This has been on my mind since that episode; Thomas and Tom are such opposites but also the same. And Tom is so good and kind and happy but I feel like he's not always so happy. So have this quick little thing.
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Thomas tries to read his book and forget the ache in his wrists and the shame in his soul that tinges the colors of his vision a misty black. The sheet scratches, scratches, scratches at his skin, even though the blanket is Mrs. Hughes' softest, and he concentrates on the hard, straight, black and white of the pages to forget the muddled grey his life has come to.
It's not cold, in here, the room he's been relegated to following his momentary slip of judgment involving a bathtub and a razor tracking lines up his wrists two days ago; there's a small fire and he has blankets and warm pants and shirt and even a pair of wool socks, but there's a chill in his body that he can't get rid of.
He's been cold for the past ten years.
Suddenly he realizes he's gripping the book so hard his knuckles are turning white and there are little half-moon shapes embedded in the pages. He relaxes his grip and rubs his fingers and tries to forget the incessant yammering of his mind that's telling him to yank off the goddamn bandages on his wrists and do it properly, this time.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
And Thomas does what's he's been doing for the past two days; count to ten and try to read the same page of the same book and forget that he was ever born.
Except that a knock on the door interrupts his ritual. He looks up, surprised, because no one except those who had already come should visit him. Besides, it's nearing 11:30 at night, and everyone should at least be in their room, if not asleep.
"Come in," he says, and the door creaks open.
Mr. Tom Branson pokes his head in and steps through the doorway. His face is drawn and his eyebrows furrowed and he's obviously got something on his mind. There's no love lost between the two of them; not back when Tom was a chauffeur, and not really even when he became part of the upstairs. Of course, Thomas felt sympathy when Mrs. Sybil died, and he's obviously done good things for the estate, but Tom can't say that he feels any great love for the man. And he's sure Tom feels the same.
So he's surprised to see him standing in his room and closing the door and—well, he just stands. For what seems an eternity, he just stands, infinitesimally wringing his hands and obviously ill at ease. He looks to Thomas, then the ceiling, then the wall, then Thomas, then the rug, then back to Thomas, ceiling, floor, wall, over and over again. Thomas expects him to say some kind of well-wish or pitying remark or ask if he can do anything or even judge him with fire from heaven—anything would be better than this deathly silence.
Thomas is finally about to ask if he can help the man when Tom speaks up.
"The first three days after Sybil died were the hardest days of my life," he nearly blurts out. "I felt so alone, I thought I'd burst."
Thomas remembers black hair, a soft smile, and screams of agony, and stays silent.
"My wife was dead, I could never return to the country I loved, and it felt like the family despised me. I despised me. I wanted to die. I sat with Sybbie in my arms in the chair in the nursery and prayed over and over again for God to take me on the spot." Tom's voice is hard and soft at the same time; a terrible gentle ferocity that demands attention. "One night, it must have been two in the morning, I couldn't sleep. So I went down to the kitchen to get something to drink." Tom's eyes are present and faraway at the same time, stormy with the recollection of a memory nearly too terrible to think of, let alone speak. "And I s'pose Mrs. Patmore'd been replacing the traps and left it out, because on the counter there was sittin' a huge jug of rat poison. And I sat there, and the bottle sat there, and we had us a right long staring match." Tom draws in a deep breath. "And the bottle almost won."
The silence in the room is so thick, Mrs. Patmore could slice it up and serve it for dinner with a pot roast. Thomas can't tear his eyes away from Tom; the tortured eyes and fidgeting hands and lips that can barely speak. And it's not because Thomas is attracted to him; rather, he feels, in a strange way, that he's looking in some kind of mirror.
"Obviously, it didn't, and I'm still here, and I got through it. But." Tom's eyes bore in Thomas' like drills, captivating him and freezing him to the spot. "The point still stands. You're not a weak man for being tempted. Sometimes 'tisn't easy to survive in this world, upstairs or down. And some might judge you for what you did, but none of us do."
Thomas' heart is beating like a drum and his brain is roaring with emotion. He tries to imagine feeling like he did two days ago before he sat in a bathtub and slit his wrists, with a dead partner on top of complete isolation. His chest is tight and his tongue is thick and he's so, so grateful for these simple words that mean so much.
Someone else knows.
"Th-thank you, sir," he stammers vaguely, softly, and he still can't think.
Tom stays still a second, nods, then turns on his heel. His shoulders are stiff and held taut; Thomas knows he's not good with words, and it must have cost a lot to come up here and spill a such a dark secret that Thomas suspects no one else knows of.
As Tom opens the door and makes to step out, Thomas speaks up. "They didn't despise you," he says.
Tom freezes. After a long moment, he turns his head. "What?"
"They didn't despise you. After Lady Sybil died. They grieved, sure, but they didn't despise you. And I know the whole house is glad the…poison didn't…win." Thomas feels awkward and uncomfortable but he continues to blunder on.
The slits on his wrists throb.
"You've done a lot for the house. We're all grateful. And I don't think anyone ever truly despised you. And…I doubt Lady Sybil would want you to blame yourself for something that was never your fault."
Tom's eyes are glassy and pink, and his shoulders hitch as he inhales slowly to keep himself from collapsing into a pile of self-inflicted guilt and hatred. Thomas wonders if he's been living through this alone for over 5 years—and how he hasn't wanted to stare down that bottle again.
"Thank you," Tom whispers hoarsely. Then he slips out the door and shuts it quietly, and his footsteps track down the hall until Thomas is left with nothing but the sound of silence, the dull roar in his ears and the throb, throb, throb of his wrists.
After an indeterminable amount of time staring into space and mulling over what's just transpired, Thomas blinks and opens his book again. His vision is still muddled around the edges; however, instead of the black of shame, it's the sheen of tears that obstructs his vision. But his heart's a little lighter, and the burden on his chest is a little less, and it's a little easier to concentrate on the words littering the page in straight, tidy lines.
And by the end of the night, he's on the next chapter.
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"You are so brave and quiet, I forget you are suffering." –Ernest Hemingway
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I just love Tom SO much you don't understand. If you want to come scream about him with me sometime, just PM me and I would be delighted to. Let me know your thoughts in a review!