The birds were chirping.
The sun cast a bleak ray inside the cold, large mansion.
The lady of the house sat on the rocking chair, cradling a photo album. She wore rounded spectacles on her already ovoid face. Long strands of hair fell on both sides, curling at the very end. She had amicable features; large, circular kind eyes with brown iris, and a nondescript nose. Her lips were thin and even the slightest hint of a smile revealed her glossy white set of teeth. The menacing dimness of her surroundings were a vibrant contrast to her pale skin and white dress. She looked, for want of a better phrase, like a kindly ghost, sitting alone in that chair. She was looking outside the window now, at a tree; thinking about something intently, when the loud footsteps from above brought her shuddering back to reality.
“Aldous” a low pitched voice beckoned.
“Yes, master” an adenoidal voice replied and out of one of the many corridors, a butler appeared; hunch-backed and apologetic.
The owner of the deep voice, who was the master of the house, descended from the stairs to the floor. He was a man of bulky stature, like giants in myths. He looked positively intimidating. The magnificent curls of his moustache and his sculptured facial features made him look cruelly handsome. The stray strand of hair flitting on his forehead was just a touché. He walked up to his wife, kissed her lightly, and then addressed the butler again.
“I won’t be back till late, Aldous. Don’t hold off your Lady’s lunch or dinner because of me.”
He wrapped the regal green overcoat tightly around himself, as a barrier against the cold, and was making his way out when his wife stopped him.
“Benedict.”
He pirouetted gracefully:
“Laura, darling.”
“Where are you going, love?”
Her voice was so soft and peaceful, but the pace at which she delivered her words was fast, too fast. It lent a sharp jab to her sentences. Like a playful mockery.
“I’ve to meet the vicar”
She looked outside the window at the tree, and smiled, which almost turned into a grin.
“So early in the day?”
He shrugged.
“I’ve quite a few issues to discuss with him”
“Pray, lose that coat. Winters gone. You’ll get blisters.”
Benedict cringed at this comment and off-handedly remarked:
“No honey, winter is not gone, rather it’s coming.”
“Oh” her eyes narrowed. Then she sighed, and continued looking at the photographs.
“Well I’ll be going then”
She didn’t respond. She was too busy looking at the beautiful boy in the picture.
Benedict nodded absently and left the mansion, shutting the door with a thud.
Tears welled up in her eyes as she continued looking at the photographs and reading the captions on their backside.
Their wonderful child, dead at the mere age of 10. Today was his first death anniversary: it would be exactly one year since the horrible fire took him away. She’d herself sustained a head injury. But it was inconsequential.
Did Benedict even remember the date of his death? Probably not.
He was too busy shagging that harlot.
Cheater
Going to the vicar
Telling her it wasn’t summer, but winter
Liar.
She gritted her teeth, and her brows furrowed. She hadn’t wanted to think this way. But then she’d smelled the feminine fragrance on his clothes. She found this fact incredulous albeit oddly believable. He was cheating on her.
She started playing with her hair, and wondering what went wrong in their marriage. What did she not have that the other woman had? She was the daughter of a duke, of royal blood, and who was she? Just a simple commoner. What had she not given him? She had abandoned her education and her ambitions. Everything because of him. And this is how he had repaid him. By being disloyal. By not even gracing her with his presence today, out of all days.
The other woman must be real pretty. Or maybe just really good at her “art”.
She looked around, and then made up her mind.
“Aldous”
Like a djinn, the butler blinked back into the large room where Laura sat.
“Yes, my lady”
“Go to your quarters. Send every servant and help away too. Leave me be.”
The butler tilted his head and grimaced.
“As you say”
He started shuffling out of the room, and then while extinguishing the fire out of the fireplace, turned back to say:
“Should I give you, your medicine, right now, Madam?”
She got up from the chair, with the intention of retrieving a knife to kill her husband.
“No, Aldous. Not today.”
Late in the night, Laura still sat on the rocking chair. The moonlight was lighting her face up; aggrandising her gorgeousness. She still had the album open. She heard the gates open outside. The rattling of the iron bars audible over the quiet of the night. Benedict’s heavy steps were distinct and definite. Laura heard him fumble for the keys. He gasped as he realised the door wasn’t locked. He walked into the room.
He saw Laura. Not exactly surprised. His guilt didn’t need to register, he realised. The drunkenness was plastered all over his face.
“Laura, my darling.”
“Excuse me.” There was finality in her voice. And a strangeness that Benedict immediately understood. He rushed towards her, and grabbed her by the arm.
“Tell me, where are your pills?”
Laura looked at him confused.
“What are you saying? And how did you come in?”
Benedict stepped back and stared in horror. She had forgotten. It might be too late now.
“Why are you staring at me like that? Who are you?”
Benedict broke down.
He embraced his wife tightly, sobbing on her shoulders. His breath smelled reeked of alcohol. He wailed loud into the night, unleashing all his grief and sorrow. He didn’t want to cry in front of her and make her condition worse. He had tried to drown all his misery through alcohol, alone in the pub. But it all amounted to nothing as his hysteric crying worsened.
Laura tried pushing the man away, who had her in his strong grip. Her head ached. Fortunately for her, she saw a knife close by, and without much thought, pushed it into the mans back.
Benedict let loose a muffled cry.
And then landed on the floor with a thud.
She sat beneath the tree, as a new dawn emerged. The sun lit up her blood stained face. She leaned against the shovel, her bare feet on the freshly dug mound of dirt. She tucked her hair behind her ears; trying to piece together the events of last night.
She had killed someone and her head ached.
Something small and hard plopped on her head and dropped on the grass beside her.
A berry.
She looked up.
The branches of the tree looked healthy. The yellow berries dangling off of the boughs looked edible.
They were ripe. The new season was ushering in its own blessings.
As farmers around the country prepared their crops for winter, poor demented Laura whispered to her dead husbands grave and herself:
“A new summer is around the corner.”
