|Alexander Murphy is (predacious) wrote in rooms,|
@ 2015-06-28 10:40:00
|Entry tags:||!hotel, *delivery, *narrative, alexander murphy, ashleigh donovan|
A narrative and a delivery
What: Writing a letter
Where: Penny Dreadful -> Passages
The posts were meant to lure him out and for that he should surely refrain from what he's about to do. The use of the boy - it is a boy, he has a son - that he never wanted was not good bait and those thinly veiled words they shared where he was still sure that she did not know him while he knew her - it needed an end.
Those days were behind now, sweat flushed bodies and dust motes playing on sun beams that he will never see again until the final death, the whisper of her words in his ear, syllables softened and roughened in turn by her brogue, the scent of her nape and that shiver of gold dust honey that she brought with her - this was mercy. The only mercy he could grant for someone that brought out something in him that he would never name.
The quill went to paper.
Yes. - He could leave it here, give nothing further, but as the nib settled on the period, his fingers itched to write more. -
I am not looking for you, nor for any of your family. Not Sam, nor Neil, nor Louis, nor
that wretched shooter any of their extended family members. I would appreciate you not looking for me. - The ink pooled on the last period again, a pause where he considered, then continued. -
May you live a long and happy life.
- He folded it up and sealed it with a pale pink ribbon and wax as he did when they were in Vegas. She was in the desert, but where? Once he had almost asked, but it was better not to have that defined. Leaving London behind, he left it at the front desk of Passages for her to find at her leisure.
It wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough, but it was a start. Perhaps, as he told Declan, he would go to Renaissance Italy. Perhaps somewhere else - there were dozens of doors after all and maybe staying in one was no longer -- beneficial.