Young Love
If there is a scenario you wish to play out or even an OC you would wish to appear, please go ahead and tell me.
Anne sat, more or less composed, on a velvet, purple cushion on a sofa.
She had made her decision. She hated herself for it, to be so cowardly, to shirk a responsibility which she had brought on herself. But what choice did she have?
Young love was so rarely promising, she'd known it, and still she had accepted Roy Gardner. She hadn't been engaged a week before she realised her mistake. But she hadn't backed out. She'd been afraid- afraid of hurting someone, afraid of bringing shame on herself, Roy and his family, afraid of- so many things. But she would have hurt less people, brought shame on less people, if she'd left Roy then.
Instead of leaving Roy now.
Hearing her husband's steady, relaxed breathing from across the hall, Anne knew it was time to make her move.
Her bag- packed with clothes and money and food and jewellery (to sell)? Check. Check. Check. Check.
Herself? Her ideals intact?
Not check.
Anne placed her note on the velvet cushion:
Dear Roy,
I am honest in saying I don't want to hurt you. I don't- I sincerely don't. but there is no way out of the mess I made- and chose- without hurting you, and I am very sorry for that. It was never what I wanted.
I want to apologise to you, to your family, to everyone I've ever known, because I left my ideals aside and I hate myself for it.
I really do hate myself for this, in every way- but young love is unpredictable, and dangerous, and I can't live this life. I am not right for it. I see that now.
I wish only the best for you, and believe that things will work out for you someday. You will find the right love. I know you will. But she is not me.
I will look on our three years together with sadness, but no bitterness, and I hope so that you will do the same.
Goodbye, Roy. I'm sorry.
Then Anne stole quietly out of the large house and ran as far as her legs would carry her. Nobody peeked out of the houses in the night. Nobody saw a slim woman sprinting down roads with a big bag.
But in the morning, everyone knew. The odd but distinguished Mrs. Gardner had left her husband! She had run away and taken almost everything he'd bought for her and left him only a note! She'd let poor, young Mr. Gardner crying, in misery, and talked about the foolishness of 'young love'!
But by this time, Anne was long gone.
Anne's eyes watered as she sat on the train. People looked at her in awe, seeing the ladylike, rich, lucky woman. Not the too-young girl who was in too deep. Not the girl who deserted her husband and her ideals.
Anne thought back to about thirteen or so years ago, when she'd been an ugly girl with thick red hair, freckles all over her face, and ugly wincey garments. People had looked at her sideways, seeing the ugly, weird child. Not the odd, imaginative soul that inhabited the strange body. Not the joyous girl who finally had someone to love.
When her spirit was gold, Anne felt, everyone saw something ugly. When her spirit turned bad, everyone admired her. It hurt her.
She sat, her bag on her lap, staring straight ahead and trying not to cry.
When she got off the train it was midday.
The sun shined happily, not caring that Anne was hurting. Everyone was ignoring her. She wanted someone to help.
When did I get so selfish? I brought this on myself and I deserve it.
She checked in at a hotel.
The man with a glossed moustache who worked there smiled at her. The smile was false- too much teeth, and he was sucking his tongue- but there was a glint of real appreciation in his pale brown eyes. He had a good impression of this pretty young lady with starry grey eyes and long, glossy auburn hair, and her obvious wealth (seen from the flowers in her hat and the silk dress, not to mention the gold at her throat) and he was unusually courteous to her. A maid, passing by, heard the compliments he paid and bit back a smile. Mr Jones was the grumpiest, rudest, most bad-tempered man in Canada, and to hear his extravagant flattery was amusing.
Anne, however, was out of sorts, and was remarkably (for her) curt and uncivil. As Mr Jones was in the middle of commenting on her beautiful and- Anne shut the door in his face. He went away, muttering incredibly insulting things under his breath and growling at the innocent maid who was walking down the hallway with a mop.
Anne sat inside the fancy hotel room and took out a pen. She started writing:
Dearest Marilla,
You may or may not have heard rumours. Quite probably you have not- quite probably you are having a pleasant day. Well, I wish I didn't have to ruin it this way- I don't want to at all- but I must tell you what a beast I am.
I never told anybody of my marriage problems but there were some; Roy treated me elegantly. It was nothing to do with Roy. It was me and how I made mistakes.
I never really loved Roy- I knew that right after I accepted his proposal, but then it was too late. I thought I had stopped this from happening; but I only put it off. I wish so much that I had been able to learn to love him; I thought I would do it, but I couldn't.
Marilla, I decided that I couldn't live to be married with poor Roy, because I knew it was all a lie. So I packed up, left Roy a note and left.
Shirking duties is the most disagreeable thing, in my opinion; but there, I have gone and done it. I hate myself for it- but I couldn't continue. I absolutely despise myself now.
I feel such a beast.
I will not come home to Green Gables, so do not ask me. By-and-by, perhaps I will come- but not to live, for I don't deserve it.
Please, don't try to convince me that what I did was not wrong, because it was. You may think as hardly as you like of
Yours truly,
Anne G. Shirley
P.S. I don't feel qualified to be Anne Gardner anymore.
Anne bent her head over her letter. She didn't cry, but her eyes shone. Her head ached and all she wanted was sleep. But she had a duty. She wanted to tell the world how terrible she was.
So she started another letter, this one to Diana.
Four letters and countless numbers of tears later, Anne felt sick, exhausted, miserable, and crotchety.
She didn't bother to get into a nightgown. She didn't even take off her hat. Anne tumbled into bed, feeling sort of numb. In seconds she was asleep; but she slept fitfully, and her dreams were peopled with the ones she loved, glaring at her as she stood on their doorstep and slamming the door in her face.
Nobody came in while she slept, which was well, for tears ran down her face, and more than once she cried out in her sleep.H
