5Title- The Sanguinary Martyrdom
Author- 4give4get
Rated- T
Disclaimer- Don't own.
Serena- Hi, hope everyone enjoyed the last two chapters enough to give three a shot… Anyway, here it is.
Chapter Three; The Many Uses of a Burlap Sack…
The bed in my room was atypically large, the vast mattress of the thing spreading at least three feet in width. When I would sleep on it, I tried not to sleep on the end because I would turn over and see how far away the other end was—a vision which was strangely vexing. And yet I could not comfortably lie in the middle, because I felt horribly lost in the covers.
Truth be told, I missed my bedchamber back at Ferndean—though I would never allow admitting it. I had slept in that room for as long as I could remember, and still kept the small wooden steps I used to crawl into my bed when I was a little girl. The walls were lovely shades of pink and had much floor space, without being uncommonly large. The shelves were lined with china dolls. When my hair needed a trim, my mother would cut it with her scissors and then make it into a doll wig. So each doll had the same straight, dark hair I possessed.
I named them too. There was Violet. And Keturah. And Jade. But lately, I had only been using them to hide things from my parents in the hollow sections of their heads. I thought it was quite clever, actually.
This room had no pink walls, and lacked the smiling, painted faces of Violet, Keturah, and Jade. Having spent all fourteen years of my life at Ferndean, I was painfully not used to such places as Suicider's Ridge. My life had been full of pretty things and nice experiences. So the reader must know that I was rudely awakened—no pun intended—when I opened my eyes the next morning to see that the previous two days had not been a dream, a product of my imagination, but real, unfeigned life.
I can safely say that I was not used to things being so real.
The gray hurt first. Then as my ebony eyes went back towards the gates out to the balcony, I shuddered remembering the bloodstain. What would I do? What could I do? I considered instantly writing to my mother as soon as I could find a bit of paper and my pencil stub and beg her to convince my father to take me back. I would even promise to curb my tongue! I even sat up, kicking back the covers and was about to reach for the headboard to pull myself to my feet, but then pondered more on the subject.
What on earth had I been thinking? Melanie Rochester didn't beg people! No, she certainly did not. Besides, I had faith that I was much, much eviler than any aspect of Suicider's Ridge. If anything, they should all be scared of me! Why, they didn't even know what I was capable of! I eventually did reach for the headboard to pull myself to my feet like I had began to do before, but this time, lifted a delicate-looking glass vase off of an end table and with my other hand unlatched the doors out to the balcony. The morning wind tousled my uncombed, unbraided hair and I rubbed the cool glass against my cheek.
Mornings in London were no less gray than afternoons. The sky was still overcast, and the whole world looked more like a photograph than real life. I walked with my bare feet and in only my thin nightshift to the ledge and cracked my arm behind me, throwing the vase as hard as I could into the large back window of the smaller house behind Suicider's Ridge. I was vaguely interested in which glass would be sturdier, the vase or the windowpanes. I was not in suspense for long, however because the vase went right through the window before shattering on the inside floor of the house. So in the end, both broke.
Laughter bubbled up to my throat and I began cackling in a way the reader might expect for a troublesome, malicious girl. Just wait until they found the broken window! I wished I could be present for the scene, just to see the reaction as result of my deed, but soon realized it would be unlikely to happen. I shrugged and went back inside to get dressed.
Reader, I wore a gray dress with my sludge-covered boots. I simply tucked my hair behind my ears and out of my face and wore it as I usually did. Kate snickered at me as I passed her in a hallway and I simply watched her walk off, pondering deeply on the subject. That girl had made a dangerous enemy.
I joined Adela, Captain Elliot, and my aunt Fairfax at the table for breakfast. I knew she was my aunt because she was an older lady I did not recognize. She seemed to know I was her niece, for she rose and kissed my forehead. I smiled sweetly at her and Adela.
The meal had not yet been served, but somehow everybody seemed fidgety. I coughed deeply and then spoke up, "Where's Thomas?"
Adela looked uncomfortable, and frantically searched for something to occupy herself with, and the first thing she could think of was to refold her napkin, apparently. Aunt Fairfax looked as confused as I was, and Captain Elliot looked rather reluctant.
"I honestly am unable to answer that question, Miss Rochester," he said, swallowing deeply as he rubbed his damp palms on his trousers.
"Why would that be, captain?" I asked, meeting his eye directly, causing him to quickly glance away from me.
"That would be because I am not informed of his whereabouts. He disappears often—do not be worried for his sake," I was told, as I glanced at the door.
"You do not like him," I commented rather openly, and Adela and Aunt Fairfax coughed and suddenly found that their skirt needed straightening.
"Now supposedly it might seem that way—"
"Then why do you allow him to stay?" I wondered.
Captain Elliot just made more unintelligent stutters and I plowed on though his half-said phrases, "Is it because you pity him after what happened to his father?"
And Reader, I knew in a second that my supposition had been completely accurate by the reactions of my questionnaire had received—both by Captain Elliot and by those who witnessed the whole scene take place—Adela and aunt Fairfax. As a querist, I had an uncanny knack of doing just that. So my guess had been right—but did that mean that it justified for the awkward position it put me in, until my aunt Fairfax suddenly made a point on a different subject entirely, and conversation started up once again? In retrospect—yes, I suppose it did.
Breakfast was served. The second odd thing I noticed about Suicider's Ridge (besides that boy, Thomas) was that they all ate mushrooms for breakfast. They had been fried brown, and then boiled in gravy and served like mushroom soup. At Ferndean, breakfast had always been toast with jam and cold milk. My bowl was set in front of me and I eyed it strangely and with utter suspicion did I lift my spoon from the surface of the table and submersed it into the creamy, mushroom soup. It did not smell half-bad.
"Go on," Adela encouraged me, "Those mushrooms were grown right here at the Ridge. They are behind doubt the best I have ever tasted!"
I nodded and lifted the spoon full of mushroom soup, and eyed it once more. My intuition guided me against it. It confused me at the time, and the grumbling in my stomach finally won me over and I ate the mouthful on the spoon. It was hot, and tasted much like mushroom soup would normally taste. It was perfectly agreeable, and I silently laughed at the folly of my being suspicious about it. It was just a bowl of soup, honestly! Thomas's tale of all that had died within the house had me on my toes, and unnecessarily cautious. I smirked and continued to eat. Only a few homegrown mushrooms…
Later, Thomas decided to show up again. And I remembered it was all true—Thomas's father had committed suicide and Captain Elliot felt sorry for him and put up with him. He knew his power over the old man as well. There was likely nothing he could say or do, to not be allowed back again. It was more like he owned the place, honestly. And he was a violent boy as well. He spoke loudly and brashly and took pleasure in topics such as blood, or death, or cruelty. Adela and aunt Fairfax seemed quite unhappy in his presence, and Captain Elliot just stared at his feet the whole time. I, however, was hardly miffed by his behavior—for I could match it if I wished to.
I was also raised with boys—my brothers, for instance. I knew how uncommon they could be at times. Although, I will allow neither Alton nor Bradford were ever like Thomas. I suppose I was just more prepared for it all.
"Ah, and I suppose you noticed the house behind ours, Miss Rochester?" he turned on me.
"Do call me Melanie," I snorted, remembering the vase more than the house itself.
"Would you like to know who is currently residing there?" he asked, walked over and taking a seat directly across from me. He leaned foreword until his face was close to mine and I could see every fiber in his brown eyes. His cinnamon-colored face was twisted into a smirk.
"I have no objection to it, if that is what you are asking," I answered, meeting his glance without fear—something no one else in the house had been able to do, mind.
"Walter Denison," he explained, leaning back in the seat leisurely, "Have you heard the name before, Melanie?"
"I have," I replied shortly. And I told the truth. I was not a large reader of newspapers—especially London ones, but the particular story on Denison I had not missed. Although, I do not recall much of it. Only the name and that he had been arrested in London.
"I suppose you know him as the serial killer who lured young girls into his house making all kinds of pretty promises to them before slicing them up and putting them into burlap sacks," he seemed to be trying to disturb me. And though both Adela and aunt Fairfax were horrified, I did not bat an eyelash.
"And how would he be living directly behind us if he is a known serial killer?" I asked, skeptical of the story altogether.
"He was arrested that is true," Thomas allowed, sitting forwards again to speak to me, "But you should also know that he was tried and then set free—all charges cleared, though the evidence of his being guilty was undeniable."
"If it was as undeniable as you say," I countered, scoffing, "He would not have gotten off scot-free."
"Read a newspaper," he argued his point onwards, tossing one in my lap, "The media is loving it! People are outraged. They all know he is guilty."
"And yet set free?" I finished for him, looking at the newspaper myself to find that he was absolutely right. Reader, I was not good at being wrong. I rarely ever owned up to it. Even after realizing I had been mistaken, I would continue to argue a point I no longer believed in, and even often won all the same. I bit my lip and wondered what I should say.
"And what has he to do with us?" I asked, finally deciding on what to counter with.
"He lives directly level with the balcony to your bedroom, Melanie," he told me, as if I needed informing on where my bedroom was in position to that man. I had already been considering just that. I made a note to lock the doors that night.
"Let him come," I snapped, "And we shall all see what he thinks of me then!"
I imagined what I would do if I were to be rudely awakened by a man stumbling in through the balcony doors. I pondered on the subject. I could possibly quickly jump up, grab the lamp on the bedside table and throw it at him and aim for his head. That would muddle him for a second, in which case giving me the time to hit him multiple times with the wooden desk chair until he was finally unconscious, and I could call the police. Or hit his unconscious body some more—whichever I felt like doing.
"He would not come to you," Thomas corrected me, grinning, "He would lure you to his own abode—were you listening to anything I was saying?"
"Now that," I said, smiling, "Is even less likely then him coming through my balcony."
"Oh?" he questioned, "Denison is quite smooth with words—he has to be in his line of work."
"It would not matter how smooth of a talker he was," I interjected, "The plain fact that he is a murderer would hurt his cause in the matter."
"That does depend on the victim would it not, Melanie?" his brown eyes looked back into mine.
"Fine," I agreed, "For me, words whispered through a murder suspicion lose all charm."
His grin returned and he said no more. I may have won the discussion, but in my mind, I had lost. I went to bed (locking the balcony doors) and quickly fell asleep. Reader, I dreamt that a tall, dark man stuck a long, thin buttonhook through the balcony doors, and came in, dragging a burlap sack behind him. I woke up with actual sunlight coming in through the windows and tears dried in my eyes. Beside myself, the room was completely empty.
End Chapter
Serena- Over and out.