Catharsis

2014-00-00 Catharsis img01“It’s late, Will.” A sharp gaze pierces the gloomy air, sweeping the untidy study with a mix of concern and resignation. “Nearly the witching hour.”

William pauses for a moment before he carefully moves his hand to the side. The quill’s dark tip hovers over a spattered square of thick paper and slowly drips a fat drop of sable ink. In the dim light of the smoldering hearth, the dark spot glistens ever so faintly with a deep red cast. When it finally splatters quietly on the creamy but sullied scrap, John is reminded of darker rooms and deeds darker still.

“I know,” William murmurs dully. His watery eyes are fixed on the words that he has written, and on the empty space below them. “Did Meg send you down?” he asks in the same tone: remote and weary.

John shakes his head. “She’s given up on that, I think. The room was dark when I passed it.” He runs a hand through his lank and sandy hair, but he doesn’t mention the solitary, muffled sob from behind that door.

John understands better than she does, and knows what cannot be changed. Continue reading