This piece was actually written as a piece of English homework, but I decided to put it up anyway.
Essentially, I've written up the poem 'Porphyria's Lover' from Robert Browning's collection of poetry 'Madness Cells' as prose, because I really liked the storyline of the poem. However, you do not need to know the poem; it is basically just a short story.
I do not own 'Porphyria's Lover', quite clearly. Anyway, please read this!
Love, Cabbage xx
The rain had set in, despite the fact that the sun had not quite yet gone down. It pounded down loudly on the roof, and the wind howled outside. The elm trees bent in the wind, and violent waves and ripples danced across the lake, which was usually so calm. I clenched my fists, which rested by my sides.
She won't be able to come tonight, I thought, She won't bother to come all this way, not in this weather. Not for me.
I gritted my teeth. No, she wouldn't bother – she had already made it clear that she didn't want to be my Porphyria, my wife. I knew that I could never be good enough, not ever, not for her.
No, I said to myself, with a heavy heart, Don't get your hopes up. She's not going to show up. She's not…
My self-sorry state was interrupted by the door opening, and in glided Porphyria, standing straight, as if the storm could not hinder or affect her; as if she were stronger and prouder than the elm-trees which were being torn apart by the furious storm. Even in this weather, she stood tall; even though her clothes were soaked through and splattered with mud, her cold, blue eyes and elegant features oozed class. My heart swelled with emotion when she looked at me, yet still, I refused to make eye contact with her, or talk to her – this cold woman, who said she cared, and yet turned me down. She bent and lit the fire, coaxing a tiny spark into a roaring flame, which seem to fill the whole room, before standing. She shrugged off her dripping shawl, and her cloak, and removed her sodden gloves to reveal her dainty, soft fingers, pink from cold. She untied her hat, and out from under it tumbled her damp, golden her, which clung to her face and neck.
She sat down next to me, smiling gently, and then called my name, her face still smiling, but with concern in her eyes. I ignored her, clench-fisted, and continued to stare at the wall. She sighed, and took one of my arms, and wrapped it around her slim waist, and when I did not respond, she allowed her dress to slim over her smooth, white shoulder, leaving it bare. She tossed her hair away from where it clung to her damp skin, letting it about her shoulders like a cloak, before tilting my head so it lay upon her shoulder, because I refused to move – I lay there, like a broken puppet, or a corpse.
"I love you," she murmured against my hair, "But I'm just…I'm confused. I'm not…not strong enough to risk everything for love. I can't disentangle my love for you from who I am, who I need to be to have a successful future. And although I know that I couldn't be your wife, sometimes I can't keep myself away from you – like tonight, I thought of you, all alone, worrying over me, hurt by all the things that I've said, all the mixed messages I've given. I had to come and see you; the wind and the rain could never have kept me from you, my love, not tonight."
I finally brought myself to look at her. Her eyes, which had seemed so cold, now seemed to glitter like sapphires, and I felt my heart swelling up with pride and affection. She worshipped me, she needed me! She had come all this way just to see me! That moment was perfect, that exact moment was the most beautiful and exquisite moment of my life – she was mine, all mine, perfect, pure. Her heart was mine, and no-one else's. She was so perfect – honest, pure, and without shame or pride, sitting next to me without a care for class, or reputation. I couldn't let this pure, perfect Porphyria just slip away into a memory.
So, I took her long hair in one long strand, and wrapped it around her slender, elegant neck, three times, and held it there. She did not struggle; her eyes widened in surprise, and she gasped with shock, but she did not scream or sob or cry in pain. No, she made no protest; the only sounds that escaped from her rosy lips were gasps for breath – and then silence. I am quite sure I did not hurt her; in fact, I know I did not hurt her, I couldn't have, I wouldn't have…
Warily, I opened her eyes – her eyes were not bloodshot, or panicked, or tearstained! They were still a brilliant blue, still filled with her love for me. Next, I untightened the tress from her neck, letting it hang loose about her shoulders once more, before leaning to kiss her cheek. It was still soft, still warm – a blush seemed to bloom across her smooth cheek and my warm lips touched it.
Her head leant upon my shoulder, now, her face still rosy and beautiful – happier, as she could now be mine forever, no need to choose anything over her love for me, to be with me forever – the very thing which both of us had wanted, but had never thought that we could have! I have her now, all mine; she shall never be anyone else's, she shall always be my Porphyria. Our names will always be together now, Porphyria and her lover - like a tattoo on someone's skin.
We stayed there all night, Porphyria and I. Neither of us stirred, neither of us left, we stayed there all night, her head rested on my shoulder. Some could call us wrong, but you see, nothing came to stop us, to stop me, that night. No heavenly sign, no intervention, not a soul; so, you see, it must have been meant to be.
There we go. I probably crashed and burned there, and the poor poet would probably be mortified to see what I've done with his work. Ah well! Please review, if you so wish!
Cabbage out x