Written in the Walls: 2b/??
Oct. 1st, 2010 09:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lalalive23Title: Written in the Walls
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lalalive23
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Bell/Dom and a few original characters.
Summary: Matt and Dom are teachers at a local high school in 1954. They don't want their relationship to be discovered, especially by those they work with, even though they've been living together for nearly 4 years. This is the story of what happens when the school librarian discovers them.
Warning: Fluff, minor sexual content, implied sex
Feedback: Is nice! I like it loads! Just don't make fun of me, plz <3
Disclaimer: I don't own Muse. I don't make money off this. This never happened. I do, however, own the characters Ellen and Martin. They are mine, so please do not take them. I am willing to share if you want to collaborate on something, but otherwise no touchy plz!
Note: Endless thanks todolce_piccante, sunshine_173, and millionstar for being fabulous bit readers, cheerleaders, putting up with my insecurities, and being incredible friends. This story would not exist if it weren't for you ladies <3 Thanks also to myz_bee for being a fabulous friend. To everyone who commented on the past chapters, I cannot thiank you enough. Words cannot express how much it means to me to know you are enjoying this. It made writing this chapter so much easier. <3 Love to you all!
Ellen
My heart was beating soundly in my chest, causing me to be surprised that no one else could hear its rhythm. As I sat in the hot library, it felt as though every eye was fixed on me as I turned the pages of my book. While it was a veritable truth that Brave New World was not, in fact, banned in England, it was still frowned upon to be seen with it, or to even be reading it. But with most things life, the most interesting and the most worthwhile things are ones that require a risk. And so, I was seated at my desk, my book hidden behind a copy of Ulysses.
It was difficult for me to feel ashamed for reading it, or even others of the same genre. Our nation, this world, seemed to be crippled by fear of nuclear warfare, communism, socialism, and so many other abstract things that we pushed ourselves into hyperactive consumerism to forget ourselves. I could not count how many times my old friends purchased gadgets for their kitchens, claiming they were being good housewives, only to abandon them three weeks later. The slogan of Brave New World, "ending is better than mending," seemed to fuel our own culture. The hesitancy of our culture to look closely at this book was, I was afraid, because of the alarming reflexivity that was penned.
Here, before our very eyes, were our fears of sex, alcohol, and progress. Here, I was sure, were our nation's insecurities.
Society told me I was wrong for wanting sex, free or otherwise. Told me I was dirty for wanting to enjoy my husband without the ends of procreation. What an Orwellian concept that was! Unless asked, I would never tell anyone I had read that too. These were not texts a woman should read.
Women were not supposed to read Marquis de Sade, Sellon or Potter, but I had read those too and I devoured them hungrily. It was not, as many people had assumed, for sexual or physical pleasure. Instead, it was the focus on the abject and the abjection of women in particular that held my interest. Secretly, within the depths of myself, I envied these women. Women who were so secure in their sexual endeavors, their bodies and their physical wants. If I were a courageous woman, a stronger woman, I would fearlessly pursue my own desires without shame or care.
But I was not. And any hope for a "brave new Ellen" remained hidden behind classical, acceptable, literature.
The library was considerably empty, though I had probably only noticed because of the absence of the two beautiful men I had so gotten used to seeing. It was not the first time they had not appeared. At least once a month they would not come, but it was never the same day or same week. It was always different and I was lucky that I had bought a book to keep myself busy.
Distantly in the back of my mind, I wondered where they were and if they were together. It was an audacious thing to think and the implication of the thought was enough to make me blush. My understanding of the two was so clouded and disjointed, but if they were, at that moment, together, I was hopeful that their looks would not be so longing.
A shrill sound of a bell signaled me that the free period was over and I was able to go home. My eyes darted around the room to ensure that no one saw me slip two books to my chest instead of one. I did not want to answer the questions of the students, though I hardly saw it as corruption if they were made aware of the novel.
As I was leaving the library, I saw them again, the blonde and the brunette who had so completely captured my fascination. I stopped by the door, not daring to move any closer and disrupt any possible moment the two might share. From my vantage point, I could see the two clearly. They were walking in opposite directions, perpendicular about twenty feet away from me. But as they walked closer to one another, their shadows entwined gingerly, for a moment giving the impression that they were kissing in a tight embrace. They passed each other, their shadows twisting and breaking apart roughly. But the breath in my lungs refused to budge.
I brought my eyes to the pavement, continuing on my way as though I had never witnessed a thing. Inwardly, I scolded myself. I was being silly. I had witnessed nothing, just shadows making pictures of intimacy.
In my efforts to remain invisible, I had not noticed a person approaching me until it was too late. Our shoulders bumped together roughly, sending the book I had worked so hard to keep a secret to my feet. I blushed violently, my body knowing no other reaction, and my eyes closed as I felt its weight slide from my foot to the ground.
Shame and fear did not consume me, but neither did confidence or excitement at the prospect of my secret being discovered. Instead, it was an overwhelming sense of irritation at the knowledge that numerable questions would be asked, and I would have to defend my reasoning, only for it to have no effect.
"Isn't this book banned?" A male voice asked me, clear, charming and sweet.
I braced myself as I opened my eyes, air huffing through my nose as I prepared my long winded explanation.
All of my words and answers were sucked from my mind as I saw the blonde tutor standing in front of me, a stunning, yet inquisitive smile on his face, his hand extended with my book. I blinked, surely looking a fool, and stammered my response.
"N-no, it's not. Only in Ireland...since 1932," I took the book from his hand, still staring at his face. My breathing was choppy and uneven. I was sure he had caught me staring, sure that he had noticed me watching him in the library. I was sure he was upset with me.
"Really? But I thought it was anti-religious?" His voice was calm and even. He did not seem upset at all.
I swallowed hard and looked away from his face, sure that if I continued to look I would never be able to stop. "Well," I began, pressing the book to my chest tightly with one arm, "in a way it does. But that is only because organized religion does not exist. It's as if the creation of religion is an act of artistic or self-expression, which is something that is not part of their society. They exist because of the forced unraveling of Mother Nature, the removal of emotion and affection and individual belief. Obviously, the text heavily lends itself to communism and the political leaders of Russia, which is another reason it is controversial. But the title comes from both Shakespeare and Emile Zola, so I feel like it calls for a sense of hope and acknowledgement instead of censorship."
I stopped myself as soon as I noticed my arm flailing about as I went, a habit I had from childhood. I thrust my arm to my chest, crossing it over the other, silencing myself as I had most likely bored him, bothered him with a topic he was not truly interested in. He was probably just trying to make a short conversation and I had taken it too far, my incapability to remain lady-like shining through once again.
My feet shuffled and rubbed together and I watched them intently, unable to look at the gorgeous blonde.
"I had absolutely no idea about any of that." His voice caused me to look back into his gray-blue irises. "Perhaps, I could borrow it when you're finished?"
The smile on his face was filled with warm affection, as if there was a secret behind his eyes I could not quite place; a secret I was never intended to know.
My response was merely whispered. "Yes."
"I'm Dominic," he said, offering me his hand.
I took it, my own becoming engulfed in a delicate strength. "Ellen," I said simply.
He held my hand for a few moments, shaking it gently and I marveled at how soft his skin was. I was sure it was softer than mine.
"Where are you headed?" he asked, releasing me from his tender grip.
I returned my hand to my chest, running my fingers over the frills in my blue dress. "The bus station, towards Montreal Park. Yourself?"
"The bus station, though to Holly Bush Lane." He sounded sad in his response.
A short silence fell upon us, but it was not awkward. I was drawn to the dark grey pinstriped suit he wore, the royal purple tie around his neck making the gold of his skin shimmer in the sun. The blonde locks fell a careless and fluffy mess around his face, giving him a boyish appearance.
"Well, it was an absolute pleasure meeting you," he said finally.
"Yes, of course. I am so sorry I didn't see you. I can be so clumsy sometimes." I felt guilty for holding him in conversation, especially since he had some place to go. I did as well, but the feeling of returning to the empty house was never urgent.
"Please don't even worry about it. Perhaps, we can speak again some time?" His question caught me off guard. It took me a few moments to process his request before I eagerly replied.
"I would like that," I said with a smile. This seemed to please him and he nodded his head at me as he continued on his way, his steps brisk and, if I was not mistaken, excited.
I could not remember how long it had been since I walked home like that, with such vigor. When I first married Martin it seemed as though I could not get home to him fast enough, and he had felt the same. Evenings with him seemed better than any other alternative entertainment. Nights spent laughing as we played Scrabble or listened to the radio. Even the silence in which we enjoyed each other, both reading, my head in his lap, seemed more blissful and appealing than long nights at dinner with other couples.
When this had changed was a moment that had eluded me for years, and it was continuing to do so. It was not that I was in denial of the current state of our relationship. It was that the truth of the hows and whys did not want to be chased, and I was helpless to find a reason.
Before I knew it, I found myself at the door to our home, the Victorian architecture giving it stunning character. Our house was a large one, something Martin would boast about to his office mates at the publishing company. There was no reason for me to work, everything could, and was, easily provided for me. But it was when I was alone and I was left to my own thoughts that I felt I was going to lose my mind.
Inside and out, Martin had let me decorate it according to my personal taste. It seemed silly to look back and remember how excited I had been at the prospect of running my own home. But I had never looked at it as mine specifically. It was ours, and no where could I find a trace of Martin's input.
As I hung my coat on the rack, I looked around the empty house, everything neatly in its place. I walked the steps up to our bedroom, paying no mind to the images along the wall. Paintings I had done years ago, and pictures of our wedding. Most days, I forgot they were there.
Our bedroom was a large room, the four poster directly in the center facing the door. His and her dressing bureaus lined the right wall next to the closets, the door to the master bathroom on the left. My vanity table was next to the floor to ceiling window lining the left wall, white lace curtains hanging elegantly.
Quickly I shed my clothes, the blue dress feeling constricting. I put on a pair of dark trousers, the kind I wore for housework, and tucked a white jumper into the waistband, pulling my dark hair back with a white strip of fabric tied in a knot at the top. The outfit was not completely for comfort, Martin having told me recently that he preferred me when I was dressed down. Normally I would not go through so much effort to please him in this way, but I loved him desperately and I wanted to have him smile his acceptance once more.
I worked through the house in silence, dusting and wiping down surfaces that were already clean. I was merely looking for things to do with my hands.
At about half four I started preparing dinner, knowing that Martin would be home at quarter past five. Though, I had no idea if he would be on time. He would often stay late at his office or go for drinks with his mates. I was not sure if it was an effort to avoid me, or the house. Or if it was a desperate attempt to cling to the youth he felt slipping away from him. It did, however, make it difficult to pretend I was not hurt.
Our evening meal was to be roasted pork chops, pasta and a salad of tossed vegetables. I was by no means a skilled chef, but I was raised in an Italian household, so I was keenly aware how to season various foods to perfection. Always, when I was cooking, was I reminded of the days when Martin and I were dating. He would come to my house for dinner, watching me stir pasta and assorted creams for dessert with the eagerness of a child. He would always laugh heartily about how I was itching to plump him up, keeping him by my side via food. He would always reassure me in private that he would stay by my side because I had stolen his heart. These, and other exclamations of affection had stopped at an unclear point of time.
Martin walked through the house just as dinner had finished being prepared. He yelled a "Hello" as his greeting while I finished placing our dishes on the dining room table. It was a large rectangular table that had cost an excessive amount of money. But Martin had insisted we couldn't do without it, so I made do and sat it it every night for dinner with him. We sat at opposite ends of the table, Martin always looking pleased at the positioning.
"Hello dear," I called in response.
He followed the sound of my voice into the dining room, and I hated myself for feeling my insides quiver upon first glance of his face.
He was built exceptionally well, tall and lean, with thick light brown hair that he would back comb for work. All colours looked good against his skin tone, though it was impossible for me to comprehend how that was possible. His teeth were perfectly straight, his green eyes always shining. It was inconceivable how attracted to him I was, how beautiful he was. It was inconceivable how much I loved him.
I paused in my table setting next to the table as he bent to kiss my cheek in greeting, an action that would usually contain so much affection. Lately, when he did it, it felt empty. But I would never be able to tell him to stop doing it.
He took his place at the table, waiting patiently to be served.
"How was your day?" I asked quietly.
"It was work," was the gruff reply.
I exhaled deep from my chest and walked through the doorway to the kitchen, trying not to stop and grip the counter in sadness. He would never tell me how his day truly was. He would never tell me how anything truly was.
In segments I brought the food to the dining room, serving Martin first and then myself. From across the table, he watched me as I moved, pouring a glass of water and placing an appropriate proportion of salad on my plate. His eyes followed me as walked, placing dishes on the table, adjusting the centerpiece, until I sat in my chair and met his gaze at last.
"I prefer you in a dress," he said simply.
I looked to my dinner plate, the meal no longer looking appetizing or appealing. Last week he had preferred me in trousers. Now, I was wondering if he preferred me at all.
"It's comfortable to work in these clothes," I said simply. It was not completely a lie, anyway.
"Right," he said simply, returning his faze to his plate as he cut his meat.
The conversation was over.
Dinner was a silent affair, the sounds of our utensils scratching the china the soundtrack to our meal. Throughout the evening I would go to speak, but second guess myself and say nothing at all. I wondered if he did the same. But even if he had asked me how my day was, I had nothing of any substantial interest discuss.
Briefly, I wondered if we would ever be interested in my day again.
The rest of the evening passed in the same manner, the only excitement the moments we both started to read, my book hidden behind another once more. I wanted to tip the ladies magazine down to my lap and reveal the truth of my interest. I wondered what Martin would say. Would he ask me, as Dominic had, to borrow it? Or would he call me a corrupt woman? A devious woman? My faith in the first was minimal and my fear of the second prevented me from revealing myself.
At ten we both retired to bed, undressing in silence, our backs to one another. We slipped under the covers to our usual places in the bed, myself on the right, nearest the bathroom, Martin on the left.
It had been countless weeks since Martin and I had been physically intimate with one another, which is why I was so surprised to find him kissing my mouth tenderly as soon as he had settled himself.
I could not help myself as my right leg reached across to caress his thigh, my arms winding themselves around his neck as I sought to deepen the kiss. His tongue stroked gently at my lips and I opened to him, a sigh of joy escaping my throat. I felt a gruff moan fall from his lips, his hands pressing into and massaging my hips. Intense heat and wetness began to pool between my thighs, my pelvic bone seeking to press itself against his. I fisted my hands in his hair, unable to contain the excitement, emotional and physical, which seemed to course through my veins like wild fire.
Abruptly he pulled away from me, staring at me with empty eyes as I felt my lips start to swell from the force of our kiss. I searched face for anything, a hit of continuation, love, hatred, something other than the empty irises which seemed to bore into mine like ice.
He turned over then, pulling himself from my grip, moving to his side and providing me the view of his back. I watched his spine curve with the dip of the mattress. A harsh silence overtook the room, leaving me with only the beat of my heart and the rush of blood in my ears as solace.
Slowly, I turned to my back and stared at the ceiling. My heart began to ache and the sheets began to constrict around my body, a snake in the night. All encompassing heat seemed to spread from my core, down my legs and up to my chest. I felt feverish and ill, the lump in my throat making the act of breathing cause me a sore pain.
Hurling the covers off me, I thrust myself out of bed, not caring if the mattress jarred or shook. I knew Martin would not turn over. I quickly walked the short distance to our bathroom, shut the door and sat myself on the side of the bathtub.
Gasping for air, I pressed my hand into my stomach, trying horribly to prevent the choking sob that was threatening to burst from my gut. My other hand I pressed to my mouth, not an effort to remain quiet, but because I couldn't stand to watch it shake. Our bed, this house, was a barren wasteland of human wanting, filled with forbidden secrets and unspoken wishes of a one sided love. That was the truth of it. I was alone in love, I was alone in my marriage.
I felt myself sink to the floor, my knees folding tightly to my chest as I pressed myself to the cool tile. The sheer nightdress did little to protect my skin from the cold, and I welcomed it. I did not want to be a bitter woman, the woman who stayed because she had to and hates herself for it. But I did not want to be the one to leave the man she loved, though she could not find a reason why she did, to stay in a one sided marriage and eventually hate him for it.
My eyes shut themselves tightly, the realization dawning on me that I was standing on an emotional frontline, between the man I wanted and the woman I wanted to be.
Looking back through my memories, I could not pin-point the exact day Martin fell out of love with me. But then, perhaps he had never loved me at all. I could not, for all of my soul, decide which was worse. I had left everything I knew, my family and my friends in Rothdale, for a man who was convinced he had a career in London. So I followed him, to a suburb a short train away from the major city, excited to start my new life, my new forever.
It all seemed so pointless now.
Had I not tried hard enough to keep his affection? But then was there ever any affection to be retained from the start?
My heart constricted.
I was not this woman.
This was not me.
I did not want to look back on my life as a woman who gave up her youth on a wasted dream. If the marriage had failed, it was both our faults, not mine, and I would defend this point until the end of time.
Opening the door again, I slipped silently back into bed, a canyon away from the man on the other side.
My heart felt lighter as I pulled the wedding band off my finger and placed it on the night stand.
l did not feel guilty about the action.
Author:
lalalive23 Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Bell/Dom and a few original characters.
Summary: Matt and Dom are teachers at a local high school in 1954. They don't want their relationship to be discovered, especially by those they work with, even though they've been living together for nearly 4 years. This is the story of what happens when the school librarian discovers them.
Warning: Fluff, minor sexual content, implied sex
Feedback: Is nice! I like it loads! Just don't make fun of me, plz <3
Disclaimer: I don't own Muse. I don't make money off this. This never happened. I do, however, own the characters Ellen and Martin. They are mine, so please do not take them. I am willing to share if you want to collaborate on something, but otherwise no touchy plz!
Note: Endless thanks to
dolce_piccante, sunshine_173, and millionstar for being fabulous bit readers, cheerleaders, putting up with my insecurities, and being incredible friends. This story would not exist if it weren't for you ladies <3 Thanks also to myz_bee for being a fabulous friend. To everyone who commented on the past chapters, I cannot thiank you enough. Words cannot express how much it means to me to know you are enjoying this. It made writing this chapter so much easier. <3 Love to you all!Ellen
My heart was beating soundly in my chest, causing me to be surprised that no one else could hear its rhythm. As I sat in the hot library, it felt as though every eye was fixed on me as I turned the pages of my book. While it was a veritable truth that Brave New World was not, in fact, banned in England, it was still frowned upon to be seen with it, or to even be reading it. But with most things life, the most interesting and the most worthwhile things are ones that require a risk. And so, I was seated at my desk, my book hidden behind a copy of Ulysses.
It was difficult for me to feel ashamed for reading it, or even others of the same genre. Our nation, this world, seemed to be crippled by fear of nuclear warfare, communism, socialism, and so many other abstract things that we pushed ourselves into hyperactive consumerism to forget ourselves. I could not count how many times my old friends purchased gadgets for their kitchens, claiming they were being good housewives, only to abandon them three weeks later. The slogan of Brave New World, "ending is better than mending," seemed to fuel our own culture. The hesitancy of our culture to look closely at this book was, I was afraid, because of the alarming reflexivity that was penned.
Here, before our very eyes, were our fears of sex, alcohol, and progress. Here, I was sure, were our nation's insecurities.
Society told me I was wrong for wanting sex, free or otherwise. Told me I was dirty for wanting to enjoy my husband without the ends of procreation. What an Orwellian concept that was! Unless asked, I would never tell anyone I had read that too. These were not texts a woman should read.
Women were not supposed to read Marquis de Sade, Sellon or Potter, but I had read those too and I devoured them hungrily. It was not, as many people had assumed, for sexual or physical pleasure. Instead, it was the focus on the abject and the abjection of women in particular that held my interest. Secretly, within the depths of myself, I envied these women. Women who were so secure in their sexual endeavors, their bodies and their physical wants. If I were a courageous woman, a stronger woman, I would fearlessly pursue my own desires without shame or care.
But I was not. And any hope for a "brave new Ellen" remained hidden behind classical, acceptable, literature.
The library was considerably empty, though I had probably only noticed because of the absence of the two beautiful men I had so gotten used to seeing. It was not the first time they had not appeared. At least once a month they would not come, but it was never the same day or same week. It was always different and I was lucky that I had bought a book to keep myself busy.
Distantly in the back of my mind, I wondered where they were and if they were together. It was an audacious thing to think and the implication of the thought was enough to make me blush. My understanding of the two was so clouded and disjointed, but if they were, at that moment, together, I was hopeful that their looks would not be so longing.
A shrill sound of a bell signaled me that the free period was over and I was able to go home. My eyes darted around the room to ensure that no one saw me slip two books to my chest instead of one. I did not want to answer the questions of the students, though I hardly saw it as corruption if they were made aware of the novel.
As I was leaving the library, I saw them again, the blonde and the brunette who had so completely captured my fascination. I stopped by the door, not daring to move any closer and disrupt any possible moment the two might share. From my vantage point, I could see the two clearly. They were walking in opposite directions, perpendicular about twenty feet away from me. But as they walked closer to one another, their shadows entwined gingerly, for a moment giving the impression that they were kissing in a tight embrace. They passed each other, their shadows twisting and breaking apart roughly. But the breath in my lungs refused to budge.
I brought my eyes to the pavement, continuing on my way as though I had never witnessed a thing. Inwardly, I scolded myself. I was being silly. I had witnessed nothing, just shadows making pictures of intimacy.
In my efforts to remain invisible, I had not noticed a person approaching me until it was too late. Our shoulders bumped together roughly, sending the book I had worked so hard to keep a secret to my feet. I blushed violently, my body knowing no other reaction, and my eyes closed as I felt its weight slide from my foot to the ground.
Shame and fear did not consume me, but neither did confidence or excitement at the prospect of my secret being discovered. Instead, it was an overwhelming sense of irritation at the knowledge that numerable questions would be asked, and I would have to defend my reasoning, only for it to have no effect.
"Isn't this book banned?" A male voice asked me, clear, charming and sweet.
I braced myself as I opened my eyes, air huffing through my nose as I prepared my long winded explanation.
All of my words and answers were sucked from my mind as I saw the blonde tutor standing in front of me, a stunning, yet inquisitive smile on his face, his hand extended with my book. I blinked, surely looking a fool, and stammered my response.
"N-no, it's not. Only in Ireland...since 1932," I took the book from his hand, still staring at his face. My breathing was choppy and uneven. I was sure he had caught me staring, sure that he had noticed me watching him in the library. I was sure he was upset with me.
"Really? But I thought it was anti-religious?" His voice was calm and even. He did not seem upset at all.
I swallowed hard and looked away from his face, sure that if I continued to look I would never be able to stop. "Well," I began, pressing the book to my chest tightly with one arm, "in a way it does. But that is only because organized religion does not exist. It's as if the creation of religion is an act of artistic or self-expression, which is something that is not part of their society. They exist because of the forced unraveling of Mother Nature, the removal of emotion and affection and individual belief. Obviously, the text heavily lends itself to communism and the political leaders of Russia, which is another reason it is controversial. But the title comes from both Shakespeare and Emile Zola, so I feel like it calls for a sense of hope and acknowledgement instead of censorship."
I stopped myself as soon as I noticed my arm flailing about as I went, a habit I had from childhood. I thrust my arm to my chest, crossing it over the other, silencing myself as I had most likely bored him, bothered him with a topic he was not truly interested in. He was probably just trying to make a short conversation and I had taken it too far, my incapability to remain lady-like shining through once again.
My feet shuffled and rubbed together and I watched them intently, unable to look at the gorgeous blonde.
"I had absolutely no idea about any of that." His voice caused me to look back into his gray-blue irises. "Perhaps, I could borrow it when you're finished?"
The smile on his face was filled with warm affection, as if there was a secret behind his eyes I could not quite place; a secret I was never intended to know.
My response was merely whispered. "Yes."
"I'm Dominic," he said, offering me his hand.
I took it, my own becoming engulfed in a delicate strength. "Ellen," I said simply.
He held my hand for a few moments, shaking it gently and I marveled at how soft his skin was. I was sure it was softer than mine.
"Where are you headed?" he asked, releasing me from his tender grip.
I returned my hand to my chest, running my fingers over the frills in my blue dress. "The bus station, towards Montreal Park. Yourself?"
"The bus station, though to Holly Bush Lane." He sounded sad in his response.
A short silence fell upon us, but it was not awkward. I was drawn to the dark grey pinstriped suit he wore, the royal purple tie around his neck making the gold of his skin shimmer in the sun. The blonde locks fell a careless and fluffy mess around his face, giving him a boyish appearance.
"Well, it was an absolute pleasure meeting you," he said finally.
"Yes, of course. I am so sorry I didn't see you. I can be so clumsy sometimes." I felt guilty for holding him in conversation, especially since he had some place to go. I did as well, but the feeling of returning to the empty house was never urgent.
"Please don't even worry about it. Perhaps, we can speak again some time?" His question caught me off guard. It took me a few moments to process his request before I eagerly replied.
"I would like that," I said with a smile. This seemed to please him and he nodded his head at me as he continued on his way, his steps brisk and, if I was not mistaken, excited.
I could not remember how long it had been since I walked home like that, with such vigor. When I first married Martin it seemed as though I could not get home to him fast enough, and he had felt the same. Evenings with him seemed better than any other alternative entertainment. Nights spent laughing as we played Scrabble or listened to the radio. Even the silence in which we enjoyed each other, both reading, my head in his lap, seemed more blissful and appealing than long nights at dinner with other couples.
When this had changed was a moment that had eluded me for years, and it was continuing to do so. It was not that I was in denial of the current state of our relationship. It was that the truth of the hows and whys did not want to be chased, and I was helpless to find a reason.
Before I knew it, I found myself at the door to our home, the Victorian architecture giving it stunning character. Our house was a large one, something Martin would boast about to his office mates at the publishing company. There was no reason for me to work, everything could, and was, easily provided for me. But it was when I was alone and I was left to my own thoughts that I felt I was going to lose my mind.
Inside and out, Martin had let me decorate it according to my personal taste. It seemed silly to look back and remember how excited I had been at the prospect of running my own home. But I had never looked at it as mine specifically. It was ours, and no where could I find a trace of Martin's input.
As I hung my coat on the rack, I looked around the empty house, everything neatly in its place. I walked the steps up to our bedroom, paying no mind to the images along the wall. Paintings I had done years ago, and pictures of our wedding. Most days, I forgot they were there.
Our bedroom was a large room, the four poster directly in the center facing the door. His and her dressing bureaus lined the right wall next to the closets, the door to the master bathroom on the left. My vanity table was next to the floor to ceiling window lining the left wall, white lace curtains hanging elegantly.
Quickly I shed my clothes, the blue dress feeling constricting. I put on a pair of dark trousers, the kind I wore for housework, and tucked a white jumper into the waistband, pulling my dark hair back with a white strip of fabric tied in a knot at the top. The outfit was not completely for comfort, Martin having told me recently that he preferred me when I was dressed down. Normally I would not go through so much effort to please him in this way, but I loved him desperately and I wanted to have him smile his acceptance once more.
I worked through the house in silence, dusting and wiping down surfaces that were already clean. I was merely looking for things to do with my hands.
At about half four I started preparing dinner, knowing that Martin would be home at quarter past five. Though, I had no idea if he would be on time. He would often stay late at his office or go for drinks with his mates. I was not sure if it was an effort to avoid me, or the house. Or if it was a desperate attempt to cling to the youth he felt slipping away from him. It did, however, make it difficult to pretend I was not hurt.
Our evening meal was to be roasted pork chops, pasta and a salad of tossed vegetables. I was by no means a skilled chef, but I was raised in an Italian household, so I was keenly aware how to season various foods to perfection. Always, when I was cooking, was I reminded of the days when Martin and I were dating. He would come to my house for dinner, watching me stir pasta and assorted creams for dessert with the eagerness of a child. He would always laugh heartily about how I was itching to plump him up, keeping him by my side via food. He would always reassure me in private that he would stay by my side because I had stolen his heart. These, and other exclamations of affection had stopped at an unclear point of time.
Martin walked through the house just as dinner had finished being prepared. He yelled a "Hello" as his greeting while I finished placing our dishes on the dining room table. It was a large rectangular table that had cost an excessive amount of money. But Martin had insisted we couldn't do without it, so I made do and sat it it every night for dinner with him. We sat at opposite ends of the table, Martin always looking pleased at the positioning.
"Hello dear," I called in response.
He followed the sound of my voice into the dining room, and I hated myself for feeling my insides quiver upon first glance of his face.
He was built exceptionally well, tall and lean, with thick light brown hair that he would back comb for work. All colours looked good against his skin tone, though it was impossible for me to comprehend how that was possible. His teeth were perfectly straight, his green eyes always shining. It was inconceivable how attracted to him I was, how beautiful he was. It was inconceivable how much I loved him.
I paused in my table setting next to the table as he bent to kiss my cheek in greeting, an action that would usually contain so much affection. Lately, when he did it, it felt empty. But I would never be able to tell him to stop doing it.
He took his place at the table, waiting patiently to be served.
"How was your day?" I asked quietly.
"It was work," was the gruff reply.
I exhaled deep from my chest and walked through the doorway to the kitchen, trying not to stop and grip the counter in sadness. He would never tell me how his day truly was. He would never tell me how anything truly was.
In segments I brought the food to the dining room, serving Martin first and then myself. From across the table, he watched me as I moved, pouring a glass of water and placing an appropriate proportion of salad on my plate. His eyes followed me as walked, placing dishes on the table, adjusting the centerpiece, until I sat in my chair and met his gaze at last.
"I prefer you in a dress," he said simply.
I looked to my dinner plate, the meal no longer looking appetizing or appealing. Last week he had preferred me in trousers. Now, I was wondering if he preferred me at all.
"It's comfortable to work in these clothes," I said simply. It was not completely a lie, anyway.
"Right," he said simply, returning his faze to his plate as he cut his meat.
The conversation was over.
Dinner was a silent affair, the sounds of our utensils scratching the china the soundtrack to our meal. Throughout the evening I would go to speak, but second guess myself and say nothing at all. I wondered if he did the same. But even if he had asked me how my day was, I had nothing of any substantial interest discuss.
Briefly, I wondered if we would ever be interested in my day again.
The rest of the evening passed in the same manner, the only excitement the moments we both started to read, my book hidden behind another once more. I wanted to tip the ladies magazine down to my lap and reveal the truth of my interest. I wondered what Martin would say. Would he ask me, as Dominic had, to borrow it? Or would he call me a corrupt woman? A devious woman? My faith in the first was minimal and my fear of the second prevented me from revealing myself.
At ten we both retired to bed, undressing in silence, our backs to one another. We slipped under the covers to our usual places in the bed, myself on the right, nearest the bathroom, Martin on the left.
It had been countless weeks since Martin and I had been physically intimate with one another, which is why I was so surprised to find him kissing my mouth tenderly as soon as he had settled himself.
I could not help myself as my right leg reached across to caress his thigh, my arms winding themselves around his neck as I sought to deepen the kiss. His tongue stroked gently at my lips and I opened to him, a sigh of joy escaping my throat. I felt a gruff moan fall from his lips, his hands pressing into and massaging my hips. Intense heat and wetness began to pool between my thighs, my pelvic bone seeking to press itself against his. I fisted my hands in his hair, unable to contain the excitement, emotional and physical, which seemed to course through my veins like wild fire.
Abruptly he pulled away from me, staring at me with empty eyes as I felt my lips start to swell from the force of our kiss. I searched face for anything, a hit of continuation, love, hatred, something other than the empty irises which seemed to bore into mine like ice.
He turned over then, pulling himself from my grip, moving to his side and providing me the view of his back. I watched his spine curve with the dip of the mattress. A harsh silence overtook the room, leaving me with only the beat of my heart and the rush of blood in my ears as solace.
Slowly, I turned to my back and stared at the ceiling. My heart began to ache and the sheets began to constrict around my body, a snake in the night. All encompassing heat seemed to spread from my core, down my legs and up to my chest. I felt feverish and ill, the lump in my throat making the act of breathing cause me a sore pain.
Hurling the covers off me, I thrust myself out of bed, not caring if the mattress jarred or shook. I knew Martin would not turn over. I quickly walked the short distance to our bathroom, shut the door and sat myself on the side of the bathtub.
Gasping for air, I pressed my hand into my stomach, trying horribly to prevent the choking sob that was threatening to burst from my gut. My other hand I pressed to my mouth, not an effort to remain quiet, but because I couldn't stand to watch it shake. Our bed, this house, was a barren wasteland of human wanting, filled with forbidden secrets and unspoken wishes of a one sided love. That was the truth of it. I was alone in love, I was alone in my marriage.
I felt myself sink to the floor, my knees folding tightly to my chest as I pressed myself to the cool tile. The sheer nightdress did little to protect my skin from the cold, and I welcomed it. I did not want to be a bitter woman, the woman who stayed because she had to and hates herself for it. But I did not want to be the one to leave the man she loved, though she could not find a reason why she did, to stay in a one sided marriage and eventually hate him for it.
My eyes shut themselves tightly, the realization dawning on me that I was standing on an emotional frontline, between the man I wanted and the woman I wanted to be.
Looking back through my memories, I could not pin-point the exact day Martin fell out of love with me. But then, perhaps he had never loved me at all. I could not, for all of my soul, decide which was worse. I had left everything I knew, my family and my friends in Rothdale, for a man who was convinced he had a career in London. So I followed him, to a suburb a short train away from the major city, excited to start my new life, my new forever.
It all seemed so pointless now.
Had I not tried hard enough to keep his affection? But then was there ever any affection to be retained from the start?
My heart constricted.
I was not this woman.
This was not me.
I did not want to look back on my life as a woman who gave up her youth on a wasted dream. If the marriage had failed, it was both our faults, not mine, and I would defend this point until the end of time.
Opening the door again, I slipped silently back into bed, a canyon away from the man on the other side.
My heart felt lighter as I pulled the wedding band off my finger and placed it on the night stand.
l did not feel guilty about the action.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2010-10-02 03:35 am (UTC)It was ours, and no where could I find a trace of Martin's input.
Together, yet very far apart at the same time, I adore the juxtaposition in that line so much. *nods*
Abruptly he pulled away from me, staring at me with empty eyes as I felt my lips start to swell from the force of our kiss.
Again, the comparison here - just as her lips start to swell from it, just as she allowed herself to marvel at the fact that he was touching her again, she looks at him and there's nothing in his eyes. Powerful stuff, bb.
My heart felt lighter as I pulled the wedding band off my finger and placed it on the night stand.
At this point my heart sang a little for her = fact, I literally wanted to punch the air on her behalf, and it was a nice feeling! She's something of a wounded soul, though I would classify her as a brave one too, she is an amazing original character. *nods*
I eagerly await more of this... you know it's rocking my world so much sweets.
Love ya!
<3
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Date: 2010-10-02 03:28 pm (UTC)I am SO GLAD you like Ellen. It is so frigging difficult for me to write a woman in this time period because I'm such a bloody feminist - ok no, I'm not a raging feminist, I'm just a woman who accepts her desires and her independence so I just cannot tolerate weak women. And because this was based on a a dream, I had such a hard time figuring out how I could develop Ellen into a woman that was not pathetic, or made a billion excuses for her husband, and I AM LOVING THAT YOU LIKE HER. That makes me so happy. Because she is a wonderful lady and she is full of surprises.
just as her lips start to swell from it, just as she allowed herself to marvel at the fact that he was touching her again, she looks at him and there's nothing in his eyes
It hurt me so much to write that, but it needed to be done :(
I literally wanted to punch the air on her behalf, and it was a nice feeling!
YAYYY!! She deserve some air punches. She will deserve many more. <3
YOU are rocking my world bb <33333
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Date: 2010-10-02 03:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-02 03:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-02 05:22 am (UTC)But as they walked closer to one another, their shadows entwined gingerly, for a moment giving the impression that they were kissing in a tight embrace.
So beautiful. The last bit was powerful and heartbreaking.
I can't wait for more!
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Date: 2010-10-02 03:31 pm (UTC)I'm really glad you liked the last part. I tried so hard to convey how much she was hurting. Thank you so so much for reading and commenting! It means the world!!
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Date: 2010-10-02 08:17 am (UTC)Of course that would be far too easy and amazingly boring tho. Ignore me...if I had written pride+prejudice it would have gone 'Lizzie met Darcy at a party, they got married and lived happily ever after. The end.' ;)
Anyway...I am very much loving this and as you can see from my babble above am getting very invested in Ellen and her situation.
Also...Dom in suit..yum yum yum!
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Date: 2010-10-02 03:35 pm (UTC)Your version of P+P still gets the job done, though...without all the hoopla of Wickham and trips to Permberly, and Jane and Bingly getting screwed over loads of times, and failed proposals and weird cousins coming to ask for your hand. Honestly, you just get to the point quickly *nods*
Really, it makes me so happy to know that you are connected with her and are invested in her story. I hope you continue to like her and eventually love her as I do <3
Thank you for commenting sweetness!!! It makes me smile so hard!!
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Date: 2010-10-02 08:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-02 03:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-02 10:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-02 03:43 pm (UTC)Thank you again!!
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Date: 2010-10-02 02:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-02 03:45 pm (UTC)Thank you!!
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Date: 2010-10-02 03:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-02 04:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-02 04:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-02 07:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-02 07:47 pm (UTC)Ellen quickly became a character that I'd love, I really like her personality. I also like how you change point of views in this story from one chapter to another, it's really nice!
This story already became one of my favourite and I'm looking forward to the next chapters! :)
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Date: 2010-10-02 08:58 pm (UTC)And any hope for a "brave new Ellen" remained hidden behind classical, acceptable, literature.
^Ah, I absolutely loved that sentence. Poor woman, she deserves a better life... When I read all those things about her cold, rigid husband my heart sank. :(
Our bed, this house, was a barren wasteland of human wanting, filled with forbidden secrets and unspoken wishes of a one sided love. That was the truth of it. I was alone in love, I was alone in my marriage.
^ God, that was touching! *wipes tear*
no subject
Date: 2010-10-05 03:00 am (UTC)But, for now:
I. Love. This. ^48405969357k653.
You. You speak of Brave New World and reference Orwell. You know how much I love those books. I love you for using these. It makes me all types of happy.
But as they walked closer to one another, their shadows entwined gingerly, for a moment giving the impression that they were kissing in a tight embrace. They passed each other, their shadows twisting and breaking apart roughly. But the breath in my lungs refused to budge.
T____T <33333333333333333 This image is beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.
I love Dominic. He's all sweet and nice and I want to be his best friend.
I was by no means a skilled chef, but I was raised in an Italian household,
*grins*
His eyes followed me as walked, placing dishes on the table, adjusting the centerpiece, until I sat in my chair and met his gaze at last.
"I prefer you in a dress," he said simply.
I looked to my dinner plate, the meal no longer looking appetizing or appealing. Last week he had preferred me in trousers. Now, I was wondering if he preferred me at all.
This tugged on my heart a bit.
The entire chapter, actually.
The ending, when Martin just turns away from her, full of ice and nothing.
Pulling the wedding band off.
All of this juxtaposed with Matt and Dom's relationship.
It's quite sad, imo, Ellen's relationship. The one-sided love. It makes me go T_T.
Am curious to see how her character develops.
love you bb <333 Your awesomeness astounds me.
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Date: 2010-10-05 11:22 am (UTC)Love Ellen's encounter with Dominic, love how you describe her life at home and with Martin. But most of all, I love how you wrote how hurt she felt at the end, you were really able to feel with her. Also, that she's not some typical housewife breaking down at the thought of a failed marriage, but instead trying to be strong and independent. Even though it may hurt to realise it, it was still a victorious gesture she did when she took off her ring. God, awake the feminist in me lol! No, really. This is such a brilliant story, I love it so much :D <333
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Date: 2010-10-15 05:35 am (UTC)gut wrenching! but you're developing this character brilliantly my dear!
ooh..taking off the wedding ring. i must talk to you about this sometime.
i love your description of dominic through her eyes, and her inability to diagnose the demise of her marriage. the shadows meeting on the pavement! oh so many lovely details...i must smish you for all of them! <333
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Date: 2010-10-18 08:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-09 09:56 pm (UTC)