Who: Rena and Abby What: Reflective, nostalgic, and above all, lonely Where: Madison's Pub When: Late Rating: Low, currently. Status: Threaded, complete.
It was late and it was quiet at the pub, the time of night when often Rena found herself alone with just the flickering fire for company. Having no morning responsibilities, she often found herself the last one to leave the common area, cleaning and setting everything in order for the next morning. After all, what need did Rena have of waking early with the dawn? She had no child to care for, no husband to wake up beside. It was on lonely, quiet nights that Rena wondered how a girl who came from so large a family could wind up so alone.
Rena walked into the kitchen, putting a kettle of water to boil, seeking the comfort of a hot cup of tea even on that warm summer night. She reminded herself that she had friends, people who cared for her. After all, the pub was like a home to her, its staff like her family. No one treated her poorly and she had made no enemies.
Except the one. Rena had never quite shaken off the guilt of the night she and Abby had fought, the way she had angrily pressed the other woman to tears out of fear and jealousy. Abby skittered away each time she saw her now and Rena was too proud to apologize so the guilt sat like a cold lump inside her, making her feel ever so alone. After all, Abby had Thomas's waiting arms to run to and Rena had gone home to an empty cottage, cold and lifeless.
With a sigh, Rena made her cup of tea and took a seat at the table nearest the fire, taking comfort in the soft crackling sound of the flames. On the table she had already laid out a precious piece of paper, her pen and ink beside it. It was a silly thing to waste her wages on but with little else to spend on, she figured she could afford that one little indulgence.
It was on nights like these that she took out her paper and pen and began to write. She would write long detailed letters, squeezing as much of her fine, elegant handwriting as would fit on the page. The letters would share stories and jokes, sharing her joys and her sorrows, even her loneliness, with the ones she missed the most: her younger sisters. She only wrote them in the privacy of the quiet evenings when her loneliness overwhelmed her, when she missed their laughing presence and their tender affection. After all, no one knew she had sisters, certainly not sisters bearing the name and titles of Somerset and, more importantly, she didn't let on to most just how educated she was. Sure, Thomas knew she could read and write but she let people think her skills simple. Surely a page with beautifully formed letters covering every available space would seem suspicious; common bar maids didn't have such skills.
And then there was the name she signed to the bottom of the page, all graceful curves. Serenity. It was a name half-remembered, half-forgotten. Someone else's name, strange and awkward with disuse.
A slight smile touched her lip as she let a finger brush the page, brush across that name that no longer belonged to her, checking to see if the ink was dry. Certain that it was, Rena gently folded the letter and did what she did with every other letter before that: she rose to her feet, and dropped it into the fire, not removing her eyes from the paper until it had curled and blackened to a pile of ash.