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The salty sea air permeated Lenore’s hair, pulling the greasy locks of her bangs to cling to her pallid face. Despite having spent over a week at sea, she still hadn’t gotten her sea legs under her, not that it mattered now as she disembarked. There had hardly been a point to it when she’d spent the bulk of the journey in her bed, lost in the hazy agony of grief and tears and nightmares of the blood, endless visceral blood, and Annabel’s hollow dead eyes.
That was the point of this, wasn’t it. Annabel was dead, and it was all her fault. Despite the weeks that had passed since she’d held Annabel’s fading body in her arms, she still felt she could see the blood beneath her nails, wedged beneath the ragged edges and hangnails they’d come to, she hardly cared for things like nail-care anymore, what was the point in making her hands soft when she no longer hand Annabel to hold in them? She was undeserving of the care, the gentleness. Only Annabel had been worth the effort, not her. Never her.
She knew she’d reached England too late for the funeral, not that she’d considered crashing it even if she had, Annabel deserved a beautiful ceremony, loved by her father one final time. Lenore never cared for funerals anyway, the formality of them only amplified the grief. Theo’s had nearly been too much for her, and she was certain Annabel’s would break her.
No, she hadn’t come for the funeral. She came because there was nowhere else she could be, if not by Annabel’s side. Annabel had been the reason she felt alive again, what was there to live for now?
The walk through the miserable cold of London numbed her to the world, much in the same way the hours and days she’d spent after Annabel was taken from her. After her revenge had been enacted on Annabel’s killer, she’d been forced to flee, to leave Annabel and hide, ducked amidst the graves of the churchyard, crawling through the powdery late December snow. Her bloody hands had grown numb to the cold eventually, hips aching with every movement.
Somehow, wether by miracle or curse, she’d survived till nightfall, and found herself wandering aimlessly down the road, keenly aware of the blood — Annabel’s blood — marring the front of her suit.
Her feet for some ungodly reason had brought her to the stable of the Vandernacht Manor. Perhaps it was a death wish, something in her subconscious that knew she’d rather die than live without Annabel and led her to the execution.
Regardless, she hobbled into the warmth of the building, only to find herself creeping towards the manor’s back entrance. The late hours of the night shrouded the manor in silence, and, slowly but surely she found herself at her Theo’s door. While she was here, she might as well take advantage of the opportunity to shed the bloodstained tuxedo.
Everything was exactly as she’d left it, suitcases prepped for a “honeymoon” escape, cane propped up beside them, bedsheets rumpled into a mess at the foot of the bed, and Theo’s portrait looming over it all. Oh if Theo could see her now, the monster she’d become in his wake, he’d surely hate her. She averted her gaze and let her overworked muscles give out, slumping to a seat on the tile floor, it wouldn’t do to mar the carpet, the furniture, Theo’s memory.
Annabel’s too, her memories urged, phantoms of the conversations they’d held in this very room, the arguments, the idle sweet talk, the kisses and desperate grasps at each other, to make their bodies one. She was queasy at the very thought, that all that remained of her Annabel was the blood on her hands and memories playing on loop, interspersed with the visage of her dying breath on her lips, not the smile Lenore loved, the one that always accompanied a new game they could play — the game of them against the world.
Lenore tried not to dwell on the fact the world won.
Eventually Lenore had freed herself of the tuxedo, the last outfit Annabel had ever seen her in, and every instinct she had left told her to burn it. Up in smoke, that was the way of things with her, first the Cottage, her old name, now her dreams, and her Annabel.
The fireplace hadn’t been lit, what would’ve been the point of that, but the matchsticks on the mantle and the spare logs in their rack would be enough, and once she got it going she fed the tuxedo to it, piece by piece, until she was left holding only the rose boutonniere. It’s petals had been wilted and crushed, but still the core of the rosebud had clung to the stem. It matched Annabel’s bouquet, the petals in her hair, crowning her above her veil, the same crimson red as the blood that seeped through the silk and lace of Annabel’s wedding gown.
Keeping it was stupid, but it was spared the hunger of the flame regardless.
She dampened a few towels at the washbasin, scrubbing at her hands and face until they were raw, hoping, that if she simply did enough she could be rid of the evidence of death that clung to her, but it seemed no matter how much she scrubbed, the final traces of Annabel wouldn’t leave her. Despite the sting of her skin, she couldn’t find it in her to be upset with that.
It was quick work to dig through the suitcases to throw on a black suit, fingers lingering on the cravat as the ghost of Annabel’s smoothed it, the way she’d always fuss with it so it laid just right. Lenore could never tell exactly what it was Annabel saw that needed fixing, perhaps it had just been a ploy to be close to her, but she gave it an extra once over for her all the same.
The smallest suitcase was quickly emptied of it’s contents, replaced with the essentials, a few spare shirts and socks, toiletries, a nightshirt, the things Annabel would want her to have, even if she deserved less. The gun, the blasted gun had stayed in her possession all this time, and was tucked away beneath her coat once more, there was no good way to be rid of it anyway, now that it was a murder weapon, it was best kept in her hands. She was a twice-damned murderer by now, even if she’d only pulled the trigger once.
What needed no repacking was the most precious bag of all, where the sheet music to Annabel Lee had been laid carefully in a messenger bag, alongside a few miscellanea, Theo’s pocket watch for one, and the purse that held the funds that were to fund their life together. It wasn’t much, not compared to the Vandernacht fortune or even Annabel’s dowry that they’d need a miracle to actually get their hands on, but it was enough to get their feet under them once their getaway had been made. It wouldn’t last a lifetime, but it would be more than enough to keep Lenore afloat until the grief sucked her under.
She shouldered the bag, grabbed her cane and gave one last mournful look to Theo’s portrait before she closed the door behind her for good.
That should’ve been it, really. She had more than she deserved to make her getaway, but she was still frozen in the hallway, drawn to the door across the hall from her.
As if drawn by forces beyond her control, her hand found the handle of her door, Annabel’s door, and pushed it inward.
The room was left in a state not dissimilar to hers, bedsheets pushed into place but still notably rumpled, dressing gown laid over the vanity chair, a few trunks left open for the last few things to be packed away before their departure. Lenore nearly felt as if she was intruding on something she was never meant to see, a strange feeling to have stepping into an empty room, her childhood bedroom at that.
It was overwhelming, really, how Annabel’s touch was on every corner of the room, despite having only been a temporary guest, and a very neat one too. Lenore could see her everywhere, the way her face glowed in the firelight, how her hair spilled across the bed’s pillows, the relaxed posture she would fall into on the chaise, book in hand, when she didn’t think Lenore would be watching. If only Lenore had known how precious those moments were, how she should’ve savored them while she could.
Lenore found herself drawn to the vanity, though she flinched at the sight of herself in the mirror, her haunted visage illuminated by the thin moonlight streaming in through the windows — no one had bothered to close the curtains for an unoccupied room it seemed. Her eyes diverted to the table’s surface, scattered with a number of Annabel’s personal belongings, some hairpins littering the open space, while the rest of her things were set neatly along the edges of the table’s surface.
Near the center was Annabel’s jewelry box, a pretty little thing of gold and enamel, and Lenore couldn’t help herself from taking a peek, gently easing the hinges of the lid until it settled into its open position, an array of pieces settled on the crushed velvet lining. It struck Lenore, now that her questions could never be answered, that each piece had a story to it, that perhaps the cameo pendant had been an heirloom, passed down from her mother.
After all, the pearl earrings had a story now, the familiar droplet pearls still holding the luster Lenore had seen when Annabel revealed them at dinner that fateful evening, the evening that Annabel’s fate had been sealed. She took one in her fingers, rubbing her thumb over the smooth surface. Perhaps, in another life, she and Annabel got to grow old together, and in a wave of sentimentality they would have a brooch made of their hair, for whichever of them outlived the other to hold onto. And perhaps, that future version of themselves would reflect on their relationship, and embed one of these very pearls in that brooch.
But that could never be, and perhaps these pointless reveries would only make the grief hurt worse, missing what would never be, could never be.
The pearl slipped from her fingers, landing back on the crushed velvet once more, and she closed the jewelry box with a soft click. She had no right to any of the box’s contents, they were more valuable where they were than any price they could fetch at any pawn shop, and her selfish demand of the pearls had only led to what — tragedy and ruin? No, she couldn’t demand them again, not if Annabel wasn’t there to answer.
Her gaze and fingers trailed along the surface of the vanity, only for the slightest touch to the handle of Annabel’s hairbrush to send the thing spinning on the surface, and Lenore jerked to grab it before it could clatter to the floor. Heartbeat thudding in her ears she brought it up to inspect it closer, the painted flowers on the back, the signs of wear upon the bristles, the thin gleaming strands of gold trapped within them, the longest of which hung out in limp spirals.
Maybe she could never have a lock of Annabel’s hair the way a lover should, tied in a ribbon or glued into a locket, but she could take the scraps, the shed strands that collected in her brush, and maybe that could be enough.
The brush found itself in her bag before she could doubt herself.
She turned sharply on her heel, taking one deep breath as she took in the room one final time, only for her eye to catch on a bundle of fabric halfway tucked under the bed. Curiosity got to her, and she bent down, ignoring the way her hip screamed at the movement, picking up what turned out to be a chemise.
Annabel’s chemise.
Something in her broke at the intimacy of holding Annabel’s undergarment, the clothing worn closest to her skin, and with a raw desperation she pressed the cloth to her face, inhaling any lingering scent of Annabel it may hold.
It hit her all at once, the rosewater and lavender oils she bathed with, the hints of peony and jasmine in her perfume, and the indescribable sweet musky scent of Annabel herself. Her fingers clawed desperately at the fabric, grasping at it as if if she tricked her senses well enough Annabel’s body would reappear to fill the chemise, and Lenore could pull her close in her arms, warm and alive. Nothing like the numb cold she’d felt like last she’d held her, with none of the acrid iron scent of blood in the air to distract her from the woman that was her whole world.
She blinked her eyes open as she finally pried her nose from the cloth, and it took a moment to register that it was tears that blurred her vision, the wetness dripping down her face slowly. Shaking her head, she clumsily folded the chemise and tucked it into her bag. There was some deep part of her that knew how it looked, stealing a woman’s underwear, but she couldn’t find it in her to care, not when she had a piece of Annabel to hold onto, to comfort her through the void that her soul had become.
This time she managed to follow through on her journey to the door, and when it clicked closed behind her, it was for good.
Time had ceased meaning for her, she couldn’t tell you how many days it took her to get to the city proper, or how she made it there at that. No, all she knew was that she had found herself at the docks, and was somehow presentable enough to not be turned away at the door when she went to book a last minute room on a ship across the Atlantic.
Once she’d boarded her days slipped into a blur of a routine, where she cried herself to sleep in her cabin, Annabel’s chemise pressed to her face or grasped close to her heart, and she’d sleep the day away, until either her nightmares or the growling of her stomach woke her. The nightmares were worse, her mind twisting the sickening feeling of Theo’s dead body slumped over her own with Annabel’s dark hollow eyes, blood seeping down into Lenore even as her hands tried desperately to press upon the wound, to save her, to not fail her this time (It was always futile. She could never save her). Upon dressing, she’d make her way to the dining hall, scarfing down whatever it was she could stomach, and the rest of the evening would be spent at the bar until they closed.
Some evenings she’d wander the decks, too haunted by Annabel’s dead dead eyes to think of sleeping, the salty sea air distracting herself from the salt of her tears, and the waves would call to her over the railing, the ocean’s sweet whispers beckoning her to join them. Occasionally she could make out a blob of blonde curls in the distance (though her sober mind later insisted it was just sea foam) and she very nearly felt obliged to answer the voices echoing in her head.
Just one night, she’d made the mistake of going to one of the lounges where well dressed passengers mingled with polite laugher beneath glittering chandeliers to the tune of a band’s playing. It just so happened that the pianist was playing a piece that she’d once played for Annabel, a few familiar chords just a hair too similar to the ones she’d written into Annabel Lee had driven her to ugly sobbing, and eventually one of the ship’s staff had come to escort her from the room as not to disturb the other occupants. She never stepped foot in that hall again.
By the final night on the voyage Annabel’s chemise no longer smelled like her, and it felt like losing her all over again.
It didn’t take long for her to get directions to the right cemetery, and she took her time walking up and and down the rows upon rows of headstones, eyes desperately searching for the only name that mattered. Eventually she found it, the fresh slab of stone still holding a lustrous polish, gleaming with the dampness of snow and frost, and fell to her knees to press her hands to the stone, nails clawing to scrape ice away from every letter of Annabel’s beautiful name, tracing every curve and chiseled line.
Her lips found their mark next, gentle kisses peppered along each letter reverently, the cold stone stinging against the warmth of her mouth. Tears sprang to her eyes as she murmured Annabel’s name over and over again, like a prayer, like the vows she never got to speak, as though she knew no other word, her lips and tongue had simply forgotten all others in favor of remembering Annabel.
Eventually her energy gave out and she curled up atop Annabel’s grave, pressed to the ground as close to her as she possibly could be, her own heart beating enough for the both of them.
She must have fallen asleep at some point, because she woke to a man kicking her in the gut “Ay, You can’t sleep here,” Lenore simply blinked blearily at him. Who was he to say she couldn’t stay here, curled up at the side of her life and her bride, the one and only Annabel Lee?
Some sort of grunt was all she gave in response before she curled closer to the ground, throwing her arm over her eyes and ignoring the man. She heard him sigh, and thought that’d be the end of it, before he grabbed her foot and began dragging her away from Annabel. Yelping, she grasped onto Annabel’s headstone and kicked at him.
“Goddamn it you madman, you can’t stay in the damn cemetery”
He tugged at her body again, and a sharp jolt of pain hit her in the stomach as the gun was pressed between her body and the ground on impact.
The gun. Of course.
She let her fingers slip from their grip on the gravestone and she slumped against the ground ,“Fine fine,” she grumbled, sitting up and grasping the handle of the gun. “I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.” He seemed to step away, grumbling under his breath about vagrants and vandals.
Her finger found the trigger with ease, and if she remembered correctly, it was still loaded. She’d hardly been sound of mind to unload it safely, that’s for sure.
The muzzle entered her field of vision as she leveled it directly with her temple, and with her eyes fixed on Annabel’s name, she gave one final sad smile.
“Sorry for making you wait Annie,” she whispered to the empty air.
Her finger bore down on the trigger, and with a loud bang everything went black.
Lenore’s very last thoughts were of Annabel, smiling at her fondly with open arms.