Chapter Text
The tropical storm thunders outside, she stumbles into their rented room
a hut by the seaside
Vera had left each window open before she left. No one had anticipated a cyclone.
The sheer curtains that hang from the windows and doors are blowing furiously in the brisk wind. She leans over the kitchen table, clutching her stomach in her hands. Her face is contorting as she tries to stifle a sob. She tries to breathe slowly. Instead, her hands grip the wooden dining chair tightly, until her knuckles are white.
She’s fighting every impulse to scream as the thunder rumbles outside.
But she raises the chair above her head, her anger and devastation coiling together, fueling her strength.
Vera slams it into the floorboards in a white fury, its broken pieces scatter across the floor.
She’s started. She let the monster rage. It won’t stop now.
With a vicious swipe of her arm, she clears the kitchen table that stands in the middle of the room, it almost happens in slow motion.
Glass shatters onto the floor,
Fruit tumbles over the floorboards, rolling in every direction.
And yet its not enough.
Another chair,
Vera forces it to collide with the chandelier, suspended elegantly from the ceiling.
Glass cascades down, glittering as it shatters over her and onto the table, the countertops and the floor. Its beautiful chaos.
The second chair is still intact more or less.
The curtains flap, unforgiving in the wind, and her hair whips furiously around her face. She throws the chair hard against the wall and screams a strangled and pained cry. She screams as the candles flicker and the thunder and wind drowns her out. Vera screams and screams until it’s a sob and hot tears are streaming down her face. Every nerve ending is pain, ever corner of her is in pain, she feels everything and all at once, hard and fast, it tumbles over her like an avalanche. And beneath all its weight she is still here as much as she doesn’t want to be. She has nothing without him. She wants nothing.
She just wants him.
And a new surge of sadness overcomes her. The curtain covering the door whips fiercely in her face and so she rips it.
Tears it with her hands as it shreds from where it’s hung above the door. She slams her fist into the door, until her knuckles are bloody and she is numb. Vera wipes her knuckles over her dress. The blood smudges across the white fabric. She tears her headpiece from her hair, the long white veil attached follows, discarded onto the floor. There’s blood underneath her manicured fingernails, she observes.
She’s silencing her sobs as she rises off her hands and knees, slowly, in an attempt to stand. Her breathe hitches as she tries to suppress them. She can scarcely keep her eyes open. Their heavy, swollen and hot, she can feel it. Vera limps over to the mirror.
Its hanging on the wall, near their bed. Mounted on the blue painted stone walls. She is confronted with her reflection for the first time. She had stood here, only what felt like moments ago, clipping her veil in.
Vera had been a glowing bride then. She could not recognise herself.
And now when she gazes into her swollen eyes, she can fully appreciate this version of herself more, with black streaks painted down her face, smudged red lips, a cut on her forehead - she doesn’t recall how it happened.
Vera surveys her reflection but can’t manage thoughts.
She doesn’t know where to begin. All she can do is stare. Stare until her fist curls into a tight ball and collides with the glass.
A searing pain shoots up her arm. Shards of glass are lodged in her already bloody knuckles but the pain is necessary. She needs the rage too.
Because without it, she will fall apart.
She limps slowly to the kitchen counter, using anything she passes as a crutch – the wall, the table, the countertops. She reaches out for the unopened bottle of champagne, struggling with the cork until she uses her teeth to loosen it, and it pops. Congratulations she thinks. You make such a beautiful bride.
She hoists the bottle to her lips and sips at first. Its not the right drink for how she feels and it tastes sickeningly sweet to her, as the bubbles pop and it trickles down her chin. But none the less she thrusts the bottle higher as more pours into her mouth. Then slides it away, across the counter.
Clutching her bloody hand, she moves slowly over towards the bed. She sits on its edge then slides herself up until her head is resting on the pillow. There is silence. Only the wind whistles. And a sense of sedated calm washes over her. She shifts in the bed, turning over to the other side. Her bloody hand outstretched to the empty space beside her. It’s cold.
Lighting flashes in the room, it shines momentarily upon his pillow. She drags it towards her and pulls it into her body. It still smells like his cologne. Its comforting.
She can pretend now.
That he had heard her screams and rushed in.
His shirt rumpled, bow tie loose around his neck and untied, his suit jacket unbuttoned. Vera can hear his shoes click across the floorboards as he hurries towards her. She’s leaning over the floor when he comes in. The violent winds have tousled his hair and sprung his curls free. His face is contorted sympathetically as he slowly moves towards her.
“I’m here,” Philip says softly.
“I'm here darlin,” as he kneels in front of her, warm hands sliding up and down her bare arms, brushing the hair away from her face and the strands that cling to her lips. He raises a hand and wipes away the trail of smudged lipstick across her mouth gently. She can only gaze at him with relief in her eyes. Her lips tremble and Philip brushes her tears away as they fall.
“I told you, I’m not going anywhere, remember?”
She reaches out and pulls him in at the collar, burying her face in his neck. His stubble grazing against her cheek. She just wants to inhale his scent and be safe. Because she feels safe hidden away in his chest, the crook of his neck.
And she craves more. She pulls away, searching his eyes. They are calm, gazing back into hers. Unlike her own, frantic and brimming with tears. She wishes they would go away so she can see him clearly without the glazed lens she sees him through now.
And because a part of her knows he will never actually hear her say it….she lets herself be vulnerable.
“Don’t leave me Philip,” its barely above a whisper.
But hearing the words echo around the room forces her throat to tighten.
“please,” her voice cracks.
But before she can crash into him and meet his mouth, a red stain spreads, growing larger and larger on his chest and blooming through his shirt. He’s bleeding out.
A sharp crack of lightning forces the mirage to dissipate.
He runs through her fingers like sand.
She’s gripping the pillow desperately.
And the thunder persists outside reminding her of her harsh reality.
Blood has seeped into the sheets. Vera doesn’t want to move, she cant move. Without him there is nothing.
Without Philip…..she is nothing.