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Cathy —
You keep occupyin’ every inch of my dreams.
How could I not remember? The machine oil stainin’ your palms bled onto mine, but I hardly paid it any mind. If my hands felt frozen solid, then yours were molten fire. I’d joke to myself: Hurricane Cathy swept me away to the moors every morning, stealin’ my breath clean away.
Ah, hell. D’you know what you do to me? If my heart sings at that sweet, tender timbre of yours—at the wicked, wild laugh that breaks free from your lips (you were proper chuffed about Plot #16—somethin’ about swappin’ the strawberry preserves with pepper jam. I’d creep through the kitchens right before that Linton takes his tea, and— oh, Heathcliff, just picture the look on his face! Even I can admit he could use a spot of color on his paper-white complexion. Shall we paint it a merry red? ) then your words crash over me with all the tenderness of a tempest—aye, just as ardent as the apocalypse.
You’re a sweet-faced calamity, that’s what you are—one whose love is eating me alive.
… Tsk, you’ve got me bleedin’ my heart out on the page, all flowery-like. But when it’s you, my thoughts keep overflowing—-cloggin’ my throat with the sour taste of my cowardice. The cloying taste of all my confessions—-beggin’ to break free. All that time spent faffing about, and I never– … In the end, none of that purple prose made it out of my mouth alive.
… Purple, huh. That vicious shade of violet… I almost thought it’d been mocking me, after I’d received such a grand and welcoming reception at the gates.
(That yellow-haired lass’s voice must’ve reached a record pitch. Well. Watching some hapless squirrel get a one-way ticket to the pearly gates hadn’t done any wonders to still my racin’ heart. And yet… even after all these years, I still… I was still nervy as a schoolboy stammerin’ through his first confession, dreadin’ down to my bones: that it would all go to pot. Hell, if the strands on my head—which had been slicked to hell and back, courtesy of my coworkers—had been long enough, I might’ve even been twirlin’ my hair.)
… Aye, ain’t that right. That day, when you’d threaded a crooked crown of heath through my windswept hair, I thought: you could stain me in all your colors.
That day, when you pressed a delicate finger to my lips, beggin’ me to keep mum ‘bout the seventh casualty of your prototype patents that week, I indulged in the wonderful, wicked taste of a secret. I thought, giddy as a schoolgirl—half-drunk with hysterical joy: you can paint me however you want. So as you’re the one wieldin’ the brush, I don’t give a shite. As long as I’m yours. As long as you’re mine.
That day, when you got that daft idea in your head—-somethin’ about love healin’ all wounds—and pressed a kiss to the bruise blooming ‘cross my cheek, like a promise, I… I started chokin’ on the scone you’d stolen for me, flustered like some blithering, bloody fool. You’d panicked. Shoved a delicate teacup into my calloused palms, and commanded me to drink—and drink I did, downin’ that scorching-hot Darjeeling like a shot.
(Y’know, I always thought you’d be the death of me, but I didn’t think you’d take it as a challenge.)
Cathy —
I see you everywhere. It’s slowly driving me mad.
You were terrified of thunder, and so I would creep through your window, night after night. No matter how fiercely the winds howled, tearin’ at my threadbare clothes; no matter how heavily the downpour pounded at my back—you would call for me so sweetly, so tenderly. What choice did I have, but to go?
… And so I would brave the wind and the water, for the sake of your hand.
You’d ramble on and on about your inventions to still your racin’ heart, and I’d smile and nod at all the right parts. I only understood half the jargon you were spoutin’, but I liked hearing you happy—loved baskin’ in the warmth of your smile. I’d keep holdin’ it, until the dark clouds over your expression cleared. Until all I could see was endless, effervescent sky. Until you ran out of things to say about silver’s melting point, or had enough of ramblin’ about radioactive decay—and you began to drift off into golden dreams.
But oh, how you loved the snow.
On snowy days, when that endless white blankets the ground, it muffles all sound. A silent world—it’s lookin’ back at me. It’s calling me a witless sinner, a wretched beast. Beratin’ me for the blood on my hands, screamin’---what right did I even have to speak? A silent world—an easy place for me to get lost on memory lane. A silent world—but not for long. Never for long. That ticking sound…always drags me back t’where I belong.
(... The hell? It’s a miracle. Cathy, you’ve even got me rhyming for your sake. What, you want me speakin’ in meter—singin’ to you in stanzas? Tsk. Some high standards you’ve got for your ideal man—maybe you’d be better off askin’ our resident poet for flowery words, eh? … Whuh? You were just havin’ me on? Wow, we’ve got a real comedian in the making—some king must be missin’ the jester of his court. Hey, get back here—)
On snowy days, there was always bound to be a ruckus. The snow could’ve been piled up six feet high, but you’d still be clinging to Nelly’s skirts, pleadin’ up a storm. Nelly would mutter beneath her breath. She’d call you a proper primadonna, or a teacup-sized tyrant. … Oi. Don’t you go pouting at me, now. Her words, not mine.
(Well, now. I suppose, in a way… you’ve always been queen o’ the castle. Queen of my heart.)
You’d always saunter down the stairs with a spring in your step, a glint in your eye. If Nelly wasn’t prowling the halls, then you’d pounce on some poor, unsuspectin’ Butler. You’d slip ‘em hush money before beggin’ and pleadin’ to tear up the pristine white landscape. To make it your own.
Our Chief Butler was no match for your signature technique. Oh, sure. I’ve seen her knock a bloke twice her size out cold with the flat of her briefcase, easy as pie. But your quiverin’ lip, your waterin’ eyes… well. I’d wager they’d have the power to drag a stone-hearted sinner from the gates of hell. They’d make even a heartless wretch weep their eyes dry. Swear for the rest of their days t’repent.
And so we nearly froze our faces off makin’ fortresses, sculptin’ a kingdom from scratch. I’d crown you Queen of Cathylonia, and you’d dub me your faithful knight.
One look at the lumpy, lopsided snowmen you’d deemed your servants would have me choking back a snort. Clutchin’ my sides, I’d complain about the cold t’hide the way I was half in hysterics. (Outdressed by snowmen… Ain’t it a cruel world?) Really, how could I forget the frosty fellow ‘cross from me with a rather posh cabbage-leaf vest, and cauliflower for a nose? Or the solemn-faced lass made of sleet t’my left, with mushrooms for buttons—and asparagus sproutin’ from her noggin in the place of hair?
… I never had the heart to criticize your skills at sculpting. And it might’ve been… ah, hell. Because the way you were lookin’ at me… reminded me of the first time colors burst across my sepia-tinted vision. Maybe that's why my heart was singing. So damn blinding—aye, maybe that’s why my eyes were stinging. … Even so, I couldn’t bear to look away.
(I always thought it wasn’t so bad—that maybe those posh folks, with more dosh in their purses than sense in their brains—were braggin’ about a load of nothing. But all along… I’d been missin’ that endless, eye-searing blue that they call the sky. I’d been missin’ the delicate shades that paint the sky at sunrise, the burning hues that haunt the horizon as daylight slowly begins t’die.)
My love for you has always burned. Nothin’ so lackluster as listless embers lazin’ about in the hearth—but maybe my bones have always been kindling, and my heart a lump of coal. Aye, well, you’re really turning me into a proper sap if I’m sayin’ shite like this, but… If your love set me alight, I would be smiling as the flames consumed me whole.
(...The hell am I saying. Maybe I really have been spendin’ too much time ‘round our resident poet—he’s infected me with his flowery verse. Hell, he even laughs at his own puns. Pray for me, Cathy. Is that what’s happenin’ to me next?)
Aye—that reminds me. Every time we ran away to the moors, we’d take off like those hounds were hot on our heels; once we reached those endless fields of violet, we’d collapse like two felled trees, breathless—right into the waiting embrace of those fragrant flowers. ’S quite a sight, ain’t it, when they’re in full bloom?
We’d listen to the faint hum of bees buzzin’ about—at least ‘til we stopped sounding like sixty-year-old chainsmokers; at least ‘til our hearts began to beat at the same steady tempo, and our pounding pulses, wild as rockin’ racehorses, slowly yet sweetly began to align.
If Wuthering Heights was my hell, then surely the moors were our heaven.
Gentle breeze carding through my hair, sweet sunlight shinin’ on my face, your warm hand entwined in mine. Nelly’s valiant efforts at taming your wild curls this morning were all in vain. (I reckon that a good number of leaves had made their merry homes on our respective heads.) Oh, she could throw a proper fit whenever the clock struck twelve—but only then could she break whatever whimsical spell that’d been cast over the two of us: gigglin’ like two giddy schoolgirls, drunk on the magic of sheer merriment.
On the moors, we could be anything. We could be lovers, we could be knights, we could be newlyweds. You could be mine—I could be yours. I closed my eyes, and thought:
There would be no sweeter death than this.