h2>Dating : My Mind in Sutton
With the closing of the door, I’d found myself at peace. I couldn’t stand to stare upon him any longer; a devil, he was, in the darkness.
Nay, not a devil, but the messenger, no less. And it is for his word that the priests pray for shelter and the prophets hide in search of solace, for his word is acrimony, enmity, and fury; his way is melancholy, desolation, and despair; and his presence is disquiet, dread, and woe. So we hide from those we truly need — the monsters who care.
We are quiet here, as of late. The gentle pitter-patter pounding the earth is the only sound to hear. And, while I’ll miss it, I’ll be glad to have it gone.
We’ve become silent, as of late.
In the final moment of consternation, the scratching at the door filled me to burst. It was him doing it — the messenger giving his final sermon of plight. The loud, boisterous, abhorrent, abhorring mark of death placed upon my stead with no great conviction was let to linger on and on, louder and louder until we’d drop to the worms beneath our feet.
Then I wait with the silence, holding it in, carrying it, making it my own. I move forward but fall back upon myself so I do not forget that I’m still alive; remembering to carry on. I must not lose myself.
I’m standing.
Was I always standing? Was I sitting? I’ve forgotten.
I want to see you now. I can’t. I won’t. I shouldn’t. I want to. I need to see you — to leave you — to mend you — to be mended.
I’m at your door now. I ache, my hand trembling as his presence lay remnant upon our home, and the fear washes over me.
What has become of you? What sort of agony have you suffered, and what could remain? Are you bubbling, bursting, becalming? Are you still you?
Forgive me, my love, for I have not the strength to see you. I must leave now, my sweet Joanna.
And so, I follow myself back into the streets of Sutton.
I find his cross, white in chalk, along our door and wonder out to see him, the plague doctor, exiting his dominion. And, as I close the door, I find myself in pieces.
