I wrote this for an English project a while back. My teacher liked it, maybe you will too.
One thing to note: it might be kind of vague, but I wrote it that way purposely. PM me, I guess, if you have questions.
Finally, on the narrative style of this piece - it's Chillingworth's own rumination on his life, a sort of flashback, except for the very end, which takes us to Chillingworth's perspective on his final moments.
I don't own any of these characters. Enjoy!
Roger Chillingworth. Such is the name I chose for myself, those seven long years ago on the day I arrived in the New World only to find my own wife a pariah, a message to the community of shame and sinfulness. As a visitor that day, I had been understandably questioned as to my preferred title of address, and, knowing that it would serve no purpose to connect myself to the sinner on the scaffold, I verbalized the very first name that came to mind. How could I have possibly known that name, chosen on a whim, a moment's thought, a fleeting fancy that gamboled across the pattern of my mind, leaving in its wake the poisonous tincture that darkened my heart from then on and drove my actions down the Devil's path; how could I have possibly known what that name would become?
At its basest nature, it is an evil name. Chillingworth. It defines me now, as the man upon which no man can scarcely turn his countenance without feeling a chill, as if a dark and vengeful spirit had taken up residence behind his eyes, and was trying its utmost to break free and loose its wrath upon the world. This, of course, is true. Something infected me that day, some pernicious hex cooked up by a witch and thrown outward to land on whosoever it may choose, perhaps; or perhaps it was the Black Man himself, who forced his own name out from my scholarly lips and retained his unyielding clutch upon me ever since.
I certainly never meant to do so much harm. I am a scholar, after all, a man of books and learning, of cold hands tightly gripping thin quill pens scratching across heavy yellowed paper, writing convictions of profound and fundamental fibre that I knew no one save myself would ever peruse… Perhaps I was doing the work of the Black Man all this time. Never have I claimed for the sanctity of my own soul. From my earliest rememberings, I knew that my soul was not destined to ascend to the golden spires of Heaven, but rather to come to rest in the endless and formidable plains of the under-world. I understood furthermore that it was not of my own doing that my character was imbued with such unnatural vice, but that instead I had been simply tainted at birth, leaving no hope for redemption. With that knowledge, I had hidden myself away in my study, behind my books, in order to cleanse my heart and avoid the foul temptations of the street. For the same reason, I arranged my marriage with the youthful Hester, an innocent woman who would ask nothing of me and expect nothing in return. I have no doubt that by the end of our days, Hester came to realize exactly what kind of a man she had married, as, arguably the greatest curse of sin is that it allows one to forevermore recognize sin in others, but my situation then was perfect. In the manner in which I have described, I had crafted a den of safety that would both protect me from the enticements of the outside world and subvert the curious eyes of those gossips that would wish to look in. It was the decision to move to the New England that proved my undoing.
Thinking that residency in the city upon a hill would further estrange the dark influences on my soul, I sent my faithful yet unwitting wife to Boston to build a home for me that I could hide away in upon my arrival. However, I failed to anticipate the innocent curiosities of the New World, and I spent two years living with the untamed, wild Indians and the respectable settlers alike, learning all that I could of medicines and cures, and more importantly, the ways of the world outside of my study, which I found to be more thrilling and enlightening than I had ever imagined.
After having spent the majority of two years living and experiencing life as I had been so afraid to do before, I arrived in Boston, only to find that even my innocent wife had been unable to avoid the corruption of my poisonous soul. I blamed myself at first, but I soon found that I was not of a character to bear the guilt I felt, and so I made a decision to search for the logical alternative on which to lay the burden. A holy and pious man like Mr. Dimmesdale should have had the wherewithal to avoid such a transgression, as I had done the entirety of my life in Europe. Looking back through the haze of seven years, I realize now the irrational anger I felt towards the man stemmed from a terrible jealousy; my true thoughts revolved around the envy that such a young and sheltered man had possessed the strength to cast off society's warnings and condemnations and fulfill his earthly desires, while I had always been too weak to do the same. It was then that I realized that I had never been dark Satan's puppet, it was the vanity of civilization that pulled my strings.
I made it my duty to affect the same bleak punishment on the bold and true minister; I would never let him escape the fretful grip of our damnable society; he would never walk the rhapsodic, unrepentant forest path that he had started down hand-in-hand with Hester, no; he would forever on feel the teeth of man tearing into his heart like an evil-eyed Wolf, like the wolf that had eaten my heart the day I was born. I hated the minister for doing what I couldn't, and for doing it under the very nose of the most Godly city existing in our realm and remaining unnoticed, nay, for gaining fame and adoration in spite of it!
There were times over those seven black years when I found it hard to hate him, for I came to realize just how sensitive and empathetic a man he was. He was destined to be an influential and much-loved Saint, I knew from the start. He was too good of a man; he didn't do enough to inflame my anger, and so against my will I began to care for him, and we slowly but inexorably became friends. I truly did attempt to ease his pain with my herbal concoctions, the often aromatic and pleasing natural remedies that could be brewed into a soothing tea and enjoyed in my company over a light conversation concerning the memories of our old home in England, or perhaps touching on nothing more than the simple beauty of our landlady's flower garden… Too often our interactions were cut short when I again experienced that burning surge of jealousy, and I couldn't stop myself from prying into his heart. I don't know what I wanted, but this most certainly wasn't it, this mess of pain and guilt, a spider's web that grew out of my control and wrapped up all of us in its sticky threads for the Black Man to return and desiccate at his pleasure.
My life has been a waste. I regret that the good Lord took so much time and effort to spin me out of His raw material, only for the product of His great labor to throw it all away out of fear. I should never have married poor Hester, I should never have squandered my youth behind books; as knowledgeable and learned as I am, what know I of the Truth? It is my wife and her lover that are truly wise, because they dared to defy civilization and live their own unexamined lives… If only I could have done the same, broken free of my bonds and danced my way through history! Oh, how I Lament! I realize now that only one thing in my life has been good, and I was the cause of his death, on the scaffold, the start and end of all things! Civilization is the real sin, with all of its rules and orders and customs; God intended for us to live freely in his Garden, only it was the Devil in disguise that drew us out from under the leaves and built for us our great cities, telling us that we would be liberated by walls and protected by fire, assuring us of his love and teaching us the path to Salvation, when all along he was simple toying with us, setting us on the great road to Damnation and eternal servitude in his deathly army! We serve the wrong master, and the goodly Mr. Dimmesdale realized this didn't he, that's why his soul fled this realm when it did, there was nothing more that he could do once he discovered that he had been preaching about the wrong Heavenly Father!
Well, I will follow him, then, and tell him all that I neglected to tell him in this mortal plain. Our conversation will never have to end under the protective gaze of the True Lord; we will be forever warmed beside his Fire. Oh, Mr. Dimmesdale, as I was walking along the forest path this very morning I happened upon a beautiful purple flower, a luminescent specimen, and so fragile, the petals of which I imagine could be used to clothe a delicate fairy child, and I gathered it up in my basket, and returned to our house and now the tea-kettle is whistling its shrill whistle and my last cup of tea is ready to be drunk. 'A' stands for something else now, my friend; it's called Acontium, and it's not scarlet, it's the darkest purple, a beautiful hue. The flavor is most bitter and it stings like acid, but, ahh, now my mouth can no longer feel it. How it slides down the throat, it's hot, it's almost soothing, but for the sting of it in the gut. I'm killing the wolf, now, that savage monster that has held me its maw from the very first, I'm going to be free, at long last! I can feel the creature dying, how it writhes in pain within me, pain that is no more than it deserves! Draw your final breath, Fiend, I command, and remove your teeth from my heart!