Credit to the GORGEOUS Cal/Rose cover image belongs to PiperRoser on DeviantArt, who was kind enough to let me use it. :)
* art/Cal-Rose-I-don-t-love-you-but-I-always-will-295848334
And this fic will be a darker fic...still romance-y, which I love of course, but slightly darker. And it is rated M for later chapters as well. ;) I hope you enjoy!
The rain made everything darker, hazier. Cal sat in his darkened parlor of his mansion, almost oblivious to every crash of thunder, every burst of lightning. He was the last one awake, as all his servants were in bed.
Drinking also made everything in his life darker, hazier.
He supposed it wasn't exactly the brightest idea to drink the night before he left for a week-long business trip to New York, but he didn't care.
These days, drinking made him whole. Complete.
It distracted him from the memories of the sinking...and...the loss of her.
But with every draught of alcohol he consumed, it only made the loss of her more keen. Painful.
She had been nothing but a cheating whore in the end. No. She had been nothing but a cheating, ungrateful slut, as well as the nastiest, most unkind, heartless woman he had ever met. He was better off without her.
But...she had also been the most beautiful woman. The most intelligent woman...the kindest woman...the most perfect woman...
The one he had loved, and loved still.
These days, he had done everything possible to get away from the memory of her.
But yet still she haunted him.
Prostitutes had always been a means of release for him, and now it was no different. Vaguely it struck him as funny, in the nighttime din, how, ever since he had met her, and become engaged to her, he had actually never even looked at another woman, or been with one. He had remained...celibate, all for her. Her. The whore...he had remained celibate while she cheated on him with a creature she had only known for three days...
Another draught to kill, drown the vision of her in his arms, in his bed...
He had long been a customer of prostitutes on the sly, and had even had some encounters with women in their own circle since he was seventeen. But, he honestly did not see prostitutes frequently, believe it or not, especially in comparison to some men in their circle. Very rarely when he was young, and then once in a great while before he had met Rose.
But he was always quite picky about the ones he chose. He had many faults, but being unclean was not one of them.
He knew that, for them, he was a dream come true, almost. He was handsome, wealthy, and clean...most of the abusive filth that frequented the prostitute's side of town, excepting other men from the first-class crowd, weren't any of those.
His last had been a mere week and a half ago, and it was almost cruel how she still managed to haunt him from beyond the grave.
She had almost looked like her, but her hair had not been as curly, nor as long...it had still been red though. And her eyes had been more of a dark blue, and not that pale blue...
He had still took her, but still cursed himself for wishing afterward, that it had really been her...
And one encounter had struck him the most...his second-to-last.
She had been a pretty girl, with brown hair and eyes. But she had looked so young...innocent...she could not have been at it long.
He had felt something almost akin to guilt as he had undone her dress, and took pains to be gentle. Tender, almost.
But, though Rose never would have believed it when she was alive, he was not rough with prostitutes as some men were in first class. And especially not with this young girl.
But he had not mistaken the blush on her face, the shy smile on her face, as anything but desire. She had wanted him.
Afterward, he had been getting ready to leave. He never really spoke during these sorts of things, but tonight, she had spoken first, causing him to.
"Sir, that was wonderful," she had said shyly.
He could only stare blankly. Was her self-worth really so low, that she would be happy about getting paid for sex by a strange man, someone she had never met, even if it was a handsome strange man?
"I...am glad you enjoyed yourself," he had said awkwardly as he had pulled on his suit jacket.
"Oh, I did...you are very handsome, sir, and a gentleman, compared to some of the men I see...it's almost like a fairy tale," she had said, blushing, her lack of education apparent.
He only stared in blank disbelief. He, oddly, felt sorry for her. She knew nothing of the harm that could come to her by living this life. Suddenly he felt compelled to ask her. "How old are you?"
"Sixteen," she said.
He could feel the thud of his heart at that answer. Only a year younger than...
"And, sir...can I ask you something?"
"Yes?"
"Who is 'Rose'? You...you called out her name...and I just thought...you seem so...so sad...maybe I could..."
She had faltered at the expression on his face. "Never say that name again," he had snarled, and then left her there, running into the dark Philadelphia night, feeling quite cold even though the night was quite humid...
He took another drink. "You unimaginable bastard."
"I'd rather be his whore than your wife."
Another, but still that haunted him.
Those remarks enraged him, made him want to insult her, cut her...
But underneath it all, they hurt him. Hurt him. Hurt him.
They made him feel pain. Just like her death. Just like her betrayal.
Unable to control the memories, unable to control the hurt, he hurled the bottle at the wall, where it smashed.
Vividly, he felt pain in his right hand. Looking down, he had cut it without realizing, and bright red blood was pooling and trickling out of the wound the glass had left.
He could only smirk.
It was almost nice feeling pain. And now, bandaging his wound gave him something to do.
Afterward, as he caught sight of his handsome reflection in the mirror, he could see the pain in his eyes, in his expression.
He missed her. He wanted her in his bed, in his arms, in his life...he wanted her here, alive, being his and his only...he would have done anything to start things anew with her...make her love him...
Slight tears reaching his eyes, he only gouged his hand anew, slapping it on his thigh, biting his teeth at the pain. It worked.
He refused to cry, shed any more tears for her. She was dead, and as much as that knowledge hurt him, it would never change. She was dead.
And he would never get her.
Going for one last drink before getting ready for bed, he still could not escape the vision of her casket...her in a white dress, gliding towards him...the vision of her smiling at him, instead of glaring and grimacing...
As he climbed the stairs to his master bedroom, he still could not escape the pain.
Dead. That was all she was, and he, Caledon Hockley, would have to make do.