Chapter Text
There wasn’t much in this world for Michaela Stirling.
Or so she thought.
For all her loneliness, moments of isolation, practiced distance, plastered smiles, and well-timed smirks; for all her charm, her flirtation, her gasp-filled moments of pleasure, and her taste of the feminine divinity, her wickedness—she has felt hollowness for most of her life.
Of course, there was John. Always John.
Then there wasn’t.
Poor John gone too soon, Poor John who was taken from his wife and unborn child, and family. Poor John, who, after everything, lost everything. Poor John, whose last thoughts were of his family. Poor John for protecting her sins. Poor John, whom she has seeped into every part of his delightful life. Poor John for loving her despite her wickedness.
Poor John for knowing her at all.
Perhaps that is why, on a random morning, she woke up feeling as if the world had chewed her up and spat her out. Instead of groaning in despair as other people did, or ignoring her wellbeing and driving on like a stubborn bull as some people did, or even calling a maid to fetch medicine as smart people did, Michaela stayed in her sprawled position (restless sleeper as Francesca called it), entangled in the sheets with a body too sore to remember how to breathe.
Her only solace left in the moment was the cool skin that blessed her inferno with a simple touch between her shins. Francesca slept (and pardon her dark humor) like the dead, hardly ever shuffling through the night. Where she paid is exactly how she woke. In the beginning, it was hard sleeping with one another, all Michaela’s fault, of course. While she had gotten her beauty sleep, she had left Francesca to deal with a hurricane on her own. But, like most of their relationship, time eased into novel edges, and they found a way to connect.
Like a jigsaw.
Michaela blinked her itchy eyes. They prickled because, of course, they did.
Anyways, she rambles. The idea is, if she were to fill in John's shoes like a rotten cancer, and steal his woman, family, title, then the least she could do is feel like this.
So she lies there, she doesn’t know how long, but the itch in her throat gets hard to ignore. She lets the smallest of coughs. She grimaces, the noise is mucky and vile as she feels.
It startles her when Francesca's eyes snap wide open at the noise. She was always doing bizarre things that had Michaela stunned from time to time. Francesca turns from her back and looks directly into Michaela’s brown eyes without the hint of drowsy fog clouding her brilliant hazel eyes.
“You are ill.” Despite the morning croak in Francesca's pretty tune, it was not a question. She lifted her torso from the sheet, uncaring for Michaela’s childish whines as her splattered limbs came back to their rightful owners' space.
“You are ill,” Francesca spoke again to get her attention. Michaela simply hummed an ugly, congested song. It hurt to smile, but she did it anyway.
“I-“ Oh no, a drowning banshee they’ll call her. That would not do, how would she charm the ladies, the maids, Francesca (she needs a leeway out of trouble somehow) if she sounds so offensive? “—never took you for a detective, Frannie—“
Francesca's withering glare silenced her very quickly. She gulped at those passionate eyes looking down at her pitiful state (and not in the fun way!), cursing herself for her continuous stupidity and slip of words. She couldn’t help it! It was in her nature to tease, if only to get a reaction out of her modest love.
But alas, Francesca always reacts splendidly when it comes to her, so she could and would never stop.
Despite the withering look, she tries to ease Francesca's anxieties.“Nothing but a congested throat, Frannie. Must have had one too many dips in the lake.” She then wiggles her eyebrow because both know that sometimes the lake dips turn into something…more.
The taller woman scowled, turning her back on her sickly partner. Her ears were pink. Michaela internally cackled. “If you had let me dry you up before you ran off, we wouldn’t be in this present now, would we?” What can she say? She likes the chase. She is but a simple woman with simple needs. “Well, if you insist on being a pest, you can’t be too sick. Now, if you excuse me,” Francesca sat up and began preparing for the day, “someone has to make sure the house hasn’t fallen into disarray.”
“The boy would be fine.” Michaela scoffed and attempted not to cough.
“The boy is your son, so he will not be fine unsupervised.”
“He is also John’s son, so if not fine then perfect.”
She took the quiet huff of amusement as victory. She won this one.
Michaela-3
Francesca-106
Michaela blinked, feeling hot all of a sudden. She wanted out of her own skin at that very second; the sheets twisted with her certainly weren’t helping. But she had no energy to move, so instead she observed the lean figure under the bedroom robes. She wanted to touch. Just a little touch. Maybe it will do her some good. Ha, how depraved she is with women. Just one touch will fill her back with life.
Honestly, it was pathetic the way she draped over their bed like a disregarded rag doll. Now if only she could…
Her finger twitched, but nothing more.
Michaela furrowed her brows.
Well, that was concerning.
Francesca, efficient as always, was dressed for the day and standing by the door. She disliked distractions in her routine, so she made it a point to avoid Michaela in the mornings lest she get dragged (the one who drags Francesca. Michaela is the poor lass who gets preyed on not the other way around.) back to bed. She turned back to Michaela and lifted a brow.
“You must make haste, breakfast is soon.” A fond roll of dark brown eyes. This woman and her schedules.
Michaela tries again because she likes making women, especially her woman, happy.
Again nothing.
“Um…” A mistake on her part.
Any past attempts of stifling a cough failed as a dam of wet rattles shook her chest like an unforgiving earthquake.
Francesca abandoned the door and ran ot her side. She couldn’t see herself, but Michaela could certainly feel her running nose, her flush that shone past even her dark skin, and the sweat that stained the sheets. And now, heavy breathing even though she did no activity (aside from coughing up a lung).
Francesca’s brow gained an adorable crinkle. Very adorably indeed, even through her teary vision
“Michaela?”
Michaela said nothing. Using all of her strength, she conjured up out of nowhere, leaned her head against the edge of the bed, and spat out a thick yellow mucus that had flecks of crimson.
It fell to the ground with a wet splat.
The silence in the room was deafening.
Michaela heaved, tears falling as she tried to catch her breath.
A nasty rattle was the only noise in the room; everything else was quiet with precision, quiet with practice, quiet with worry.
Michaela's eyes couldn’t focus on anything, not for the lack of effort, mind you. She usually had an unfocused mind, but this was on another level. It felt like when she stayed past sundown doing the cursed documents to the family title and her respect; however, her eyes decided to play tag with the ink on the paper. On those days, she learned to take a deep breath and retire lest she flip the desk in stressed frustration.
Francesca.
Doctor.
Door
Floor.
Dress.
Sheets.
Desk.
Doorknob.
Window. Curtain.
Hands- cold hands. Touching her chest.
Hands warm hands, tight on her bicep.
Doctor.
Stethoscope.
Wall.
Francesca.
Frannie.
Fran.
Michaela's eyes flicked away without her permission. In her frustration, she slammed them shut and let her body (already draped upon Franscesa as she couldn’t hold herself up) sink further into Francesca's coolness (in comparison to her), despite her burning inside and out. Even if she was stuck in an infernal oven, she craved Francesca's body heat like no other.
There should be shame in the way she nuzzles her sweaty cheek into Francesca’s cleaned neck in front of a stranger, but she couldn’t find the energy to care. Sleep tugs the corner of her mind, something else tugs—
A wet cough rips out of her chest, and by the grace of God, she rips herself away from Francesca and the doctor to cough into the sheets. She coughs and huffs and gags until she throws up the slimy menace that drips down her lips into the sheets. Energy zapped from her bones, she collapses near the mess and heaves air back into her ragged lungs. If she had known coughing would provide strenuous results, she would have added it to her exercise program.
Regaining her bearings, Michaela homes in on the hand patting her back and the frantic barbs being thrown from a usual low voice.
“What is wrong with her?”
It didn’t take a genius to realize how terrified Francesca was. Even in her incapacitated state, she feels Francesca dig her claws down her fragile back. It would be unpleasant if she had not found it rather grounding. She closed her eyes and felt the sting overtake the pain in her chest—quite a pleasant substitute.
“…Respiratory infection, Your Countess, a bad one at that.”
Frannie spoke again. “How—“
After that, she tuned them out.
Well, would you look at that. If she had space in her lungs, she would giggle at the whole ordeal. Best not to. If the pneumonia didn't kill her first, Francesca surely would.
What would John do? Surely if she died from this, at least she knows why she died. Poor John went out without an answer. Here one moment and gone the next. John would surely take care of her and nurse her back to health. She frowns. She doesn’t get to do that for him. Was that for the better or worse? At the end of the day, she couldn’t change a damn thing. Perhaps her sin, a consequence of being who she is, took her brother from her life too soon.
Leaving the lake without proper equipment was stupid. She’ll admit to that. But she loved the chase it brought, the laughter it stroked, the joy it nurtured. It reminds her of simpler times. It reminds her that even when the world is against her, there’s a moment worth living for. People who keep her going, even though secretly she wished to be buried right next to her cousin, or maybe to bend reality and switch places. He should not have been the one who died. Never John. Sweet, poor John.
His life, his woman, his child, his family, all Michaela’s now. And here she lies, in her filth, feeling glad for a sickness that might kill her.
How wicked. How cruel. How ungrateful.
She gulps and tries to swallow back tears.
What would John do?
A flash of white in the corner of her eye. Michael blinked her bleary eyes, focusing on the blurred figure in the corner.
She opens her mouth, but no noise comes out.
John?
One blink and he is gone, but she swears—
She swears he was looking down at her.
Francesca gently tilted her chin back, using her taller body to support Michaela. Her free arm wrapped around Michaela’s waist and tugged them together. It was also like an attempt to keep Michaela from squirming away from the disgusting brew. There was no need for such reinforcement, as Michaela simply did not care. She loved Francesca's touch, but right now she wanted to see John one more time. Just once more,
The tea, a hot and bitter liquid, slid down her sore throat. It was automatically better than the rancid food they’ve been trying to shove feed her since then. Thank god, the meal going in didn’t feel any better than when it inevitably came back out. To please Francesca, she tried to drink it to the best of her abilities, but some liquid slipped from her lips and trailed down her neck. Francesca disrupted the path with a tap of a napkin.
“You must get better love.” She urged. Her voice wobbled even through the tough exterior she tried to portray.
Michaela never liked it when Francesca was sad, even worse if it was because of her. A demand was a command. She may run, she may hide, she may hurt, but at the end of the day, she’ll give Francesca whatever she wants.
“Or…" Francesca stuttered, "Or I will kill you myself.”
Michaela hummed, closed her eyes, and fell asleep right there.
Being wrapped in a blanket burrito was not something she expected.
She needed fresh air. The room was stuffy, congested, and reeked of the sickly.
Michaela's clumsy hands ripped the sheet from her body. It was less of a sheet and more of a damp burden nowadays. As a matter of fact, how many days have passed? Has it even been days? Hours? It's hard to keep track when everyone avoids you like the plague or when the love of your life doesn’t fall into the same sheets at night anymore, given that you’re as sick and gross as a mule.
She rubbed her temple before coughing into her elbow as she sat up. Something moved in the corner of her eye.
Michaela whipped her head to follow the shadow. It disappeared as quickly as it appeared.
John? She wanted to see him again, even if it were a figment of her imagination.
But what about the maids, the Bridgetons, Francesca, and the boy? Her mind whispered.
It doesn't matter. She needs to breathe and see John.
If she tries, maybe she will catch him again.
Spitting the mucus into a bucket at the end of the bed, she lifted herself.
And fell.
Well then.
She lifted herself and grabbed the wall before she could fall again. The items on the counter rattled and fell to the floor.
Oops but…
Success!
Something moved.
Right there! Behind the pale curtains. A figure stood out between the bright sunny lights. John, it must be John.
Johnnie.
She must hurry, before she loses him (again).
Window. John. Window. John. Window. John. Window. JohnJohnJohn—
He was right there.
Trinkets and photos became collateral to her travel to the window until she finally reached the curtain.
She ripped apart the curtain; the window was slightly open. Not enough, but open. Being a push mechanism, all it took was a little touch to open further. Common sense, really. You would think they would do the honor of giving her more fresh air; breathing in her own filth couldn't have done her any good.
The shadow danced before her eye, regaining her flighty attention.
Michaela huffed and threw her shoulder at the panel. It flew open and damn near took her with it. She gripped the edge of the stool with a startled yelp, her instincts saving her from an untimely end.
She balanced at the edge of the window, blinking away the sting in her eyes as they adjusted to the sun. Her blinks are not just a moment of adaptation; in between each blink, she was no longer here but somewhere else.
The pile of mud she mushed and pushed into the ball was perfect. There was even a worm trying to dig its way out of it. Michaela snickers and sneaks behind the thick bark of the large historical tree.
John was leaning on the other side, reading a book that was assigned by the tutor. Because of that book, he had been too busy to play tag with her. So….
Michaela sniffed the much in her hands.
This will do.
It was then John's side, and she moved the book to the side with an exhausted exhale. She jumped from the other side of the tree. He screamed, higher than his changing voice allowed him, and it cracked halfway through.
“Duck!”
Michaela launched the mud into his face. It splatters across his outfit and drips down his chin.
“How’s that for fun?!” Certainly better than his stupid book about Kilmartin and whatnot.
John wiped off his face the soil with a hand, staring directly into Michaela's soul. With a blank face, he spits out dirt.
A worm crawls out of his brown spit. They both stare at it as it wiggles excessively.
It was silent for a split second before Michaela burst into laughter. John let out an infuriated battle cry. With a delighted grin, she picks up the end of her dress and runs across the field away from an angry John holding his own ball of soil full of worms.
The field was a healthy emerald that swayed with the gentle breeze, and she could hear the patter of feet below her. It was faint, growing fainter as she lost herself to another memory.
Carrot cake was served on a silver platter before both of them.
Michaela smiled at the sight of sweets. John, on the other hand, drooled at the aroma that wafted through the air.
They were young, younger than the duty that called for John. Younger people, before the differences of sex could separate them too far. They were free without worries for now.
Michaela grabbed a spoon, ignoring a scold for using the wrong cutlery. A sly smirk she gave John, and a question-raised brow John gave back before he raised the correct cutlery.
“Why, for the smile on your face, I must think you are ravenous.”
“Silly question, cousin, you know this cake is my favorite.”
“Really?” She hums.
“Really.” John nods.
“Enough to beat me in a contest?”
“Michaela, no need for childish games!” Came the scolding from her mother. Helen forgot that Michaela was, in fact, a child.
“Hush now and enjoy your meals, both of you.” Scolded John’s mother.
Oh, they will enjoy it, alright.
Janet forgot that John was, in fact, a child too.
John prepares his fork for take off without even a glance at his mother. Michaela quickly copies his pose. The adult grumbles that slide against their back.
“Three,” He says.
“Two,” She says.
“ONE!” They shout before diving in headfirst.
Gob flies into the air and into the bushes below. Her face scrunches in effort as she gasps for air, her chin dipped to the wall, her dark matted curls blocking her pathetic face from prying eyes. Despite that, a fond giggle comes with the memory of John's face slathered with delicious cake.
She must get to him.
She looked past her curls, and she could see him standing there, near the bushes, looking up at her with the same attire he had passed on with. It didn’t matter how much looking at him hurt. Finally, he was not running away from her.
John.
John.
John.
Her dear cousin. She sees him now, but she wants more. She wants to touch him. To feel his calloused hand one more time. His calm and gentle frame was one that she could always support.
She smiles, oozing with spit and blood. She reaches out to her cousin.
John beams back at her; his childish glee cracks through his calm, refined personality. Even the burn in her lungs or the soreness of her ribs or the nausea that threatens to consume her can ruin this moment.
He reaches back and—
Michaela is ripped from her paradise.
Her back hits the ground unforgivingly, and it forces a hearty cough from her chest that makes her curl into a ball. She does not stay in that position for long; there are slender hands with a deathly grip that grab her armpits and drag her back into the bed, coughing be damned.
She’s practically flung back to the comforter, bouncing awkwardly as a tall figure that is her soulmate radiates an aura of pure fury.
“Have you gone mad!” Francesca snarls. Her hands go to tug at her light brow locks, throwing them into a disarray she would usually never stand for.
Michaela blinks away the sudden vertigo and focuses on the question. Mad? No, even if she should be, because John is gone again. He always seems to go when Francesca is near. She rubs her eyelids, confused.
“Are you mad at me?”
Francesca's jaw drops, “You’re asking me if I’m mad at you?! You almost fell out the window because you wanted to what? Chase the butterflies?!”
No, but that wasn’t a terrible idea, “Fresh air.” She wheezed.
Francesca grabbed the nearest cleanest pillow and hit Michaela right in the face, sick be damn. “Then don’t try to become a bird! It’s a simple wait for me to come check on you. When I do, that is when you ask, not throw yourself out the window! Then you dare question if I am angry?! I'm goddamn furious! You can’t do these foolish things like you don’t have people waiting for you, you stupid—“
She used her index to rub her temples, taking a very, very, very deep breath. She straightens her posture, looking at Michaela with red-rimmed eyes that glistened with tears. Guilt stung in places Michaela never thought she had. Her hazel eyes scan Michaela’s face. She must see something because the sharp edges soften.
“Forgive me, I forgot you’re clearly not lucid.” She drags a chair, a fresh rag, and a bucket that wasn’t there before (at least Michaela hadn’t noticed) to the edge of the bed. She gently guides Michaela to the center, where she gathers fresher sheets to tuck her lover in. Michaela falls silent as her lover works.
The rag is dipped into the cold water, wrung out, and filed into a neat square. Francesca leans forward to place it on Michaela’s clammy head.
Their eyes meet. If there was one thing that brought clarity, it was seeing those stormy eyes that demanded her love and presence on her.
“I’m sorry,” Michaela whispers.
Francesca ignores her with a determined clench of her jaw. Michaela goes from feeling apologetic to feeling like bait to a shark. Goodness, what has she done?
“It seems I must take extreme measures.”
It was at night, during the tiny intervals when a maid would check on her and Francesca would dote, that Francesca realized that it was more than a physical illness.
She spat out a glob of mucus into the bucket before rolling on her back, with heavy breaths. The rag on her head fell limply to the side of the pillow. The coughs, while less abrasive than before, seemed to be happening more frequently. Apparently, that is a good thing, according to the doctor, as he shoved even herbs and tea into her diet, which Francesca gladly delivered. That woman was a different kind of wicked. See now, Michaela knew Francesca to be a woman who demanded precision and thrived in order, but this was getting a smidge ridiculous. Being wrapped into a…trap…cocoon…blanket was demeaning as it was comfortable. How did Francesca even know how to do this? Ah, it must be the seven-sibling phenomenon. (And the fact that they have a child of their own.) But she wasn’t an infant! Michaela grumbles.
At least Francesca had the sense to do a thin blanket, as thickness seemed to be a hellish sauna for Michaela. Couldn’t she see that Michaela was sorry? She was willing to follow the new rules and guidelines, but it wasn’t her who was the naughty brat this time.
It was Johnny.
Peculiar, considering, but it didn’t remove the fact that he stood at the corner and stared with a knowing smile, no matter how much she tried to shoo him away.
Right now, he was humming, rocking back and forth in the corner. He kept nudging his head to the window. Michaela rolled her eyes. How many times was she supposed to scold him till he finally got the hint?
“Frannie said no.” And that was that; no one held more authority in this house than Francesca. Being dead, it seemed like that rule didn’t apply to the one person it mattered to most. John didn’t give up, he walked to the door, jutting with his thumb with a questioning brow.
It wasn’t the window in the very least, but….
She wiggled in her trap, “I thought you were the smart one out of the two of us?” He simply crossed his arms, similarly tilting his head to her tic. She rolls her eyes.
Despite her aches, she tried to escape the constraints once again. After an embarrassing amount of time, she managed to release an arm. Victory! Now she can finally get this wretched (but strangely comforting) constraint off her.
“See, I knew you could do it.”
Michaela whips her head with so much force that her neck tweaks in warning. For the first time in months, maybe years, she heard her cousin's voice that wasn’t a dream or nightmare. Her wide-eyed stare doesn’t seem to deter John because he nudges his head at the door one more time, and it’s enough for her to escape with renewed vigor.
Stealthily, she rolls off the bed, stumbling only to catch herself on the bed frame. John nods in approval, stepping aside for Michaela to grab the doorknob. Before she twisted the metal, she gave him a look of amusement, “And where do you intend to lead me?”
He shrugs.“To a place of comfort.”
“Not terrifying at all.” Regardless, she squared her shoulders. One thing she’s learned in all her years running solo is that no one questions a confident gate. Ignoring her sleeping attire and matted hair, Michaela perfected the art of ‘The Mask’. With that, she strolls through the Kilmartin halls and uses clipped nods at the maids to avoid using her congested voice. No one seems to question her, but they look at her with unease as she passes. It doesn’t take long to put the pieces together. John leads her to the room where they completed the jigsaw right before he announces his nap, right before he…dies.
Michaela stands in the middle of the room, trying not to spiral any further. She shakes her head lightly, it wasn’t time to get lost in thought.
John points to the drawer where they kept jigsaws.
“Is this a joke?” She asks.
John shakes his head, “A small game, an easy one. Besides, indulge me.”
She let out a full-body exhale.
Michaela coughed in her elbow while digging through the drawer. She grabbed the smallest box. It was a kids' puzzle of only fifty pieces, putting together an intense depiction of nature. Looking at the worn corners of the box, she knows this puzzle is well-loved.
She sits on the floor, dumping the contents in front of her. Her back is to the door, and John lies in front of her, reminiscent of how Francesca found them that one night, where they laughed till dawn.
His lips pout, calmly watching her arrange the pieces until they all faced the same way. “There.” He points to pieces that he believes would connect, and Michaela places them together until they’re halfway done. They do it in relative silence, John being naturally quiet and Michaela focusing on enjoying his presence and trying not to agitate her lungs.
Michaela puts together the baby deer that resided in the corner of the puzzle, hiding behind the tree. “Do you remember this puzzle?” John interrupted the silence, a rarity for him.
Michaela hums, squinting at the puzzle. Recognition strikes like a stray bullet. Her palm hits her temple in incredulity. “Oh, how could I forget! Forgive me, but my mind has been spacey as of late.”
“No worries. I bought it as a commemoration of when you talked to me.” John mused. Michaela went back to work, following John’s careful instructions. “Do you remember what I said that day?”
Brown doe eyes look up from long lashes; even in her foggy state, they look at John with surprising clarity. “I may have forgotten this puzzle, but I’ve never forgotten your words.”
Two teenagers sat on the grass; it was a rarity that the sun shone as brightly as it did in Scotland. It was a great day for hunting, but John didn’t enjoy hunting, so he never went with his tutors. So here they are. They leaned on the bark of the tree, using its huge leaves as shade from the sun. John caressed his growing hands on the blade of the grass. Michaela was to his side, lying back with her hands on the back of her head in an unladylike manner. She was humming herself a tune, completely original, as she enjoyed the creativity brought from the journey.
”I wish I were more like you.”
Michaela looked to her side; her cousin was staring off in the distance, avoiding her eyes. They were taught to always make eye contact if they chose to speak. She snorts, “That’s…a first. Usually, the tutors have it the other way around.”
“I, for one, love your talking, it’s… comforting.”
“Hm.” She acknowledges, returning to her tune. John cuts through her melody with a voice tinted with melancholy or…jealousy? That can’t be right.
John picks a blade of grass to inspect with his eyes that he still chooses not to meet her own.“You laugh without burden, you stroll knowing exactly where you want to go. You question, you discover, all with passion. I just wish I…I love Kilmartin, I do, but these duties keep me from...”
“Being a hot mess?” She guesses with a teasing tilt of a head.
He shakes his head, pointing at the annoying raven that has been squeaking all day. “Being like that bird.”
“You want to be a bird?”
He finally looks at her, gravely serious. “I want to be free, like you.”
“And my response, dear cousin?”
“You laughed in my face.”
Laughter, unrestrained and high-pitched, rang out in the field. Michaela's head flew to the sky, her amusement enough to rattle the birds from the bushes. John watched, mildly offended, as his cousin found his vulnerability funny to the point of tears.
“I know I said you needed a better sense of humor, but you really outdid yourself here.” She said as she wiped the tears from her cheeks.
“Michaela.” He deadpanned.
"I’m being serious.” She snorts.
Turning to face his cousin, he crosses his arms, unamused. “As am I.”
Instead of being intimidated or feeling guilty, Michaela simply gives John a look of disappointment. It’s not the emotion he expected; he does not know exactly what he expected. He flinched but stood true. Michaela leaned closer, elbow to her thigh and her chin to her palm, she smiled, but nothing was funny. “Free? John, I had the unfortunate outcome of being born a woman in this world. What is free about me? I must marry a man to have any value, I must bear children to be remembered, I must be docile to get a mediocre gram of something akin to respect. I may not have the burden of carrying Kilmartin, and I never wish I would have to, but you have the right to marry whomever you want, whenever you want, you have the right to bear children whenever you want, you can lie with whomever you want, and no one shall bat an eye. You can be whomever you want as long as Kilmartin is in one piece.”
'The Mask' died, and she looked at the distance with sorrow. “I am no bird, that is you, dear cousin. I face the cruel reality of being a tantalizing deer to the slaughter. I am a sinner who will never be free.”
A loud gunshot rang out in the woods. The hunt has been successful. The raven, scared, flew away.
“I did much more than laugh in your face; I made you realize how unfair this world is.”
“That is true…” He whispered. He points at another piece. They were almost done.“You humbled me; it was there I decided I would do anything in my power to make you happy.”
“I know,” she clicks the puzzle together. The vultures circle the sky. “I could tell by the steel in your gaze.”
“I never did thank you for that.”
She waved him off, “No need.”
“Yes, well, I will thank you regardless. I miss those times, when we only had each other to look out for.”
Michaela closes her eyes, which attempt to betray her emotions. Crying, however, was not an option. After regaining her bearing, she barely managed a smile for John. She holds the final piece between them.“…As do I. Things were simpler.” And clicks it into place. The puzzle is a depiction of glory or despair, depending on your perspective. A hunter stands tall above its kill. He is thin, even through his clothes. The smile on his face is one of pride and relief. The deer's child hides in the corner, torn between running for its life or crying for its mother. The vultures circle the sky, excited for dinner. Together, the puzzle is faded from age and indented from use, showing the cruel reality of being alive. She remembers playing this with John when they were younger. If Michaela had a power over her heart, she would burn this jigsaw altogether.
Brushing aside the sudden hostility, she lets out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “That took longer than it should have. You must forgive me, I’m not as precise as Frannie when it comes to these things.” She wipes her brow theatrically.
John doesn’t smile. “Do not mention her, I want it to be just the two of us.”
And maybe she was being purposefully daft, but Michaela frowns, scanning the room in search of Francesca. “It is the two of us.”
John shakes his head.“Just the two of us, like old times.”
In an instant, the air in the room is sucked into the vacuum.
“John…” Michaela whispers; she retreats into herself by tucking her head between her arms and knees. “You know I can’t do that.”
For the first time in a while, she sees John genuinely angry at her. “Why not?” He scowls.”You promised it would always be us against the world. You promised.”
“Yes, I know, but I gave my heart to Francesca-“
“My wife.” He snaps.
Fury suddenly engulfs her, hotter than the fever that threatens to consume her. She exploded, slamming her fists on the puzzle. It shatters and scatters along the floor. Michaela lip curls, bearing her teeth at her cousin like an animal.“I know she was your wife, John! I, of all peOPLe," Her voice cracks,"-know that! I will never allow myself to forget that.” Frustrated, she clenches her fist until her nails bite her palm, until finally the skin breaks and the blood falls. “But I can’t leave her, I’ve sworn on it. I can’t break her heart again, Johnny. I am wicked, but I am not cruel.”
“And yet you are cruel enough to take my life and leave me to only your memories?” He barks.
“Where else would you go?!” She shouts in frustration, slamming her fists on the floor once again.
He didn’t get it. He didn't—
Any rage in his face was wiped clean unnaturally. He looked at her calmly. “Come with me.” He whispers. A siren to a call.
Michaela sobs. She covers her face in shame. Her salty tears burn the cuts on her palm. “I can’t go, John! I can’t.”
She hears him shuffle, coming closer. “Be with me.” His breath was cold on her ears.
“No!” Gritting her teeth, Michaela shoves him away, only to fall on a warm body. Flinching, she turns over her shoulder to meet hazel eyes. They stare at her, wide-eyed with concern and heartbreak and genuine fear. She doesn’t know when Francesca came in, she doesn’t know who could’ve possibly notified her, but she finds that she doesn’t care. She clenched Francesca's thighs, staining the pale violet dress with bloodied hands. She fearfully glanced back to where her cousin stood. To her relief (or dismay?), he vanished as if he had never been there.
No longer trying to leer her to death.
She shoves her face into Francesca's chest, trying to find safety in her lover's skin. “Frannie, I know— I- I know I made you angry, I know I didn’t listen.” She cries. “He- he won’t leave me alone! He just won’t go! I just—I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m—“
Slowly, long arms circle her back and neck. Michaela feels a soft cheek on the top of her head. She knows it wasn’t pleasant to have sweaty hair on your skin, and briefly she worried for Francesca's skin. “Shhhhhh, he’s not here anymore, you’re safe, my love, you’re safe.” Francesca traces musical notes onto her back whilst she strokes the back of her head
She sniffed. Pulling away, a line of snot fell from her face and onto Francesca's dress. The woman hardly blinked, staring intensely into Michaela’s eyes. “He's not, are you sure?”
Francesca smiled sadly. “No, I’m afraid he hasn’t been here for a long time.”
Michaela burst into sobs once again, nestling deeper into Francesca's chest. Never in her life has she cried this much; she never allowed herself to. The exception was always John.
John…
She knows he wasn’t real, realistically, in the corner of her mind she knew, but it felt so…
She whimpers. “He left me alone, Frannie, all alone.”
Soft lips touch her temple, “You’re not alone, Michaela, you are never alone.”
Her fever broke two days later. She awoke to two bodies surrounding her, finally allowed in her presence after days without. She felt two soft mounds on her back, arms tight around her waist. Her legs were tangled with Francesca's to the point that if she weren't of a different skin tone, she would be confused about whose legs belonged to whom. Their son nestled into Michaela's chest, hand gripping her dress with the strength only infants possessed.
They will never let her go.