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Post by jackson warren on Sept 3, 2009 3:42:48 GMT -5
A murderer walked these streets. Surreptitiously he wandered through the web of alleyways, and among the unbeknownst citizens of London. He had a way of disappearing in the most conspicuous of settings. It was a quality he had learned long ago, when his own life had been precarious. He knew London as if he had grown up alongside her. Traipsing her waterways, and back alleys were done with hardly a thought. He knew how to remain out of both the public, and the police's eye. Huddled with eyes cast downward, even the rats paid no heed to his shadowed form. Silently he slipped between the yearning masses, blood coated on his rough hands. It seeped into the crevices of his palms, filling in the gaps of the wrinkles of life and love. The blood rubbed slick like oil between his fingers, though thicker with the warmth of life. The smell had burned into his nostrils - the rich, sharp copper odor that released as the knife bit the skin. He pulled his hands up into the cavities of his sleeves, partially hiding his stained hands from view. He had killed countless of men - fathers, uncles, friends. Brothers. Cousins. Still he remained free. And yet, he held himself shackled by his own construction of chains. Jackson Warren was no murderer in the eyes of justice, but solely from the view of the mirror.
It began to rain. The rain never made the city any cleaner - it seemed to pull all the dirt to the surface. He didn't bother to seek shelter - he was only a street over from the shoe cobbler. As the rain fell, it seeped into his charcoal coat, weighing it down. His dark, wet hair strung plastered to his ashen face. As the rain began to unravel his appearance, he was beginning to look more like the wild monster he saw himself to be. A gutter close-by gushed rainwater into an overflowing barrel. Pushing back the sleeves of his sodden coat, he lifted his blood-stained hands to the water. The cow's blood washed away within a moment, revealing his pale callused hands beneath. He had gone to the tannery to order a shipment for the cobbler, but had been interested in their work and soon found himself handing hides over to the tanner. With his hands clean at last, he gave a futile swipe through his soaked hair to keep it back. But as the rain continued, it fell again in front of his deep-set eyes.
Without the need to look, he turned on Hertford Street and saw the faded wooden sign, "J. Sullivan's Shoes", swinging gently from the rain, a mere three houses away. Picking up his pace, he longed to be sitting in the back room, next to the fire as quickly as was possible. In the months following that day, Jackson never believed so much could amount due to one infinitesimally moment. As he approached the stone stairs leading up to the shoe cobbler's door, a small group of women of wealth and their chaperone were leaving the shop. They had begun to file into a waiting carriage, when another young woman rushed out the door and began to walk down the stairs far too quickly for how wet the stairs had become. The stairs were ancient, and had been worn down to a smooth finish. Jackson had nearly toppled over them on dry, clear days several times. When he saw her foot slide over the edge of the third step, he instinctively lurched forward. Her soft, petite frame collided into his, toppling her bonnet off her head. His strong, steady arms reached around her back for support as she slipped into his hold. The rain never ceased as their solitary figures stood intertwined, and he stared into jade green eyes he had the uncanny feeling he wouldn't forget.
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Post by genevieve whittier on Mar 9, 2010 5:48:40 GMT -5
 The morning light painted gray across the plush carpet, curling about the hem of her jade satin dressing gown. Its touch was filled with apathy; light with no warmth. Her gaze did not waver as she took in her still, distorted appearance in the reflection of the window. Hands clasped firmly in her lap, tendrils of blond curling about her face where they had escaped the confines of the thick plait she had worn to bed, green eyes watchful, fearful. This was a test – a game whose rules Genevieve knew she would never learn. Upon waking that morning her husband had accused her of being incapable of following even the most mundane requests. This was why she sat, unmoving, unfeeling. He had shoved her into the chair and commanded her to remain still until he returned. Time passed in lengthening shadows and cooling tea, in the whispers of the staff as they moved about performing their daily tasks. The horrors the lady of the house suffered at the hands of her husband were not unknown to those who worked within the pristine white walls of the home. They were paid for their silence, rewarded for their loyalty, and Genevieve knew that none wanted the tides of her husbands anger to shift. She remained isolated from the world, every action dictated by him. It was in this solitude that she was the most free. No matter how domineering his actions, Reginald Whittier would never control his wife’s mind.
“Why have you not dressed yet? The day is no longer young. What would my friends think if they were to call and you remained thus?” Regniald’s low voice chaffed against the silence, breaking her reverie. Freedom was replaced with reality, her shoulders stiffening in automatic response. Still, she did not move, did not utter a reply until he gave her permission to do so. Her gaze remained fixed, watching as he drew closer until he stood behind her. His hands slid over the top of the whicker chair, forming themselves around the soft curve of Genevieve’s shoulder. He leaned down, his breath warm against her ear. “You have done well, my wife. I am pleased. You know my expectations.” Turning her head, Genevieve brushed her lips tenderly against hers, fighting against the bile that burned her throat. His hands trailed upward, grasping her neck as he held her to him. She had learned better than to protest and gave herself over to a kiss that caused her breath to still and the blood within her veins to freeze. Pulling back, he smiled, taking her hand. “Come, let us see about getting you ready for the day.”
Genevieve followed him dutifully to the wardrobe, offering no opinion as he selected what she was to wear. Her only words were to offer a soft agreement to any question he posed, no matter how demeaning. She hated herself for continuing to be a pawn in his sick games but didn’t know how to fight back. Her survival, she had often thought, was revenge enough. She would continue to fight – continue to exist as herself – until her last breath. Existing was the only part of her former life that remained.
“I believe this shall suffice,” Reginald declared, retrieving a drab gray wool traveling suit and holding it up for her inspection. Like everything else in her wardrobe it had been expertly tailored to ensure she looked immaculate by his side. Thin bands of black velvet piping served to further enhance her figure. She had only worn the garment twice before and, like everything else in her wardrobe, she hated if because he had chosen it for her. “I cannot risk you this afternoon,” he continued, moving toward her. “We both know what a temptress you are and of how dangerous it is for you to be without me at your side, hmm?”
“I thank you for your good council, my husband,” Genevieve demurred, hating the way lies now flowed freely from her lips. “Where is it you would have me go? I do worry when I am out without you near.”
The responding smile was proof enough that her response had been what he wished. “Given your newfound compliance, I thought you might benefit from running some errands for me. I’ve some shoes that need the cobbler’s attention. See that you are back before I am from work. I worry about what trouble you may get into without my supervision.”
- - - - -
She didn’t know what time it was. Shortly after she had set out for town the clouds had reclaimed the sky, erasing the murky light that had been her sanctuary. Rain slid is small rivers down the carriage window and Genevieve found herself wondering how it would feel to be that free – to land without worry and exist purely within the moment. There was nothing calculating or determined about rain. It came and went without thought to its impact. Today it slowed their progress through the twisting streets. With each stop, each delay, Genevieve felt fear press leaden against her chest. She must hurry, must not waste a second for she had no idea how many she had. While her flushed expression had been met with bemusement at the bakery and stationary shop, it had garnered her no sympathy at the cobbler’s.
A gaggle of young girls tittered in front of her, giggling over this ball or that tea as they regaled the owner with all the reasons their shoes had been worn down. She hated them for their naivety and dreams; for the sheer knowledge that they still had the opportunity to achieve the life she had once dreamed of. Forgetting decorum she had cleared her throat, eliciting irritated glances from the girls before her. But it had done what she had desired and they had quickly finished their business and prepared to leave. Hurrying forward, Genevieve placed a small cotton sack on the counter. “Forgive my haste,” she murmured as the cobbler took the bag from her. “My husband is expecting me and I fear I have lost track of time.” She wasn’t sure why she was babbling to this man she had never met. Companionship, she thought, she merely wanted to hear a voice that did not condemn. His eyes met hers then, deep brown and sparking with silent understanding. “Will you return to fetch them in three days time?” he asked gently. “I cannot say if it will be myself or a servant. I shall tell them to ask for Whittier. My husband, Mr. Reginald Whittier, works at the bank. If you could arrange payment with him I would be most obliged.”
“Ah, yes, I do believe Mr. Whittier has an account with us. I… I trust he is well.”
“As ever,” she muttered, turning to leave.
Her husband was a topic that she did not care to converse. She never knew where his ties were or when it would stand as another test. The wrong word could ignite his temper, creating another chapter in the horror she endured. Another bruise, another transgression. Genevieve could no longer associate each bruise with each action he had found fault in. Straightening her bonnet, she pushed the door open and hurried down the steps as the chime continued to sound.
She was so consumed with returning home before Reginald that Genevieve no long paid attention to her step. The wooden steps were slick, water pouring between the slats like a waterfall. She could feel her step slipping forward, her hands reaching instinctively for the handrail but finding no purchase. She felt herself falling forward, slipping through the space. A startled gasp escaped her lips, her eyes closing. But where there should have been dampness and cold, she found herself collapsing into warmth. Strong arms reached around her to keep her upright. And though she knew his actions were merely to save her, Genevieve had forgotten that an embrace could contain warmth and be free from fear.
Raising her eyes to meet his, Genevieve felt herself fall into their cerulean depths. She could not find the words to ask him to release her. She knew that even once he did, she would never be free again.
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Post by jackson warren on Mar 28, 2010 3:25:35 GMT -5
His fingers sunk deeper into the thick wool of her dress as he held her for another moment. The rain poured down incessantly, like strumming fingertips running up and down his soaked body. He couldn’t look away from her jade eyes as they stared back. He knew he should – but something held him shackled. He was searching in her eyes, his gaze quivering to and fro as he sought to find whatever it was he longed for. A second passed.
Then another.
His eyelids fluttered as he drifted his gaze away. Releasing her from his embrace, he glanced up and away swiftly as he nodded his head curtly. “You should be more careful,” he said gruffly, but in a compassioned tone he was surprised to hear slip through his lips. “Good day ma’am” He trudged by her, careful not to touch her again, and headed into the shoe cobbler’s shop. Thankfully, the store was empty as Mister Sullivan worked on repairing the sole of a shoe. The old man looked up - his glasses perched on the end of his long, thin nose. ”Good God lad, you’re as wet as the rats. Head to the back and dry by the fire.” Jackson nodded his thanks, and plodded off, leaving wet imprints of his shoes behind.
The backroom was a cramped storage room for anything Mister Sullivan didn’t want seen in the main room. Buckles, belts, soles, and polish were stuffed into a medley of open drawers. An odd assortment of leather strips and laces hung from beams on the wall. Another door led to the alleyway outside. Peering out the fogged window, Jackson was glad he hadn’t opted to come in through the back – water gushed like a rampant river, pulling along with it a wide array of filth and debris he didn’t wish to know where it had come from. When what looked like the carcass of a dead rat floated by, Jackson turned away to the fireplace. They had a much larger, open one in the main room but back here was just a little black pot belly stove. He opened the door and chucked a few pieces of wood in from the basket beside it. The smoldering fire immediately consumed it and began to blaze. Pulling up a small stool, he edged himself closer and rubbed his hands near the open door.
He sat in the same position for awhile – his broad shoulders hunched into a mangled expanse of bone and muscle, his callused hands mindlessly rubbing together near the open grate. Images of America bled into his eyes. He wasn’t trying to stop it – these were the moments he found comfort in. They were a thick blanket, enshrouding his shuddering frame when there was nothing else that could. He could almost hear his father’s soft, yet commanding voice call out from the fields of barley. It was becoming harder to remember his father’s voice. All he had now were fragments – the boom of his laugh, a gentle shush to get him and his siblings to sleep, the string of words “don’t wear out those soles” and a few aimless others. He held to them like a drowning man to a plank of wood. He knew he would lose them eventually, like the rest of his memories of home – fading into the gray of the thick sky above.
”Jackson!” He suddenly turned around to see Mister Sullivan’s balding head poking through the backroom door. ”I’ve been calling after you for hours lad! I almost think you’ve got two bad ears. Can you get Missus Terrence’s order? She’s coming ‘round the crook in the lane.” Jackson nodded in reply, and combed his hair hastily back with his fingers before grabbing three boxes from the corner. Walking out, three overtly decorated women came bustling in the door. The mother was followed by her two daughters who looked over at Jackson coyly. He ignored them and placed the boxes on Mister Sullivan’s desk. ”Thank you Jackson. Here you are Missus Terrence – two buckled, and a buttoned boot. Jackson, can you start on the Whittier shoes?” He handed Jackson a pair of men’s shoes, the seams frayed and soles worn out. Nodding silently again, he took the shoes and sat by his desk near the large, open fireplace. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the two girls continue to glance in his direction, whispering to each other until one of them boldly stepped forward. He glanced up from the shoes, his eyes connecting with a pair of bright blue eyes. She smiled timidly, but he looked back down to his work. Clearly vexed he hadn’t been swayed by a girl of higher social standing than himself, she quickly followed her mother and sister out with a pout contorting her dainty features. His mouth twitched in the shadow of a smile.
He pulled out a balm and began working it into the worn leather. As his mind eased into idleness, unexpectedly his thoughts fled to jade green eyes. He wished he could understand what he had seen there – what he had been searching for. He was unnerved by it, whatever it was. A second passed.
Then another as he continued to think of her, mending the soles of the shoes – his own worn down to nothing.
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Post by genevieve whittier on Jun 19, 2010 3:17:34 GMT -5
She could still feel the warm press of his hands against her arms as the carriage moved her away from the small shop. Her fingers idly traced where his had been. The mark the strange man had left upon her could not be glimpsed in bruised skin or fading lines; his touch extended deeper, touching a piece of her Genevieve had forgotten existed. It had been too long since she had felt safe, protected. In that fleeting moment she had been given a gift from a stranger – one she could never repay.
Closing her eyes, Genevieve rested her head against the plush green velvet interior and closed out the world around her. As a child she had believed in fairy tales. There had been tales of far off lands filled with dashing princes and fair maidens. In those places there was always someone to rescue the damsel and those who lived virtuously received their happy ending. She had believed that one day she would exist in a fairy tale of her own. Even in the first year of her marriage Genevieve had believed that someone would recognize her husband’s cruelty and rescue her. Instead her unhappiness was ignored and the servants refused to meet her anguished gaze. As time extended Genevieve gradually realized that her beloved childhood stories contained more fantasy than truth.
In the end, it wasn’t about who saved whom, it was about the ability to be saved.
The other man’s eyes haunted her thoughts. Their shadowy depths locked on hers, searching for something; lingering long after they should have averted. Her pulse quickened with the memory and she knew she had to see him once more, but how? Inspiration came in the form of slender black boots.
Reginald was certain to be furious by her negligence, she thought as she reached forward to loosen the laces. Her gaze flickered toward the driver frightened that should he notice her actions that he would report them to her husband. If the driver noticed her slip the shoe off her foot he made no indication. Her teeth pulled apprehensively at the soft flesh of her lip as she hesitated. Instead of the stranger’s hands upon her she could now feel her husband’s – twisting and bruising. Her carelessness would not go unpunished, but as she twisted her heel loose so it might break as she stepped from the carriage, Genevieve found that she no longer cared.
- - - - -
“Whatever am I to do with you?” Genevieve winced against Reginald’s grasp as it tightened around her arms. She remained silent as he shoved her back against the bed, his tall frame an intimidating silhouette against the flickering glow of the candles. “I work hard to ensure you want for nothing and you take it all for granted – my hard work, me. Surely you must have something to say for yourself.”
“Please forgive me. It was a mistake. I did not pay attention. I am most fortunate to have a husband who is so forgiving of my faults—” Her words were silenced as his lips found hers. She had overheard the servants discussing stolen kisses with their sweethearts one afternoon as she toured the garden. They had talked of how the moment made their senses come alive, their veins sparking and the heat upon their lips. She had never experienced anything aside from fear whenever Reginald had kissed her or chosen to lay with her in their bed. It was not proper to discuss such things amongst her friends and she had just assumed the lack of emotion was merely another reality she was to accept. Tonight, however, her mind wandered. Perhaps it was not the act of kissing that brought about such feelings but whom you shared it with.
Closing her eyes, Genevieve performed her duties as wife while imagining a different life.
Morning had found Reginald in a more agreeable mood. As they dined together she had feigned interest as he discussed various aspects of what his day would entail. It was likely to further instill an appreciation for the life he provided. She longed to point out that of the shoes she had brought to the cobbler’s, only one pair had been hers. She had no desire to foul his mood, especially not when she had a request to make.
As it turned out, her request was not necessary. As penance for her carelessness, Reginald saw that it was only fitting that Genevieve return to the cobbler’s with her shoes rather than trouble one of the servants. The night before, as he had questioned her about the errands he had made her run, Genevieve had made a point to describe the cobbler with additional distaste. Over the course of their marriage she had discovered that when she truly wanted something it was best to pretend that she didn’t. Reginald preferred to give her what she did not want rather than what she did. “And when that old man sees you again today, be certain to tell him how foolish you are. I would hate for you to mislead him.”
“Yes, my husband,” she replied, fervently hoping that it would be his apprentice and not him that she would converse with.
- - - - -
The narrow staircase was easier to navigate without the rain. Dampness clung to the stones lending a fragrant musk to the street rather than the usual stench. Her hand rested on the door’s handle as she hesitated, suddenly self-conscious. If he was there, what would he think about her returning so promptly with another pair of shoes in need of repair? Not that he was apt to care one way or another. Willing away the nerves that fluttered tightly in her chest, she opened the door, cursing the chime it made as she stepped into the shop.
Her breath stilled as she took in his muscular frame once more. His back was to her, bent over a task at a nearby workbench. For a moment she considered just placing the shoes on the counter and leaving before he noticed her. But more fervently than that, she hoped that e would see her there. Clearing her throat, she took a tentative step forward. “Hello?” she said, her voice softer and more cautious than she had intended. “I’ve returned…”
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Post by jackson warren on Dec 28, 2010 4:15:35 GMT -5
His callused hand ran over the leather shoe like a caress. The once worn, beaten shoes now gleamed as if new. He often liked to imagine the owner of the shoes he fixed and patched. The lives they existed within, and the streets they walked down. Sometimes he was right, sometimes not. He liked to believe he was getting better though. He rubbed his thumb around the edge of the shoe’s tip. They were a dark bone black, and with the word upon his mind, the image of a burning pile of dead Union soldiers flashed across. He gritted his teeth and smudged a bit more polish on his rag. Shoes bone black, they were worn out more on the heel rather than the forefoot. He stepped heavily, with no lift to his toes. This was no easily light-hearted man - he stepped in stride and purpose. The tip of his shoes had been scuffed however – a nervous tapping? Or perhaps a stuck door that would often have to be prodded open? Jackson hummed as he polished and pondered.
”Jackson? What are you singing?” Mister Sullivan asked and smiled as he looked down his thin nose and through his spectacles at Jackson. Jackson stopped polishing for a moment and thought. What song was he singing? He nodded his head with the rhythm, and then lost words somehow came to his lips as he mouthed them silently,
“We are a band of brothers and native to the soil
Fighting for our Liberty, With treasure, blood and toil
And when our rights were threatened, the cry rose near and far
Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star!”
Fear quickly soured his insides, and he turned abruptly back to his work. It was “Bonnie Blue Flag,” the tune all the Confederate soldiers knew. He remembered trudging along at sunset, their infantry moving north in an icy winter. All the boys with their backs hunched, and their free hands stuffed under their arms in an attempt to keep their fingers from turning black. The whole world was gray, as their uniforms blended in with the gray trees and charcoal fields. He remembered believing he would never see green again. Then one voice started - nothing but a thin cry above the crunch of feet against frozen dirt. But soon enough, they all found their voice, and sung through cracked lips and dry throats. And at the fifth verse, they were able to sing above the paling quail as they cheered,
Now here's to brave Virginia, the old Dominion State,
With the young Confederacy at last has sealed her fate,
And spurred by her example, now other states prepare
To hoist high the bonnie blue flag that bears a single star.”
That song had been able to warm him ever so slightly on that cold evening. ”It be nothing Mister Sullivan, just a yarn I heard on the streets on my way here.” He tended to the shoes, hoping Mister Sullivan had not noticed anything off. ”Hm,” he replied, staring for another moment at Jackson. ”Haven’t heard of it before.” Suddenly, the laces of the shoe he had been working on snapped in his hands as he pulled them upwards. ”Blast. I need to fetch more laces and perhaps a meat pie. Can I trust you to take care of the shop? I won’t be but an hour.” Jackson nodded and turned back to his table as he heard the bell above the shop’s door jingle as Mister Sullivan left. Jackson wondered idly what had happened to those men he had marched, fought and froze with - if they were still singing “Bonnie Blue Flag” with a hope that they “Like patriots of old we'll fight, our heritage to save; And rather than submit to shame, to die we would prefer.” The bell suddenly jingled again, breaking the rhythmic silence of his work.
”Hello? I’ve returned…” The thin feminine voice surprised him, as he had thought it to be Mister Sullivan. He turned slightly and pushed against his knees as he rose up from his workbench. And then he met her jade eyes.
He faltered for a moment, but quickly found his step as he walked over to the front desk. He wiped the polish off on his smock before grabbing the accounts book. ”Are you…” He traced a finger down the list, wondering which name would belong to her, which shoes and story were hers. ”Miss Simpson?” She shook her head - loose blonde curls swaying around her face. ”Miss Watson?” She shook her head again. And then his finger rested on the name for the bone black shoes. ”…Mrs. Whittier?” She nodded, her gaze thrust towards the shoes she had placed upon the counter. He nodded in reply, quietly reaching for the pen as he marked off her name for the previous shoe, and wrote in the new orders. His handwriting had always been sloppy - his mother had said there had been no hope for him. As he rounded off his 2, he wondered what her handwriting looked like, the girl who stood with downcast eyes. He shook the thought from his head and blotted the page before closing the book.
He roughly grasped the men’s shoes, noticing the same wear on the heel and tip. He picked up the laced women’s boot - the heel dangling from a thin piece of leather. Otherwise, it was in near perfect condition. Not even a scuffmark. Most London women’s shoes were actually in worse wear than their husbands, from their dancing and house calls. But not her. He went to his workbench and retrieved the newly resoled and polished shoes and placed them in a box. ”Here you are. The other shoes should be ready in three days time.” He usually was anxious to turn away from the giggling and inane girls who visited Mister Sullivan’s. But she made the silence feel weighted.
”I hope you don’t slip once I fix these, missus.” He looked up from the shoes, hoping she would remember that rainy day. And when he thought the moment almost too long, she glanced up. And he saw green once more.
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