It was a light tapping sound that awoke me sometime after midnight. My room was awfully light as I opened my eyes, to see where the noise was coming from. For a few horrific seconds, I was afraid that someone had broken into the house – which was nonsensical of course.
Rather it seemed that someone was shining a light into my room with a lamp. Though after hastily opening the window, all my questions dissolved into nothingness like fog on an early summers day.
“But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?” she whispered up to me.
It was Rosie, who was standing on the lawn beneath my window. Her hair was falling all around her face, a light cotton shirt hanging off one of her shoulders. A pair of slacks that looked suspiciously like they had come from the costume department of this year's Hamlet play. Childish smile in place, I had never seen anything looking more like a temptation.
“It is Rosie, and a flashlight is the sun!” I giddily whispered back in response to her oh so well thought out Shakespeare.
“Will you come meet me at the lake, Lucille?”
“At this hour?” It couldn’t have been much later than one in the morning “For what?”
“Does it really matter? Will you come to me?”
“She speaks, yet she says nothing: what of that?”I simply threw at her. But she seemed to take it as enough of an answer to turn her back to me, heading to the lake.
If someone had asked me why I so willingly went without question, I could not have answered truthfully. It had to have been a lie. Maybe I would have said that I was bored and awake, so I might as well have gone. Perhaps I could’ve made them believe I was worried about her. But truly, I didn’t know why I went. Most likely it was because she had asked me to. And that was all.
When I arrived at the lake, she was already submerged in the water. Her clothes had been discarded on the grass near one of the willows. The blurry light of the moon, tracing silver lines along her dark skin. Shimmering in the glint of the night, as the droplets of water wandered down her neck. What is your substance, whereof are you made, / That millions of strange shadows on you tend? She looked like a temptress, which, by relation, made me a sinner for just looking. But how couldn’t I find her dark eyes and want? To want whatever she would give to me. I would have done anything, had she only asked me to.
(This was a one-shot for two of my characters (Lucille and Rosie), who have been occupying my mind for a while now. It is mostly a stand-alone piece but I do have am extensive history for both of them, so if anyone is interested in details feel free to ask away!)
