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The night-time moon shone weakly through the sheer bedroom curtains, falling onto the soft pillow John Proctor happened to be lying on top of. Elizabeth Proctor lay next to him, her chest lifting and sinking slowly, softly–the only form of peace the Proctor residence had these harsh, cold winter days. Every breath John took felt like an effort, cautiously making the least amount of noise or required movement to face the window, to stare out at the stars.
The gentle snow makes it impossible for him to see clearly from the window, and it slowly seeps through the thin cracks in their roof. The wood store nearby is somewhat well-stocked; he will take what lumber he can to ensure his family stays warm.
He thinks about her sometimes. Abigail, not Elizabeth–never in these wretched moments. His jaw tightened as he exasperatedly brought his palms to his eyes. He remembered–God help him, he remembered–the way her hand had felt against his chest once. Eager. Young. Certain. The softness of a girl who had never once doubted her intuition. The worst of it, the one thought that made his stomach churn, was that he let her be certain. He had made her certain. With his silence, with his staying, with every moment he failed to walk out of his own house.
He threw the covers off him abruptly, as if he could leave his brain in the bed. He moved towards the hall, heading towards the near-broken balcony. Outside was cold, and the dark was total, the kind that made the world seem small. He stared at the lantern that sat on the balcony railing. His reflection was different–older than he felt, harder around the eyes.
You did this, his reflection shouted back at him, or maybe it was the pent-up contrition that was building up in his chest. He couldn't tell.
He reached into his pocket, grabbing a pipe and some loose tobacco. He lit the pipe from the flame of the lantern. He took a smoke. It wasn't something he did often, but life had worn him down. He thought of the way Abigail had smiled, lifting her dress to reveal her ankles temptingly. That the emotions flooding them were not dead but only sleeping, and that she alone held the knowledge of how to wake them. The thought of her hands on him now made his skin crawl.
It wasn't as simple as his disgust towards Abigail, but it was disgust at the version of himself that ever thought about the lecherous actions–let alone act upon them–instead of staying away from it. The John Proctor who had told himself it was only loneliness, only one bad season of his marriage, only human, as if human had ever been an excuse for a man who knew better!
Elizabeth wasn't mad at him. She didn't scream or cry. That was what undid him the most, even still. She had gone quiet in a way that felt like pounds on his back–it was crowded by what wasn't said. It was he who caused that. The same hands that delicately placed the ring on her finger and the same hands Abigail had once reached for as they belonged to her.
He hadn't realized his tight grip of the railing of the balcony, of the tears silently falling from his eyes, or the fact that his whole body was shaking from the cold, as he hadn't even bothered to put on a coat.
He didn't hear the door.
He didn't hear her footsteps either, not at first, for Elizabeth had always moved through the world quietly. She always was deliberate, thinking before she committed to anything. It was only when the warmth came that he knew she was present. Something heavy and wool-worn was placed around his shoulders, and he froze.
Her hands didn't linger. She didn't make a moment of it. She simply draped the sherpa blanket over his shoulders, the way she would cover one of their three children in slumber. He didn't realize that she stood next to him, leaning on the railing, her own arms folded against the cold, as she didn't bring out her jacket.
John didn't move or speak. He wasn't sure he had the strength to, anyway.
Elizabeth looked out at the snow, the same way he had been–at the dark, at the small pale world the storm had made of everything. Her face in the lantern light was unreadable in the way it had been for months now, in that careful manner she'd adopted since she discovered his affair. Since him. "It were I that done it." Proctor thought to himself, carefully bringing his thumb under his eyes to wipe the soft tears.
For a long while, there was nothing between them but the sound of the snow and the distant creak of the house settling into the frost. Elizabeth was silent. She did not offer him forgiveness or comfort or any of the soft mercies he hadn't earned. She simply stood next to him in the dark and breathed–that same slow, steady breath he had watched from the pillow not an hour ago.
John Proctor stood on his near-broken balcony, his living room blanket wrapped across his shaking shoulders, the lantern throwing their shadows long against the snow. There must be some shred of goodness left within him. For such comforts are rarely bestowed on those who are black of heart. Or perhaps it is her goodness. She will judge him yet, as he judges himself. His skin yearns for the burning sensation of anything, pinky wrapped around pinky, hand in hand, even sharing the blanket with her, yet he knew neither of them was ready. Maybe they never would be.
Someday the farm will be clean, the tavern's business will be plentiful, and the flowers will have bloomed. Maybe there will be an end to this bitter time. The cold cannot last forever.