Work Text:
When they were young, Emily was the queen of garden flowers as they freckled the bright grass along their estate, winding wild emerald vines around her head to build a crown. She built a tower tumbling through the trees, in holy leaves that fell all around her throne of branches. Now she resided most of her time in her conservatory, surrounded by a vibrant array of flowers, her favorite remaining lilies.
She stared at the blank yellowed parchment she held, her inkwell sat balanced on the edge of a wooden table cluttered with clay pots. Her mouth was a graveyard of words she could not find to scrawl. It was unknown to her that like the breeze Susan had snuck in, she had almost become a ghost for the poet, it had become a rare moment for them to see each other. Notes and letters passed hands in secret, the only kisses came from lips pressed against paper. Sue stood there, gazing at her poet in deep thought, she kept the poems Emily sent to her, but would have much preferred hearing her voice as she spoke them out loud. Turning around, her eyes widened at the sight of her. Dropping the parchment and with only a quiet utterance of her name, she wrapped her arms tightly around Sue.
In her room one afternoon a long time ago, Susan knew she could love her, and from above her how she sank into her soul, into that secret place where no one dared to go; a place where she knew how volcanoes felt. Deep in the cobwebbed chambers of her heart she wanted to curl around her like rogue ivy, never letting her go.
“Sue,” Emily murmured, cradling her face in her hands. “Is this really you? Not a figment of my imagination?”
“I’m only next door.” She said, tucking Emily’s hair behind her ear.
"I know, but it’s felt like an eternity since the last time I saw you."
"Well, I'm here right now."
Words evaded her, too mesmerized by the sight of her dear Sue to say anything. Finally, she said:
“You have my last name now,” Emily caressed her cheeks. “But I really wish it was my last name you took.”
Sue took her hand, pulling her to the farthest side of the conservatory. Hidden behind broad leafed perennials, they sank onto the floor. She pressed her lips to Emily’s, her kisses were desperate, demanding; always so much more gentle still than Austin. Finally, Emily pulled away, asking why she had never responded to her letters. Try as she might, she could almost never find the words like Emily could, and told her so. She had her own poems, hidden away under loose floorboards. The time had to be right, and the ticking clocks were always minutes off.
They needed not to speak, content enough they were to simply gaze upon each other. Sue twirled her finger around Emily’s hair as the poet traced words of love onto the palm of her hand.
~~~
Austin unlocked the door of his home, each time he walked in his breath was taken away by the fact that it was all his own, and Susan’s of course. He brightly called her name, but only silence responded. His smile faded, setting down his top hat, he called her name again a bit louder. Still nothing came of it, he searched around the already creaking house, not a soul could be found in any darkened room. Thinking perhaps that she was taking a nap, he slowly creaked open the door of their bedroom, only to find it just as empty as the rest of the house, their bed unkempt. His face hardened, marching across the wild green to the main Dickinson household, the only person he could find was Maggie. The maid swore up and down she had not seen head or tail of his wife. Austin slammed his fist on the counter, utensils clattering as he stormed to the door of the conservatory, stopping briefly in front of the door. He pressed his face to the glass, peering inside he scanned the seemingly empty conservatory. Catching movement behind the green, he stood up straight and took a deep breath. His attempts to calm down were useless as a fire brewed within him.
Slowly turning the doorknob, he stepped foot into the conservatory his sister had banished him from. He quietly approached where they hid, the corner of his nose trembling as rage grew as he saw the gentle gaze of his wife directed at his own sister.
Jaw clenched, he cleared his throat.
“Austin-” Sue began, scrambling to stand up.
“You two are never going to let up, are you?” He said in a low tone, rage simmering beneath.
Emily stayed on the floor, looking up at the towering figure of her brother. Austin could not care to listen to whatever weak excuses they may have, even though they had both fallen silent. Commanding Sue back to the house, she left in a huff with her eyes brimming with tears as she went. He leaned down, grabbing his sister by the arm and pulling her up.
“Why you?” He scorned. “You’re nobody.”
She stumbled, tearing herself away from his grasp. Whatever empty threat Austin had uttered did not register in her mind as the cogs in her head reeled over his words.
“I’m nobody…” She mumbled to herself, scoffing at her brother as he turned on his heels, leaving her alone. “Who are you?”
Her memory brought up the time when Death told her she would be the only Dickinson they would be talking about in 200 years. She lifted her chin, returning to her fallen parchment. Picking up her inked feather, she scrawled across the page. Her mind wandered to Sue, wondering if she would be forgotten through the murmurs of time. The letters she wrote to her would be a testament of their love, perhaps to be found in a future where harmless secrets did not have to be kept.
“Are you nobody, too?” Her feather dragged along the page. “Then there’s a pair of us - don’t tell!” A smile began to spread across her face as she mumbled the words to herself. “They’d banish us you know.”
For all the nobodies in the world she would write, the people long forgotten through time, whose adoration and love was absurdly considered aberrant. Those people who were Somebody, who made those supposed rules, the ones who would call the love between the poet and her muse dirty and forbidden; they call it "sin" but the poet pondered how could the purest form of love ever be considered an abomination
How dreary it is to be Somebody, she scrawled. Emily stood back, through the fogged glass of the conservatory she could see clear as day the pale glowing blue form of Death’s horses. Though he was the last person she wanted to see at that moment, the carriage called to her and she marched through the crooked overgrown meadow. Her dress did not change, she still wore a desaturated floral blue, her red gown was nowhere to be seen, as she approached the inky black carriage, it disappeared as if it was never there at all. Still, something called to her pulling her deeper through the wooded lands surrounding her. Rustling, a movement in the grass, a frog hopping along to the wetlands drew her closer. Uncaring for her dress, she sat on the soft, dew drenched grass and listened intently to the harmonic croaks of the bog’s muck orchestra.
To be somebody, how public, like a frog, to tell your name the livelong day to an admiring bog, she scrawled with what little ink she had left on her feather.
The chilly autumn winds would soon end and the harsh reign of winter would begin. The bold, warm foliage Amherst was known for would soon fall below, decay among the grass, buried underneath snow. Emily would write her poems on two cent paper filled with words without a price, she would share her love for Sue with only hope in her heart that one day for a future dwelling in possibility, where the nobodies of the world could be remembered. While outside some flowers wither on the vine, buried underneath early morning frost, never able to reach their majesty; within the warmth of her conservatory, even on the darkest days, flowers would bloom in winter.