A/N: I am not very good at writing angst. Or anything uphappy in general. So i decided i ought to try and practice. This is what came up.
Please, tell me what you think, i really appreciate your input, it is the only way for me to learn.
She was so tired, it felt as if her mind was made of heavy clay and every thought she had to summon cost so much energy to get, she simply did not know how to keep her head up straight. She was holding her pen in her right hand and rubbed her forehead with the left, hoping to relieve some of the tension that was pounding. She was supposed to write a character for Lily, a maid who had decided to try her luck in London. Lily was stubborn, willful, arrogant and could not get the simplest chore done without heavy coaxing. Elsie didn't know how to write anything positive about the girl. She bit at the back of the pen, staring at the dried flowers that stood in a vase on the small shelf over the desk.
Charles had given her those flowers, many a spring ago.
She remembered how he had knocked on her door and had come in, his hand behind his back. She had been curious and even though it had been such a long time ago, she could almost feel the smile she had given him reappear on her face. He had handed her the bouquet. Pink roses they were, picked from the garden. She didn't ask where they came from, she knew they were from the patch by the bench. Their bench. She had buried her face in them, trying to hide her blush. He had closed the door behind him and had wrapped her in his arms and he kissed her. A dazzling kiss she had ever since associated with summer and passion and love.
Her heart had been so open, she had wondered if anyone could see it it, sense it, but everybody had gone on with their work. Had she kept her smile so hidden from the world? For only him to see? She didn't know.
Her eyes travelled from the flowers to the empty medicine bottle, reminding her of when he had been struck down with the Spanish Flu. She had given him the opaque liquid on a spoon and stared him down until she saw it disappear in his mouth. He pulled the most awful grimace and she had a hard time not to laugh out loud at him. But she had been worried and she had sat with him during the worst of it, thankful it was nowhere near as bad as with her ladyship. When Miss Swire had died, he was already on the mend. They had spoken of the poor girl, she had made a feeble joke, he had been serious. Things were back to normal soon after, though she knew they were even closer now. Fear for the other would bring you closer together, even when you thought it was impossible to get any nearer.
She tried to avoid the last thing on the shelf. Wasn't she tired enough? Hadn't today brought her enough trials? She did not want to remember. She took the pen from her mouth and started to scribble. Lily was punctual - never late for a date with the butcher's boy or a handsome farmhand. She was clean and neat about her person - which was an understatement, the girl was vain. She was spirited - which basically meant the girl was rude and not afraid to show it. What else could she say? What else could she possibly give the girl? She wanted to ask him, but couldn't.
Elsie folded the letter and put it in the envelope. A tear splashed on the smooth surface and she quickly wiped it off with her handkerchief.
She slowly got off her chair. She wasn't as young as she once was. She left the envelope on her desk, ready to be given to Lily when she left before breakfast. She picked up the last item from the shelf, for a moment savouring the feeling of it in her hand and went upstairs. Climbing the stairs step by step, she pressed her hand hard against her forehead. The pain was almost unbearable now.
She stepped into her room and carefully undressed. She put on her nightgown and took down her hair. Her sight was getting blotchy, her skull seemed to crack under the pressure. She slid between the sheets and managed to pry open the drawer of her nightstand. She took out what she needed and held it against her heart, the object from her room squeezed in her other hand.
She felt herself slip away, welcoming the warmth that enfolded her. She could hear him calling her. She had missed his voice, the touch of his hand, the way he used to grip hers when they were alone together. He stretched out his arm and she let herself be enfolded by his embrace and the darkness that fell, giving her a peace she had not felt in three years.
When they found her her in the morning, she was smiling and clutching a chain with two gold rings to her chest and a faded photo of herself and Charles Carson, the former butler who had passed away three years ago, on the pillow.
They never knew.