-Home. A Penny Dreadful Story - Chapter 3-

-Home- A Penny Dreadful story
by deafield


John and Ophelia sat in silence, the man eventually leaning back evidently taking in everything that had been said. The woman sat back as well giving him time, flipping through the book of Keat’s work and sipping her tea. Of course, he would have known the poem, she thought. It seemed to get through to her friend very clearly at the least. She still felt the touch of his lips to her hand lingering, which kept bringing a flicker of  a smile to the corner of her mouth.

Every once and awhile she peeked over to see the John deep in thought, his fingers sliding over the rim of his now empty cup or wringing his hands lightly. His expressions went from peaceful to grieved, tears pricking his eyes once more. But they seemed to finally land on acceptance before he spoke.

“I dare not say the words that, even hinting at their essence, caused someone pain. But I feel the warmth of your feelings and how I wish to be able to give such warmth back,” His voice was still shaky, body and soul recovering from too many hardships, “I can’t lose you if we continue like this. Too long have I been alone, Lia. I dare not become used to the sun’s light only to be thrust back into the dark again.” He was back to wringing his hands together, head downcast. He seemed haunted by memories, the degree of their atrocity she could only imagine. She dare not let him linger though and put down the book and reached over lifting her friend’s chin to make sure he was here with her and not trapped behind the wall of his past as he so often seemed to be.

“You’ll never lose me. The light in the casement burns ever bright, no matter the distance or time. You are that bright torch for me, blazing the brightest in darkness but never snuffed out by sunlight.” The man’s face softened as she spoke, but yet she felt compelled to stand and go next to her friend, loosely wrapping her arms around his neck, her hands dangling over his chest. He leaned his head against her arm and grasped her hands with his.

“ Do you think you’re God will be displeased to know you pray to another?” he said quietly, his breath warm against her arm as he slowly moved his fingers over hers. His tone was light, even sounding a bit droll. She found herself elated to hear his voice lift from its previous despair.

“I think he will understand considering it was his plan. But will you forgive yourself the day you find someone to pray to, even if it is not my God?” The man gleamed with laughter.

“If you mean yourself, I may not keep a sanctuary as you do in my mind. Instead I have a small garden I tend to, with all the flowers that faith brings and scouring for weeds of doubt.

In that place, there is never darkness only a shaded trellis of your compassion which I sometimes  lie under when the sky grows cloudy. The rain tastes of conversations in dark places which water the generous blossoms.

But yet it may not be all the fancy a gardener could feign, but it grows healthily all the same.”
The man finished, his eyes closed and mouth pulled into a contented grin as he spoke seeming to be roaming this garden of imagination.  She did not recognize his words as any poem she had read and felt a knowing grin creep into her.

“As easy as breathing, as I said before,” she said kissing his head jovially as his eyes opened and he came back to this world. She continued, “I think you’d surprise yourself if you actually start writing such things down. And now you have no excuse.” she released one of her hands from his to pick up the journal and wave it around before he grasped it from her and put it back down again, amused. She released him from her hold as he picked up the pencil and opened the small book to a new page. As he began writing she stood behind him, her hand on his shoulder fingers curling around a loose piece of hair. She hoped he was focused enough to dismiss her actions as she has always desired to caress his long charcoal locks. Once he had written down all he had said to an extent she allowed herself to comment.

“ I do wish I could visit such a place, though I might grow tired of the lack of night. Without it, the day becomes harder to appreciate, does it not?”

“I could never grow tired of it with you, I think,” he said back almost without thinking. Ophelia giggled,

“Such a romantic you are. But I do hope there will be no griping when I pull you from the shadows.” She continued to play with the same lock of hair thoughtfully as the man put down the pencil and closed the journal. He turned his body so he was looking at her as she sadly released the strand of hair she was holding,

“Is it all this simple? Such confessions of one’s deepest feelings? All these unsaid strings of actions built up until the heart bursts with  words to explain them… Love I always assumed would brim more heavily with metaphors and rhyme.” He was smiling, finally having to have accepted all that had been said in such a short time. The woman grinned back at him,

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