It's quite funny really. I sit here with my quill in one hand and a clean, crisp sheet of paper in the other, and I can't imagine any words or witty phrases I want to use. I hear my Wife whistling as he dusts the bookshelf behind me. It's a children's song; one that he knows by heart. I shake my head and rake my fingers through my hair, threading them tightly and almost smiling as my mind pushes me into old memories. He was so young when we met; only thirteen. I was young once too, but at that time I was so much older. What was I before that?
I see fragile snowflakes floating to the ground before my wide eyes. I reach out to touch them, just wanting to feel them due to my innocence. A hand snatches me up by the wrist, and suddenly I'm forcefully taken before a man with hair as white as the flakes I was catching. I cringe as the woman holding me lets go and I fall into that man's chest. He chuckles and the sound is the sweetest I've ever heard. He holds me for a while, stroking through my wild, tangled hair. He tells me of the life I will now live, and asks me questions about my dreams. I'm so young that I honestly have none yet. He is fine with that. We go to his estate in the nearby town and he shows me to my room. I was told on the ride there that he has no children; I am his only. That thought comforts me in some strange way, and I sleep better than I have in my five short years.
Days turn into weeks, weeks turn into years, and all at once I'm the tender age of sixteen. I am not rebellious like the other children, nor do I want to sneak out at night with girls. I actually have no interest in them whatsoever. The man I have called Father all my life, the pale faced man with the short mustache does not mind. He encourages me as he always has to be myself. I find solace in books, and with writing instead. My favorite thing to write is poems. There are dozens of poems scattered across my worn desk, but as I read over them, a frown forms on my lips. I despise them all. I bawl at least half of them up and toss them across my room. Am I any good? Will I ever learn and get any better?
That failure of a memory fades. Now I'm sitting in a comfortable armchair in a sitting room, trying to adjust the tie I have on, but only making it looser. I pick at it for some time, hardly even noticing the modest woman standing in the doorway staring at me. "Sir?"
My head jerks up at the soft tone and I grimace inwardly, but smile outwardly. "Ah, is he here?" She nods her head and disappears for just a moment. When she returns she's holding a teenage boy to her chest. He isn't frightened, nor does he look very interested by his surroundings. I stand up and extend my hand, but he doesn't take it. He gazes up into my eyes as if studying me and seeing deep within my soul. He takes my fingers in his own, raises them as they twine together, and finally smiles. It melts the heart I almost forgot I had.
Our first few years of marriage are the best years of my life. He wakes me every morning with an angel's smile, kisses my forehead, tells me of the breakfast he's made, and asks me if I'm working on any new poems. My Wife is my biggest fan, as well as my worst critic. I'm always trying to write new poems, so there is always something for him to read. Some days he looks at the piece of paper I've handed him, shakes his head, and tells me what needs to be corrected. Other days he glows with pride, runs into my arms, and exclaims that I am William Shakespeare. All of these days I cherish.
I'm finally back in the present. I realize I've been staring at the table top with my lips parted, so I close them and glance behind me. I'm almost thankful to God that he didn't notice. I look back at that worthless blank canvas, and all at once I know what to write. I slam it down, bring my quill up, and write faster than I ever have. Words fly, my mouth runs dry, and after what feels like hours I thrust my creation up into the air. "I've done it, Light! Neither of us will ever work again!"
At the time, thought I felt that was true in my heart, I didn't know how right I was. "The Raven" was an instant success, one that brought us such a large fortune, we almost didn't know what to do with ourselves. The past seemed so far behind us now, and the future shone so brightly. I thought we would live out our days together in bliss, that there was more to look forward to now. But tragedy struck, and my heart collapsed. Two years after my infamous poem was released, my beautiful Wife died of tuberculosis.
I sat in my study, aging more with the passing days. No longer did I have the love of my life, my sun in the middle of the night. No longer did I hear the whistling, or feel those lips upon my face. With nothing left, and no more for me to do on this Earth, I too passed two summers after him. We left behind us no children, no family, but there would always be my poems. There would always be my sonnets. There would always be the name: Poe.