The Angel You...

The tea has gone cold, still sitting on the table in the bone cups painted with flowering hyacinths. Your cup has a chip on the rim, from where you dropped it last year; in spite of the flaw, you won't let me replace it. I set it out for you, like always. I'm the early bird, so it follows that I make breakfast.

It's been six days since you left. To the hour; I counted. You didn't drink any tea, just packed your things in purple canvas and let the door slam behind you. Mea culpa, because I was a bad girl and forgot to brew it early. Lazy little girl slept in that morning, only to be woken by the bang of wood on wood.

Of course, I made up your favorite blackberry as soon as I realized you'd gone. It's waiting for you. Might need to be warmed up again, but that's easy. I won't make the same mistake twice; darling, you'll never go tea-less again.

I turn and stare out the window. There's not been enough rain this summer, so the lawn is brown and brittle. "Water the lawn" goes onto my mental to-do list, right after "dust the library." Glancing down at my stained dress, I add "do laundry" as well. It's not so much that I've let things go, just that...well, I've had to guard your tea. There's always the very real risk that a spider will get thirsty and too curious and what else am I to do? Dresses will wait to be washed; dust and grass aren't going anywhere.

You, on the other hand, are going everywhere. Everywhere but here.

You'll never be here again. I killed you with my pretty knife, drove it deep and again until the red life streamed down your ivory arms. I tried to cut you into my perfect shape until you screamed and slammed that door behind you without any tea. I never really knew you; tried to nail the mask on.

Or did I?

I stand, the chair creaking, and cross the room with silent steps. Cobwebs adorn the wing chair, the peach-velvet sofa, the mantle with its still and ornate clock. This place ought to be condemned. It ought to be burned, and the ground sown with salt.

The lace trim of my skirt catches on another tack as I climb the stairs. You see, moths seem to have been at the carpeting in the six months since you left. There's not much can be done about them; I never even saw them come. Now, much of the blonde wood beneath shows through large, ragged holes. Has it really been long enough for this to happen? I wouldn't know; I've been too busy keeping watch over the tea. It's for you, you know, and thus very important.

It's not the tea, not at all. That's not why you left, and I know it. It could have been fear, or love, or anger, but it wasn't the tea. Maybe you were tired and needed a new, softer, less threadbare bed to rest on. One whose mattress wasn't all lumpy from too much use, with a shiny, new brass bedstead.

This one is certainly dilapidated enough, I reflect, looking around the bedroom. But the big, gilt mirror over the vanity is still the same, except the layer of dust over the glass.

You sat at it for hours, brushing all that shining hair and laughing. I was always a little match with you, burning small beside your tall, golden candle. You cast enough light for both of us, and all without me doing a thing to deserve it. Six years ago, when everything was beautiful and perfect, I couldn't even see the edges of your mask. You blended it so well with makeup at this same mirror; I loved to watch you.

The mirror is haunted now, regrettably. I have only to come close, perhaps to examine the gold-painted vines and roses (those brown stains on the petals never went away, after...), to see the ghastly apparition in its glass prison. Dim eyes surrounded by purple peer at me from a face the color of chalk. Bluish-black lips frown disapprovingly; stringy, dark hair hangs in limp tendrils over bony arms. And, in the middle of a bodice that was once surely light blue, a ragged-edged hole offers a view of the room's back wall. That bodice is a travesty, spotted with dark brown, crusty stuff; she really should try to find a washing machine in the mirror world. I bet it's on her to-do list.

I came here first because I had to know if it was true, so long ago.

Now the window. I walk (silently again, because the skirt can't tear here) to the cracked expanse and look out. Those brown stains on the sill and glass, similar to the ones on the mirror, would they scrub out? With enough hot water and soap, perhaps? How did they even get there?

I came here second, to watch you leave. Sadly, my bloody handprint remains on the whitewash; it's probably soaked into the wood by now.

Don't worry, dearest. I'm not vindictive. I know you did it because you love me.

You hope I've moved on, hope it with all your might. Hope it desperately. I know from your visits, the flowers, cards, and photos you've placed on the steps. How they've become less and less frequent.

You did it for the same reason that you hate me, that you've tried to put as much distance between yourself and this house as possible. I know the reason, as surely as I know that you're never coming back.

It's because you can't deny me. I happened, and what we were is never going to un-be.

It's been sixty years since you shot me. To the hour; I counted. But I'm still yours. Still waiting here, a broken doll that no-one else can touch, and guarding your tea.