SYNOPSIS:

Esabelle, a young musician in 1920s England, is caught in an abusive marriage with her ex war server husband, Sebastian. After many nights of hiding away and trying to protect herself, Esabelle slips away to watch the sun rise. To her amazement, Sebastian is not in the house. Taken from my period romance/thriller, The Duchess of New York.

APRIL 15, 1922

I imagine my face and palms pressed against the glass, the condensation turning the gardens into an effortlessly smeared watercolour. I imagine that I could stay pressed against the glass for hours. I would never feel bothered here. I look from the lobby to the pantry and back again. I can only just see the light of the pantry from where I am standing; it looks so snug and small with its single oak cabinet and warmly lit skylight. It almost looks too snug. I imagine that if I had a telescope pressed to my eye, the lobby would be a stark expanse of space, and the pantry would be the bright buckle of Orion’s Belt. I feel lost in the lobby as I would in space, as if I am searching for answers or for a sign that I am not the only form of life wandering these dark imaginary corridors. I know that I am going to feel lost until I know the whereabouts of Sebastian, just as I imagine I would feel lost until I stumble across a foreign matter lurking behind the burning shells of Mercury or Venus. I do not know why I am saying these things, not really. It almost sounds as if I want to be found. It sounds as if I want to be found by these monsters. I already have to live with the monsters inside of my head. My mind must not be at all right if I am willing myself to look for more. I will feel safe as long as I feel lost, I tell myself. I collect the tails of my night dress in both hands and pad back across the lobby, as quickly as my heavy legs would allow, all of the silence lost against my heavy breathing and the pounding of my heart. My eyes well up as I go through to the porch. I wince through the layers of congealed mascara and mucus; it makes my eyes sting. The pressure from the storm is pulsating around me, making it hard to think straight. I look up to the cottony sky, as if the answers to all of life’s problems are hidden up there somewhere. I want to speak, but nothing is worthy of being said. My head is as busy as a church yard on a Sunday afternoon; I can’t find a beginning, I can’t find a halfway point and I certainly can’t figure out how I got myself here. “I am lost, God,” I choke back my tears in the hope that it will be enough to say a few words to my former Lord. I wrap my cross around my hand so many times that it begins to pull on my neck. I want to choke myself with it. I want my pain and anguish and my lack of self-worth to be over. I don’t want to feel the heaviness under my eyes anymore. I throw myself into the side of the house, back first, and allow my body to fall weak as I hit the ground. My stomach hurts. My head hurts… and if I allow myself to think about everything that has happened up until this point, my throat begins to hurt, too. I tighten my fist. I rip the cross from my neck. It makes an excruciating crunch, as if the harnesses of God had just been wretched out of my life. I turn it over in my fingers until the face of his son is furthest away from me. His words have been nothing but lies. His promises have all been broken. He lost the honour of being united with my blood many years ago. I must and will always remember that. Gut-wrenching, cold, non-descript. Gut-wrenching, cold, non-descript. Gut-wrenching, cold, non-descript. My chant turns into a pathetic mime as I allow myself to think- or not to think, rather. I plunge the cross into the back of my forearm until I feel a release. The liquid cools the minute it hits the surface. It is ruby red. It is beautiful. It is a beautiful reminder that I am still alive. The Lord may have ripped my soul from my chest, but not my blood. My blood is mine and mine only, and I will not let him have it. I hang my bloody arm over the side of the porch, allowing the rain to pump it from my veins. The water is turning the red into a blushed pink, as if it is washing the badness away. A soft, croaky voice breaks the silence of the porch. “Mrs Fielding? What are you doing out here?” I do nothing to move. My arm feels numb from the rain and the cold and the blood. I couldn’t move, even if I wanted to. I sit in solemn silence as if I’ve absolutely lost my mind, waiting for my new found company to speak again.