally got on top of things when I hit seventeen. I set up shop just
far enough away from the docks that the press gangs wouldn’t venture in, and
close enough to get good business. Two years later and Nicki had moved in. He
was sixteen. I was such a bastard... but I was just a young man too, after all.
Had my needs as much as anyone. Didn’t know I was settling down with someone
for good. Glad I know it now though! Hah!
But Nicki, darling, I haven’t a clue as to how you lived before you got to
England. I know you took a trip to Russia in 1801... ah! For the coronation!
Oh, love! Haha! You are such a sneaky little nymph. I can’t piece everything
together, you know, but you can help me. It will be so much fun... and I don’t
care what happened. You know I don’t!
Oh, I am in such a good way right now, love. You shall be adored when you come
home, most tenderly. Most lovingly.
I shall treat you like a prince, my dear, but only as much as you will
tolerate. After all, you seem to love when I’m just a tad bit cruel, and I live
to serve.
You are my angel.
Thoughts of you will keep me smiling, and keep my mind active and occupied
during this long stretch of work I have to complete. You’ll teach me to play
piano when you come home, I hope you know. Then we can play duets.
Keep smiling, and keep your carefree heart. I will be here to receive it when
you come back! Huzzah! Haha!
The leaves on that September morning
Matched your hair splendidly
Reds and browns and golds
But which?
I don’t know.
I suppose my eyes were playing tricks
As they tend to do at sunrise
When reds and golds
Light up the sky
And deceive.
Your cherry red lips were grinning
And I bent to steal a savory kiss
But you didn’t let me
No sweet taste
Of Strawberries.
Then you scooped up a thousand leaves
In the palm of your whimsy hand
And stuffed them
Into your oversized pockets
Like cash.
And as reds turned to creams and blues
I focused on those darling eyes
Which turned to mine
And blinked a seductive stare
Away.
A routine we follow as dawn’s early light
Spreads its wings and soars
Away into the horizon
To spread the infection
To other lovers.
Far away.
With you.
Is Home.
St. Patrick’s Day. Last year you decorated the bedroom with shamrocks before I
woke up... This year there is nothing to surprise me, except that you’re gone.
You would always make a cake for after dinner, with green icing- something sweet
and delicious, despite any sort of strain it would cause our thin pocket books.
You slipped into that costume of the leprechaun I made, and walked around the
entire day with bells on your shoes. Do you know just how many people had to
stop and stare when you traveled to the market? Yes, I followed you, just to
see their reactions. It shocked me to see people actually smile, especially
after you adopted my accent and began to order all of our groceries in such a
fashion.
I smiled. And you caught me. I drew near, because your grin allowed it, and
with a cheshire’s air, you said that every leprechaun
had a pot of gold. My initial reaction was to only smile stupidly at you, and I
followed you very carefully back to our home. In the end all you gave me was
drop of a the sun, topped with a strawberry kiss and peppermint sticks. And so
sarcastically I inquired about my prize, even as I lounged there with you. My
hand was still rubbing the tender flesh of your belly, while my other was
keeping me propped up so that I could more easily consider your dancing eyes
and messy hair. I remember that I my body felt numb after you answered. And I
did cry, and I did dance- for joy alone when you were not watching.
It was in the rain when you first led me in that charming little waltz. We had
been coming home from a late night at the theatre, our clothes soaked from the
storm overhead. Thunder consumed the silence of each minute, rolling through
the streets, through the hills, and across the seas. Not a soul in France or
Ireland could have missed such a rancor from the skies. I myself had been
trembling because of the cold, but when we had finally abandoned that crowd
that wished to surround you with praises, you stole my hand from my side and
led me far from the path that led to our heaven behind closed doors.
Instead we ventured out to the docks, were the tossing sea was lapping
viciously at the shore and wooden posts. Every sound of thunder was illuminated
by a flash of lightening, a great shock that flooded the dark sky with light
and left you standing in complete awe. The sand had penetrated my shoes,
rubbing insistently between my toes as we continued onwards to shelter
ourselves under the dry part of the dock. I kicked them off, finding that
having an entire foot emerged in the gritty floor was much more appealing than
a few grains of irritation. He had taken a seat in the angle that separated the
wooden dock from the solid ground, and I plopped down beside him, holding one
hand in my own as you proceeded to stretch out and place your head carefully on
my shoulder. I followed your lead, and we were soon watching the brilliant show
that nature had performed a thousand times before...You pulled my hand to your
chest, and I felt your heart beat.
It would quicken every time your eyes would light up, which most certainly
happened at those drum rolls. Each flash of lightening made you flinch, and I
pulled you close to me, so that you would feel safe in my arms. And you did.
But then I jumped! A loud crack caught me completely unaware when I had been
gazing thoughtlessly into your eyes! I sat there shocked for a moment, gripping
your hand, and then you started to laugh, and that lovely noise spread quickly
to me. I laughed too, and we were entirely affected, and infected, by the
others chuckle. You would finally begin to quiet, and then I would giggle
again... and then the same would happen on my end! It was ridiculous, darling,
but I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
I’m not sure when we fell asleep, but when we woke up, the threatening sounds
of the storm had finally shrunken off over the Atlantic, and all that remained
was the gentle blow of the wind. The moon had made an appearance, peeking out
from the veil of a dark cloud, and I swear that she was smiling at us. There
was the unmistakable sigh of my waking husband against my ear, and I turned to
nuzzle my nose against his, giving him that eskimo
kiss that he adored. He laughed a little and planted a real kiss against my
lips... and we were at peace for awhile, until he neglected the moment and
forced himself, as well as me, to stand.
He pulled me close, and I gave him a very smug smile, leaning my head down so
that he could whisper what he wanted into my ear. And to my surprise, he began
to sing. It was very soft at first, and not something I had ever heard before.
I’m not sure if it was even English. He draped his arms around my neck, resting
his head back on my shoulder as we began to sway lightly, moving only with the
permission of the wind. The moon was shining fully now, beaming down at her two
admirers. Or perhaps she was the one admiring us.
The night was magical. There is no other word to describe it. Life changing
comes close.
We shared lots of moments like that. There was another time where he was
playing the piano at the theatre, and since I had a bottle of beer, I began to
blow across its top- creating that low hoot that made him laugh. A rhythm was
set, and I conceded to it, only to break from its confines and take a seat on
the bench beside him, blowing in his ear instead. He pulled his head away,
laughing and hitting a note not entirely of the chord he had been moving
towards. I grinned and kissed his cheek.
Some nights he would light candles, and I could extend my hand to him and pull
him close. We would dance well into the night, simply adoring each other,
exchanging gentle kisses. And there were other times that our kisses propelled
us into other exchanges... but then again, there were still those other
times when we would go and join the sailors out on the beaches, and jig until
we could hardly stand. Nicki leapt over a fire one time, and singed the bottom
of his breeches. He smelt burnt the rest of the night...
Tonight we would have had those candles out, and enjoyed one of those special
dinners that we can only afford maybe twice a year. I haven’t lit any yet. I
want to save it for the day he comes home.
All leprechauns do lead the way to gold, and Nicki led me to his heart. He gave
it to me.
2 April 1805
Doll, where do I begin?
An English gent came into the shop a week ago, and as soon as he heard my
accent he proceeded to, literally, turn up his nose. I hate the English
sometimes, I really do. I tried to be civil. I really did... but he just kept
being snide. We had nearly completed the deal, me having to count to ten every
five seconds, when he told me that I better not short change him. He also
accused me of charging too much when I gave him my standard price for a
complete suit. As calmly as possible, I explained that the gold buttons he
wanted put on his jacket could be replaced with painted brass, and he began to
squawk that I was cheating him.
By that point he had gotten to me, and in a very frank manner I leaned across
my desk and asked him to remove himself from my shop or I would have the
authorities escort him out. He was becoming very angry, you see, rapping his
cane close to my hand on the table top. In the end he left, and I thought that
would be the end of it... and it was rather disappointing to lose the business,
but there are some lines I have to draw. Normally I just push my pride aside
and allow them to belittle me– as long as I get paid, right? Right.
The very next day who should visit but the same gentleman, accompanied by two
of my favorite marines. One struggle and one hour later, and I was sitting very
unhappily in the dank and disgusting confines of an English prison. That’s
where I spent the last week! Surrounded by the filth of society, a few that
were sentenced to hang. A Frenchman, an Irish rebel, a pouffe,
and a murderer...
Both the Irishman and the Frenchie were imprisoned
together, and they seemed to share the same adamant dislike of the guards that
fed us- spitting at them and cursing at them whenever they had the opportunity.
Other than that and they were very reserved. The Irish fellow said his name was
Thomas, and he was a Papist that openly practiced his religion in plain sight
of the English. He also said his ‘Hail Mary’s and ‘Our Father’s out loud so
that perhaps the pouffe among us might convert and find
God before he died. I told him to shut his bleeding mouth and leave the fellow
alone– Rene, the Frenchie, actually backed my
statement with a sharp foreign insult, and Thomas and him began to argue
amongst themselves.
The pouffe and I shared a cell, strangely enough. His
name was Andrew- a quiet gangly thing, perhaps twenty years of age. I had seen
him before around the city, mostly scrounging around for food to eat. I think I
spared him my change one time. His eyes were hollow now, and held the blankest
stare I’ve ever seen. I sat with him most of the time, just trying to console
him. Unfortunately, all that I said was hardly even acknowledged, and the poor
boy just stared at the wall. Funny, though, as soon as I whispered in his ear
that I too was a pouffe, he seemed to stir. He still
didn’t say much, but his eyes were kinder towards me, and I saw him smile a few
times. I let him hold my hand.
While the others slept one night, I stayed awake, watching over the boy. It was
the first time I had seen him sleep all week, and he seemed very peaceful. His
eyes slipped open later that night, and I gave him a small smile as he roused
himself from my shoulder to sit up beside me. Andrew looked blankly at the
wooden door that locked us in, and then after a moment of listening, he began
to whisper to me. He told me that he had only done what he had to, so that he
might eat, and that he wasn’t a bad person. It broke my heart when his little
protests began to break up, and his cries pierced the previous silence.
I held his hand close and pet his head, whispering my own comforts to him. A
few minutes later and he had calmed again, still gripping my fingers with his
own. It was in the slow progression of morning that he began to speak again,
and his request shook me to my very soul. He asked me to pray with him for
forgiveness, and with tears in my eyes, I began to do so. He held my hands, and
I could tell that he didn’t even know where to begin, so I started that same
prayer I had heard countless times during service, and I led him to what he
wanted... The sobs that shook his back moved me, and I felt my own heart
clenching as I spoke, making it hard to breath. Eventually I could hardly find
the will to breath, and I pulled him close in an embrace. When I had caught my breath,
and finally found the ability to speak again, I began to tell him the story of
the saved sinner- how Christ had promised him eternal life that day because he
believed and confessed.
He kept weeping and holding onto me, and I wasn’t sure what to do as he began
to rattle off all of the things he was sorry for... I heard Thomas rouse from
the cell over, and his normal rant began to shake through the walls, broken
speech about Andrew being bound for hell. A great desire consumed me, and I
pulled Andrew closer, whispering insistently in his ear scripture I had read.
...and He shall wipe away every tear from their eyes; and there shall no
longer be any death; there shall no longer be any mourning, or crying, or pain;
the first things have passed away. And He who sits on the throne said, 'Behold,
I am making all things new.' And He said, 'Write, for these words are faithful
and true.' And He said to me, 'It is done, I am the Alpha and the Omega, the
beginning and the end. I will give to the one who thirsts from the spring of
the water of life without cost.'
The sun had crept in to light our room. And then the door squeaked open, and we
both looked up startled. A guard stepped through the door, bearing a grim
expression reserved for those who know the wrongs they commit. Andrew trembled
again and pulled me close once more for a final embrace. He sighed out a phrase
of gratitude and then stood up, lifting his head and squaring his shoulders. I
didn’t understand... but he never came back.
I couldn’t sleep that night, and the rat that scurried around in the hay of my
bed was only a small part of this. I was so confused and scared. Was I to be
hanged? Would I ever see the other side of these prison walls? Would they find
this journal and condemn me to the same fate as poor Andrew?
Then a gentle sort of voice began to speak through the wall, and I crawled
close to be near it. The words were unmistakably French, and I wept for the
simple sound of it. The melodic rise and fall of Rene’s pitch finally led me
into sleep, and I dreamt of home. Of you and Chevalier...
That next morning a foot nudged my shoulder, and I opened my eyes wearily to
see that familiar coat of scarlet that I have come to dread. The fellow was
awkward in his composition, and unable to conceal my irritation, I asked him
what the bloody hell he wanted. He said that I was free to go, and that a few
of my customers, those consistent and respectable patrons, had spoken up for
me. I was innocent and free to take my leave.
Walking out of that cell, reeking of my own filth and the horrid stench of my
unwashed body, I felt completely degraded. Thomas and Rene were gone.
Daniel was waiting for me, Nickolai’s friend, and I
nearly pulled him in for an embrace. We were both glad I spared him, however, and
he is currently preparing me a bath. Please excuse the smudges... I am happy to
announce that my shop is unblemished, and that my bath is ready... so I must go
for now.
What faith is mine...
4 April 1805
Daniel has been helping out around the shop lately. He told me that he knew
something was wrong when I didn’t show up at the theatre to fit the performers
for their new costumes, and then he came looking for me. I must admit that I am
surprised that anyone would make that effort to recover me from jail, and
actually believe I was innocent rather than guilty. What’s even stranger is
that he is an Englishman. He’s getting married soon... and has seemed a bit
fidgety. I think he’s a bit intimidated by the prospect of marriage. It is a
large commitment, after all, and it requires fidelity.
I’m not much of a person that can give advice on things like that, but I
explained that it really wasn’t so hard when you found that right person. Of
course, his match was made by his parents, and if he doesn’t concede, he’ll be
cut off from his inheritance– and I understand she has a rather large dowry as
well. I imagine he’s quite screwed then, but what do I know? I didn’t tell him
that, of course, rather I said that he would get used to it in time, and love
could be expected to develop. He believed me, the sap. But then the truth came
out, he wanted to know if perhaps he could convince me to create him up a suit,
and maybe her a gown... I agreed, and he followed up by saying that he would
only come to me for future clothes purchases. Ridiculous.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately. My time in the prison has left me somewhat
baffled inside, because I have never known such feelings as the ones I contain
now. I could be bitter about all of it, but strangely, I am pleased. Pleased to
have met Andrew in his time of need. God Almighty had a hand in that, sure
enough. I am just awe struck, though... that He would use a sinner as low as me
to do His work. I am left humbled. Who am I that He is mindful of me? Mum said
He loved all of us the same. Maybe that’s why I like Him. She also said He
forgave. That’s even better.
To receive any mercy in times such as these, when my people are oppressed and
spit on.... I welcome it with open arms.
I’ve prayed this past month for Nicki’s return, because I honestly don’t want
to live without him here beside me. I can’t find any reason to try. He is my
heart’s companion.
Daniel knows how to cook.
After these past two weeks I find myself growing more
and more dependent on the actor that has quite suddenly made himself my room
mate. I found out the other day that he had been evicted from his flat, and
thus he needed to satisfy his parents wishes if he
wanted that money. I found the courage to tell him that he was completely
ridiculous, and that he needed to find a job that would sustain him and his
womanizing habits if he wished to continue them. He asked me if I needed an
assistant, and I told him I wouldn’t pay him. He seemed a bit put off, and I
readily explained that he had been earning his keep- and if he had a mind to
charge for his help, then I’d charge him for rent. He stopped bugging me.
I told him that he best find his own place because I didn’t think Nicki would
appreciate his presence, despite their friendly relation, when he returned. He
appeared rather upset, and I know he dismissed me as still being in denial, so
he said nothing to debate me on the subject. He tried to set himself at ease by
muttering a joke about Nicki being more happy to see
him and me, and I did my best to make him more uncomfortable by just staring. I
told him that I didn’t think that would be the case. He stopped smiling, and
just appeared nervous. My job was through.
I tossed him a jacket and told him to fix the buttons while I started on his
suit. He had requested it to be of a very gentile material, with nice brass
buttons (that would be painted to look like gold) and a breast pocket to hold a
rose. I told him the pocket would be there for his handkerchief, but he seemed
adamant about putting a rose there as well, the fool. If he messes the material
up with a thorn, I will ring his neck.
He said the service would be on the seventeenth, and that his parents had
picked him out a nice plot of land in the country. I am just relieved he will
be out of my home by then. He is a nice fellow, but his lack of faith disturbs
me. He had the nerve to ask me why I thought Nicki was alive at one point, and
I asked him why he thought he wasn’t. He told me that Christian Stanton had
been responsible for the murders in the area, as well as Claude Mersault, and Rene D’Arcy.
Rene... I asked him if he believed in God. He said he was a good Christian (I
doubt that) and of course he did. I asked him how he knew God was there... he
couldn’t answer.
I think I made him reconsider his position on the matter, at least. My firmest
argument was that I could feel that he was alive. Not a very strong
point at all when it comes to hard evidence, but you know... He invited me to
attend his wedding, as a witness, and I accepted his invitation. There will be
free food, I understand.
It’s nice to have someone to talk to during the evenings. He’s usually a pretty
quiet fellow though, so I don’t mind him too much. Not to mention that he is
quite handy when it comes to mending clothes. If there is mending that needs to
be done, I usually give him that while I work on my bigger projects.
I should be finished with that suit by Friday. The coat is a lovely shade of
blue (to represent fidelity), and his breeches as close to white as I could
find without them looking incredibly tacky. He will look very sharp in this
concoction, and his bride will look very fancy indeed. I have designed the gown
to have lots of flowing layers to make her look like an angel. It has a very tiered look, but not directly stacked. There is a light
blue ribbon, matching the color of his jacket, that
will run around her waist and tie into a neat bow in the back. I have also
designed her veil to have the same blue colored ribbon spiraling around the
wreath. She will look gorgeous.
I think pink roses would look very nice, if they must have them. Red is much to flagrant, and white would just blend in with all of the
other colors of the wedding.
I am more partial to lilies myself. Nicki liked daffodils. I think the two
would make a pleasant arrangement, but I am not a florist.
Daniel is now complaining about pricked fingers and sore joints... I can’t help
but laugh.
I think after I am finished with these two outfits I shall begin making Nicki a
new pair of pajamas for his birthday.
I can’t wait for him to come home and enjoy the celebration I’m preparing! No
guests, of course... but it will be a very festive occasion regardless.
Well... back to work!
Well, the wedding was a complete success. The bride,
Anna, looked beautiful, though a bit uncomfortable with that piece of silver
tucked in her shoe. She carried a bouquet of pink roses, just as I suggested,
bound together with white and blue lace. Daniel seemed completely breath taken.
Despite previous doubts, I think they might make it. That is if Anna proves to
be sexually competent. For both of their sakes I hope she is.
Both sets of parents were present, as well as a young woman by the name of Susan,
a friend of the bride. Daniel’s parent seemed very pleased with themselves,
though both mothers seemed to share an odd resentment towards each other. I
suppose that is only normal. Susan and I were designated to sign as witnesses
to the union, and Daniel and Anna were pronounced as man and wife. It all went
over very smoothly, and I was pleased to see it was a simple ceremony instead
of those ostentatious shows. There was a small reception where a few of the
couple’s friends joined us. We all shared a small dinner and then the newlyweds
left to begin their bridal tour.
I had a glass of wine, only one, and I can not even begin to explain how
wonderful it tasted. Sure, I do enjoy tea, but every once in awhile I do long
for that strong flavor and unearthly buzz. It is better however, that I have
quit drinking for drinking. I have also made a very good move towards health by
abandoning my cigarettes for some cheap peppermints and toffees. The night
ended successfully, and the men and women migrated back to their homes, or
perhaps to other parties.
I, on the other hand, traveled to a relatively unknown café that is home for
gamblers and other people note fit for decent society. I love this place in
particular because of the small group of performers that frequent it late in
the evenings. They consist of about three women and four men, Spanish and of
the Roman descent- gypsies. Like I said, this place is not a place for those in
a higher class. They had come out of Spain to avoid the troubles that Napoleon
was brewing some years ago– had parents and grandparents that had survived a
great many years in the ghettos, and it was from them that they picked up their
cultural inheritance.
They show up at this little bar, the Lion’s Rose, and transform the quaint English
atmosphere into something completely different. A guitarist, a singer, and
someone that’s entire purpose is to clap, all take the tiny platform stage and
begin to fill the rowdy hall with an enchanting music. The other four begin to
dance, and they teach willing Englishman– or anyone really– the steps.
This particular night I wandered in just to listen to the music and enjoy a cup
of tea, when I noticed that Susan, the Anna’s friend, had followed me in. She
seemed a bit thrown off by the uncommon behavior of the people in the tavern,
especially at the number of catcalls she received when she walked in wearing
her nice church clothes. I made my way to her side so I could protect her if
needed, and she awkwardly asked me about the music and the tan-skinned men and
women who were performing. I explained that they were gypsies, and that they
were dancing.
Surprisingly she seemed incredibly tolerant (which is really hard to find in
those with “good” breeding), and I asked her if she would like to learn. She
agreed, and I took her out onto the small clearing that served as a place for
couples to dance. I proceeded to teach her the steps I had learned years prior,
but I proved to be a miserable teacher. One of the dark-haired gentleman broke from his partner, and asked if he could cut
in. Seeing that she seemed completely up to the task, I nodded my head and
stepped away. He swept her off her feet... and his partner, the lovely Rosalyn
stepped up to me, flashing a white smile and a
glittering eye. She swiftly descended upon me, and vulnerable as I was- without
a partner-, she easily overcame my reluctance and had me lead her in a very
intense dance.
Her dark black hair reminded me of a gentleman I had once fitted for a marine’s
uniform, but all thoughts of him were quickly dismissed when she pressed her
bosom close to my chest and lifted her knee so that she might wrap her leg
around mine. I was somewhat dumbfounded, but dipped her all the same, coming
face to face with said bosom. I blanched a bit and righted her. She only
laughed flirtatiously and pulled me back to her for another dance. She was a
dangerous little minx, completely seductive in every manner of movement. A regular Jezebel. Of course, the more we danced, the more
inclined I was to slide my hand down the curves of her very neat blouse, down
to the graceful round of her hip.
Yesterday evening I beheld the very interesting process of how a spider
finishes off its prey. First is the simple catch. A fly, for instance, is
buzzing around, oblivious to danger and its situation, and it winds up tangled
in a very sticky web. The spider waits for the fly to buzz for a few seconds
before making its slow approach. It slaps the fly when it settles to hear it
buzz again, and then it scuttles off to the end of its web... and then again,
it attacks. This process continues for several minutes until the fly abandons
its protests all together, and then the spider finally makes its last approach
and wraps up its meal. The situation tonight was a lot like that.... but
continuing...
It was hard not to smile, and I’m sure I seemed like quite the indecent fellow
with the grin I beared. She met it with her own,
however, and the dance seemed to only increase in passion. Her eyes were a dark
brown, and I could not keep myself from looking into them. They were very
fiery, and the arc of her eyebrows lit my curiosity to a growing flame.
Some say that the Romany are capable of reading minds,
or casting spells, and I am of the mind to believe them. Rosalyn looked at me
as though she knew all of my secrets, and was sincerely hostile in her attempt
at seduction. Quite honestly, she rubbed in all the right places. I was stunned
when I found my lips pressed against the exposed flesh of her neck, colored
like rich honey (tasting more like salt). Even more stunned when our tongues
were entangled in a fiery kiss. Snake.
Indeed, I was a very lucky man when that seemed to be all she wished to claim
from me, for at that moment, I was entirely her servant. The
Devil. Her wild eyes bore a delightful glimmer, something that revealed
her satisfaction in having produced the results she desired. I felt
powerless... Lead me not into temptation...
I finally felt as if I had been released when the song ended, and I looked over
to find Susan completely in the same state as I had been. I begged the
gentleman’s pardon, took her by the arm, and led her from the pub to the
streets. After a minute or two in the fresh air, she snapped to her senses and
began to apologize for her intrusion on my privacy, and that she would not do
so again. I walked her home... and then proceeded to make my way to my own- the
fantastic beat of those claps still causing my heart to quicken in memory.
Certainly it had gone to my head as quickly as alcohol. Amazing
and completely insane.
Nicki’s pajamas were lying on the table when I got home, and I sat down and
finished the final hems, still baffled by the entire exchange. I blame it on
spells and cunning. But needless to say I am looking forward to taking Nicki
there some evening...
I have not managed to find anything to place on the inside of this locket aside
from my portrait, so I shall put it in my sock drawer until I can. I have more
than enough gifts ready for Nicki’s return tomorrow for him to be happy. I
finished his pajamas, silk, and they are lying out on the table very nicely
folded. They are the color of his eyes and the perfect compliment to his hair.
I cannot wait to see him in them. I cannot wait to see him at all of course,
but this will really make his day. I also constructed him a new pair of
slippers out of the spare material.
That is not the only gift that I have waiting for him though. In fact, I have
something much better that he will adore completely. He’s the little ball of
fur sitting curled in my lap- a fluffy kitten that has bright blue eyes, and a smokey siamese complexion. He is
much too cute for his own good, and I am very fond of him already. He has slept
most of this day, however, since he is only just a baby. I have taken the
liberty of naming him Alonso. He won’t replace Chevalier, of course, but he
will help us recover— I hope.
He has a very friendly disposition after he overcomes his initial shyness. I
think Nicki will absolutely love him, and they will become quite steady
companions. His soft purrs are making my own eyes sink, so I am afraid I cannot
carry on much longer.
Nicki will be home for his birthday tomorrow, I can feel it... Darling man...
I will explain my preparations on the morrow!
Nicki is twenty-four today! I am sure, however, that he is actually only
sixteen in mind, as always. I have to admit that I am sometimes blown away by
his child-like attitude towards life, but it is refreshing to me as well as
everyone else he meets. There are not many people who have such an optimistic
outlook, and it seems that the less fortunate, who are born with cynicism
engraved in their very souls cling to these optimites–
eventually strangling them with nooses of sarcasm and pessimistic comments.
I think that was the reason he left. I had started to ignore him for the past
couple of weeks, simply because he had started to mope around. There had been
something going on in the theatre I believe. Lots of late night practices and
lots more time he had the opportunity to interact with Christian. I had stopped
attending his rehearsals, because they had become so frequent, and I had lots
of work to do... I think he thought I was neglecting him. I didn’t want to try
and romantically woo him the evenings though, because he seemed so tired. I’d
make dinner, but it never tasted good, and so he would usually redo it... but
those are just some of the problems we had, you know? I really think Christian
had caught his eye as something more refined than me (with his appearance I
cannot even begin to guess why) and he had made up his mind to try and seduce
the fellow.
Perhaps it was never fair that I had simply swept him off in his first
relationship and never gave him the chance to explore other options- but we
were right for each other, so I didn’t see the point. Seven years just seemed
to be the marking place that distinguished us from a fling to a very steady
relationship, you know? I’ve learned that this doesn’t mean I should feel safe–
that I should always continue and make sure he knows I adore him. I never told
him I loved him though, and that must have been a major part of it. I’m just
afraid of those words... But I know I don’t have to be anymore, and I will tell
him today when he comes home. He’ll never be left to guess again.
I’ve cleaned the entire shop- the floors, the windows, dusted the shelves. I’ve
made sure that all of my clothes were very neat and tidy, and I ordered some
food from Café Magnifico to be delivered here later
tonight- one of our favorite local places to eat. I have a variety of pastas
being prepared, including some hot garlic bread, and a bottle of wine. I’ve
prepared our bedroom by actually making the bed, and placing the gifts (aside
from Alonso of course) over the spread. I’ve set out a few candles so we might
be able to stay up later tonight and catch up, and have bought some pastries
and new tea so that we can wake up early and catch the sunrise in the morning.
I don’t know what will happen when he comes back, how I will react... If I should
run to him and pull him into my arms, or if I should simply stand there and
smile... I really have no idea. Every time I dwell too much on it my heart
begins to beat quickly, and my throat feels dry. I am very nervous. From this
point on though, I will let him know just how much I love him– even if the
simple words are stuck in between phrases of sarcastic sentiment. After all,
time is too precious to let it slip away.
In time I do intend to “propose.” I have yet to pick out any sort of ring I can
give him (a very new custom that is starting to catch on at ceremonies–
intrigued me at Daniel and Anna’s wedding), but I have actually gone out to
look. I think I might tie it around Alonso’s neck with a ribbon whenever I
decide to do it– and then just peep around a corner and watch Nicki from my
hiding place as he gets it. It will be amazing to watch the realization creep
slowly into his expression, watch his eyes light up and his breath catch in his
throat (he always does this when he is surprised). But from there I am not
entirely sure of his reaction....
Alonso is playing with my string– and I shall let him. I will get back to you
tomorrow- hopefully- but I may be too busy confiding in Nicki to tell you
anything anymore. You’ll just be a date book! Hah!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He never came.
I took the untouched pasta down to the street corner yesterday, and fed every
one of the beggars that were sitting around. I drowned myself in the bottle of
wine, and I’m suffering from a very large headache now.
Alonso is constantly getting into my sewing kit and removing the spools of
thread and unwinding them. He doesn’t mean to make me angry, but I find myself
ready to snap at any minute now. I haven’t eaten in a day, well, aside from
those crackers I found in my pantry. There is not much to say.
I am quite done with the world, it seems. A man left broken, and I’m not sure
what to do with the pieces yet– slit my wrists, or try and patch things up.
Both seem rather ridiculous options. I think I’d rather just sit around and
stare at the kitten that depends on me for food and water, and remember that he
would miss me at the very least.
I am afflicted with a massive hangover, and I am very sick over the thought
that Nicki might have never made it to twenty-four. It makes me ill, and I
presently am going to head into the loo and try and
get some of this up.
It was very unwise to drink that whole bottle.
Life is unkind... and being an Irishman is f---ing
awful.