A/N: I'm trying out a new form of writing, and suprisingly to most (especially Steph!) it's written for Eastenders. Steph knows how much I complained about the soap during the years (despite only watching it a couple of times) but I began watching around October, and predictably fell in love with it. I was really dissapointed at Archie's death... and I decided to write something I've never wrote before. Will he be 'resurrected', as was Dirty Den? I hope this will be several chapters long... So, please read and review, and I hope you enjoy.
Chapter One: Peggy
'You got her, hook line and sinker. what now?' Silence greeted me, and I wasn't suprised. I was, after all, confronting my memories.
"You've taken me away...but I'll return one day." That's what the inscription reads, faded in magnified print.
Perhaps my words lead to nothing. Just where they lead him.
I stare at the wilted flowers until my vision becomes hazy, and then I let the tears carry me away to a place where, for a moment, my nightmares are not real.
I couldn't deny it - I missed him. He was corrupted by darkened thoughts and lonely hours spent plotting. I only saw glimpses of what he thought, but only when he slept. He'd whisper things that would startle me awake, and when I realised he was not in reality, I would listen. What I heard--should it be what he plotted... well, I'm sure that was what pushed him to the edge of corruption.
I think he loved me. He always said it, but not necessarily through words. I remember the gifts, the lingering silences where he would turn and smile the smile, which enraptured me as often as it repulsed me. I was helpless before him.
I trudge through the crunchy leaves, my darkened attire a mystery to anyone who sees the woman kneeling at his grave. I look at his watch, the metal catching on my bare skin as I push the sleeve of his jacket up. I only wear his things when I am alone, which is rare.
It's four o'clock. Trivial thoughts rush through my mind--'Time to make the dinner now, Peggy, but please stay out of my way.'
Ronnie was hurting, too. but she was a fighter.
The streets are empty, which suprises me. I am not used to quietness in Walford. Walls have ears, doors have eyes.
I didn't want him to die. I catch a reflection of myself in the window of the newsagents. My eyes are sunken, my skin almost grey with exhaustion. My hair is thick and fluffy, though, just how he liked it. I catch the aroma of burning meat and wood. I turn around, half expecting to see him standing there...
...but it is merely the whistling wind, causing tree branches to tap on windows and rubbish to fly about the street.
I continued walking along, reminding myself that I wasn't the only one who was grieving for him. I was not the only one was in love with him. Him and I were like jigsaw pieces, moulded together so we fit. But just because things fit, did not mean that they should.