starry eyed

when i shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars, and he will make the face of heaven so fine, that all the world will be in love with night. winifred littledale xxxi. the widow.

[parvcosmic]

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[parvcosmic]

E. WHITTOCK

She’s settled in bed, John holding onto her arm for dear life, finally in what seems like a restful sleep. With her other hand, she is tracing his features, gently up his nose, curling around his chin, stroking back the hair that just falls onto his shoulder. He needs a haircut. He also should, definitely, be sleeping in his own bed. But every attempt to put him back in his room ends with screaming, ends with lullabies that she cannot bear to hear anymore, and bruised fingerprints around his tiny wrists. If he has to be here, tucked against her, to be safe, then Ellie will keep her son as close as she possibly can. 

As if to directly combat the thought, she hears a sound at the door. Her heart freezes in her chest. She’s expecting nobody, and she has good reason not to open the door. John stirs against her, and she realises her hand has tightened on his shoulder. Letting go immediately, she strokes his cheek with the back of her hand, and leans forward to press a kiss to his forehead. “It’s okay, my darling. Mama’s here.” Thankfully, unexpectedly, he stays asleep, and yet, the knocking continues. 

Keeping an eye on him, she slips out of bed, reasoning that she will open the door only an inch. If whoever is on the other side is unfamiliar, they will be shut out, and the police will be rung if they don’t leave. Somehow, the fact she has a plan does not soothe her. It isn’t until she unlocks the door that she questions her own strength at shutting it again. 

Then, the door is opened slightly, and immediately flung all the way. 

The woman on the other side is one of the dearest in the world to her, and she looks devastated. It takes her only a second to bundle her inside, one arm around her shoulders as she brings her in, closing the door behind her. She locks it once more, then turns to her. Only then, do the words register. “Freddie, sweetheart, what do you mean?” 

Gentleness with Winifred is, strangely, not always present. It’s delightful, actually. She has known the woman since they were nothing but girls, silly and raw in their emotions, had once known all of her secrets. She had once been her greatest secret. Ellie is gentle by nature, a rebellion to the coldness of her mother and the roughness of her father, but Freddie predates Eleanore even having a settled nature. She had known Ellie before she was careful, when she had been loud and angry, even if the loudness and the anger had only shown themselves in private company. For a time, Fred had been the only person outside of her brothers that knew Ellie had feelings that weren’t polite. 

Her arm is still around her as she leads her to the sofa, only just realising her attire. It’s quite a distance to Winnie’s house, and the Autumn night air is not kind, and so with the other arm, she pulls the blanket that lays on the back of the couch and wraps it around her in a smooth movement. Having to move her other arm in order to complete the action, she takes both of her hands in her own, instead. “You don’t mean- Oh, good God, are you hurt?” With no idea how it could have happened, a fear strikes her own heart of something happening to the woman beside her. 

     Was this a mistake? Had she just secured her place in the papers by running from the people who claimed to be helping her? If she had, Winifred wouldn’t realize until it was far too late. Until the news would break with the dawn. Her mind had been left in the bed with her heart, no semblance of any repercussions of her actions. They could wait until she had found solace in the space of her childhood. Of the days before she became Winifred Littledale, when she was still just Freddie Borden, the girl with three sisters, desperately craving the adventure that she had only read of. That was who she needed to be now. A child who had yet to learn of the heartbreak that the world often offered. 

     It failed to even register that she had entered the inside of Nellie’s home. No sound made itself known. Everything was numb; faded far into the peripheral of her mind. This body did not belong to her, the thoughts were not her own. Did she have any thoughts? Was this in fact the afterlife? Had the roles been reversed, and she was gone whilst James found himself questioned by the police, potentially in the vicinity of a not-so-dead ghost from his past? Had she been sentenced to damnation, and losing him was her own personal hell? 

     Only when the blanket is placed around her shoulders does she begin to warm. The sensation of wool against her frozen skin allows her mind to return, however fleeting. ❛❛I...❜❜ She cannot even begin to form the word fine, as she is certain that they will both see straight through. ❛❛He’s gone.❜❜ What else was there to say? She had turned up, unannounced in the middle of the night, with no explanation other than two simple words. Words that didn’t even make sense. That didn’t even seem real. They felt foreign in her mouth, alien and unbelonging. They were not welcome here, yet they had forced themselves to make home. 

    ❛❛The police think I did it.❜❜ Of course, they had not confirmed their suspicions to Winifred, but she could sense it upon them. Shifting eyes upon interviews with the staff, snooping minds as they toured her home as though it were their own. As though they belonged there. As though she was the stranger. Wasn’t she? This was a world that she did not necessarily belong in, that she had been whisked away into, and they took care to remind her of such fact, even if they failed to verbalise such in her presence. ❛❛James is dead and they think I did it.❜❜

      They had become far more ambiguous now. Authorities and staff surely shared the same opinion on the matter. Winifred had seen it upon the face of her staff as soon as she had wailed for them to alert the coppers - her roots coming forthright in times of crisis - that they had labelled her guilty before they even entered the room. Was she guilty? Had she killed him? Given him a heart attack from the stress of situation? ❛❛James is dead.❜❜

     Barely audible, her skin moistens once again, realisation beginning to set in. Winnie the Widow. The thought forced a grin, a painful one, before it choked out the sad concoction of cry and laughter. ❛❛My husband is dead, Nellie.❜❜ Hysterical, she was sure Nellie would undoubtedly think. A state of shock, that was what she was in. Or was she in fact coming out of one? Her chest began to constrict, the weight of all that she had lost slowly sinking within. Laughter traded for a more violent sob, neglect for the time and company becoming apparent. ❛❛I’m Winnie the Widow.❜❜ 

[beautymyeyes-see]

Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude

[langlee]

“Last night I listened hard into the dark. I was waiting for a poem to you.”

— Shane Seely, from “Second Attempt at Elegy for Anthony Piccione,” Image: Art, Faith, Mystery (no. 62, Summer 2009)

[mortisha]

antigonick - sophocles, tr. anne carson.

[TEXT: “Ismene: I want to row the boat with you Antigone: save yourself Ismene: I’ll be so lonely]

[linkinmoon]

Edna St. Vincent Millay, in Letters (1952)

[memoryslandscape-deactivated202]

“Isn’t heartache sweet? It tastes of everything you ever wanted. The rain-soaked lilacs I pressed my face into as a child, knowing, even then, something I needed was there unreachable. If you’re going to touch me, I want you to drink the water from those lilacs.”

— Amy Dryansky, from “Because the Moon Is a Cliché & Not Exactly Steadfast,” Waxwing Literary Journal (no. XIX, Fall 2019)

[saintweaver]

Ron Padgett, The Absolutely Huge and Incredible Injustice in the World

[roadmotel]

Jon Ware, I Am In Eskew

[sad-house-of-mortality]

[holyisthenameofmyruthlessaxe]

The Book of Light, ‘leda 3’ by Lucille Clifton

[ID: this skin is sick with loneliness.”]

[theformerace-archived]

                                                I’ve got {demons} in my head,

                                                n i g h t m a r e s in my dreams

                                               and - DARKNESS - in my heart

                                                     but I’m still s t a n d i n g

[parvcosmic]

Opposite: Hannah James { @embczzler } Location: The poison garden gates. 

     Perhaps it had happened too soon. Her re-entry into regular life, into surrounding herself with her peers who had tarred and feathered her mere months ago. Hiding in the home she had shared with her husband had seemed the only option in the beginning, as though she were committed to an impeccable impression of Lord Ruthven. Yet it had gone on for too long; she was running dry on excuses for herself, and eventually the childhood wonder had won, and she was to accept the Ashdown invitation. 

     Winifred’s evening, so far, had been relatively quiet. Of course, she was merry, more sociable than she had believed would be possible, but the air of mourning had yet to leave her. Cobwebs formed by grief still hung from her frame, their silken pattern coveted her. The heart within her chest, though it still beat, was still broken. And no amount of crimson wine or diamond gin could heal it fully. She excused herself from conversation, slipped out the back of the ballroom, and allowed herself to be blanketed by the stars. Stars that had watched her for many nights now, watched her moan and wail beneath bedsheets, stain her pillow cases with salted water. Stars that had once been gazed upon by lovers, an arrangement of the cosmos that had brought them together, then lay in anticipation of the unfolding romance. Stars that she had wished upon, cursed, wept for and dreamed of. This was a blanket she was comfortable beneath, one built from safety that easily rivalled any childhood memento of reassurance. 

     She allowed herself a moment to break, for the façade to falter, for the tidal wave to slowly leak from the dam. It lasted mere seconds, before the presence of another upon their earthly plane disrupted her. Her hand wiped away any remnant of sorrow, before she forced upon them a sparkle that faltered once the identity of the new companion became known. ❛❛Hannah! Oh how are you? I feel I haven’t seen you all evening.❜❜ No questions, please, I beg of you, no questions. ❛❛How has tonight faired you? You look beautiful.❜❜

[inkytower]

forgive me father for i have sinned & i no longer believe in fairytales & happy endings only in tragedies & sorrows i am too young to be this sad & too old to be this naïve

Inkstay prompt #133; sinner | (e.l.)

[aseaofquotes]

[parvcosmic]

Opposite: Adrian x Location: Ravenswood Manor, Before the Rose Garden

     It was hardly expected. The invitation arrived, and the carriage was at her door. Winifred barely wanted to attend. People would stare, judge her, resent her while they labelled her a murderer, condemn her for having a ‘good time’ whilst her husband lay within the ground at her own hand. Societal events weren’t on her agenda anymore, but the invitation from Mister Ashton left no room to decline. 

     So, she opted for a costume that revelled in their gossip, Mary Shelley, and moved on with her life. Whether they cared for her or not, she had companions in attendance, of that she was sure. Mister Ashton was an anomaly. His name was unknown, his face less familiar. No stake was had in the game of knowing him, and perhaps an anonymity could be afforded. An anonymity that she had grown accustomed to; that she had no idea she wished for so deeply until she stepped foot upon the grounds of his manor.

     Winifred escaped, as the guilty always did, too sober to deal with the judging eyes, the questions that lay behind them. Outside offered refuge; no stuffy dances, gowns, costumes she didn’t recognise. The attendees would be preoccupied. Nobody would watch for her, spy her out of the corner of their eyes and whisper amongst themselves about what a traitor she was. Outside would be her solace, her refuge. Until there was a figure contaminating it. She didn’t want to intrude, but were they not the one intruding? She had decided before the carriage pulled up beside the doors that her evening would be spent beneath the moon. Regardless of whether it was a private vow, she still felt intruded upon. Yet, this was not a hill to die on. Far from it, in fact. Providing they didn’t slap her with the murderer label, she may even enjoy herself at this event yet. 

      ❛❛Do you know him?❜❜ There was hesitation within her approach, as to not startle neither make herself vulnerable for rejection. Perhaps they loathed her, believed all they read in the paper, but this way she could manipulate convince them she was true; they were merely publicised, exaggerated lies. ❛❛Mister Ashton, I mean. Never heard of him, myself. Nice house though.❜❜

[parvcosmic]

Opposite: Eleanore Whittock { @eleanorewhittock​ } Location: Whittock flat Date: Before sunrise, Autumn, 1888.

     This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. Old age was supposed to reach them, a gift from the impermanence of life, allow them decades of joy, of the sound of small feet rushing down the stairs. Of laughter, midnight dances, kitchen secrets and Christmas beside a fire. They hadn’t even made it to Christmas. Maybe it was suspicious, the way in which she’d darted from the house. Her statement had been given, no trip to the station necessary, a constant glaze over her eyes that promised her mind was elsewhere. Numb. That was the word for it. Injected with sorrow and heartbreak; her limbs were not her own, her mind was a chasm of chaos, her existence was on autopilot. There was no thoughts, no recognition, no semblance of who had gone to bed that evening.

     ❛❛I have to go, excuse me gentleman.❜❜ She did not hesitate for their response, instead exited the office that they had taken up as their interrogation room, and headed for the front door. A cook stopped her, offered her a coat with a gleam of pity and accusation in her eyes. Whether or not she had done it, she was still about to lose everything. Winifred accepted, needing help to even place her arms inside the fabric, her nightgown still being her outfit of choice, before the cold air of London morning hit her bare skin. Her feet, adorned with slippers in bright designs, marched across the cobbled streets of her home city. Few people crossed her path, all heading for their occupation, all seeing it as a regular weekday morning, all gifting her a confused glance once her attire had been noticed. Not one of them did Winifred pay attention to. They were invisible. She was alone in these streets, in this world. Only Winifred Littledale existed. Only her, and her destination. 

     A destination that she wasn’t even sure of. Her parents? A sister? Where was she supposed to go? Who would understand her at this time? None of them knew. They were all happily married, secured within their station. She was a gold digger, married above her worth, not to be trusted by the upper echelons of London society. A liar, a thief, a murderer in their mind. None of which was true, but no amount of convincing could be done. Maybe it was true. Maybe James was her meal ticket, and she’d simply taken advantage of the young man without even realizing. No. She couldn’t think like that, not now. Guilt showed easier than innocence, that much would soon become clear. 

     Before she knew, her hand perched upon a knocker, the hour too early for callers of innocence. Tears had started to fall before she had time to wipe them aside, heartbreak had commenced before she realized who’s door she was upon, mourning had begun before morning had truly rose. They fell hard, embarrassingly hard, and a broken sob erupted as the door swung open to the familiar face. 

      ❛❛He’s dead, Nellie. He’s dead.❜❜