Chapter 38

Edith says this will give me a place to vent my frustrations, and help to stave off the loneliness I will doubtless feel, but even as I write I cannot help but feel like a silly naive school-girl once again.

I want to be hopeful that moving to Milton will be better for us. I want to be excited for it, for Papa's sake more than anyone else, but I cannot. Mama, and since it is Mama it is Dixon also, is absolutely determined to hate it. I confess it rather pulls my spirit. To be honest, I don't know how I will fare leaving London Society. I've spent nearly all my life in London, with Edith. I was so excited to return to Helstone to visit Mama and Papa, but there was no question that I would be returning to London. Even with Edith's recent marriage. She is more a sister than a cousin, and I'm afraid I don't quite know what I will do without her.

Milton is far worse than I anticipated. I can not fathom why Papa wanted us here, of all places. I've tried to make the house as pleasing to Mama as possible, but I know with certainty she will detest it. I do not know how to pull her from her bitterness, and I fear my own bitterness is only growing with each day that passes.

I met the infamous Mr. John Thornton as well, odious, vile man that he is-

John shut the book very quickly, looking away toward the window. His pride was wounded seeing the evidence of Margaret's intense dislike for him. Perhaps he should stop...no. No, he needed to know everything.

I happened across him at Marlborough Mills as he was beating one of his workers like a savage brute. It was the most disgusting display of male dominance I have ever been unfortunate enough to witness. I could hardly breathe for a full ten seconds, before I did what anyone else surely would have done: I put a stop to it. Much good it did me, for he turned his fury upon me and actually yelled at me before firing the poor man he beat to a pulp. The worker has six young children at home. If the father doesn't find work, they could starve. How could any rational human being do such a thing to another?

Although, I do find it puzzling that none of the other workers stepped in...

Out of the entirety of Milton, naturally the one person who has taken up private lessons with Papa would be Mr. Thornton.

I have never met a man so full of self righteous indignation in my life. Even Henry is not so full of himself as Mr. Thornton.

I tried to implore with him to reason when it comes to his workers, when it pertains to using acts of violence against your own employees to enact discipline. I almost quite literally had to bite my tongue to refrain from hinting at a more significant problem, perhaps sadism...he humiliated me in front of my own parents.

I find myself conflicted however. He spoke with such a fierce and untamed passion of the fire at his Mill the previous May. I could nearly feel the weight of responsibility as he told me of the three-hundred souls laid to rest from that disaster. Children even. Truly as I write, the thought of such a horrendous disaster makes me feel ill. He could not have invented such a tale. I confess, the haunted way in which he relayed the information fills me with overwhelming guilt. I find myself unable to make amends. His pride is so abominable. Perhaps this is a fault in my own character?

I have made a friend! Her name is Bessy Higgins, and thought she works for Mr. Thornton, I simply refuse to let it get the best of me. I am determined to enjoy her company.

This city is so dreary and consuming. I cannot feel the sun on my skin, nor the wisp of fresh air that follows a new breeze. I feel as though I am drowning in an endless sea of cotton and smoke. I feel as though I will soon lose what I know of myself entirely.

Mama seems to worsen as our time here grows longer. I worry this place will be the death of her; the death of us all even. I could not live without my parents, and if Mama goes, Papa will surely follow. They love one another too much to be separated even by death. The winter is full on now. The already unpredictable weather in Darkshire has been unleashed on us, from freezing rain, to entire drifts of snow falling from the sky. It has made going anywhere out of doors seem quite impossible. I still force my way through it to visit with Bessy. I think I might go insane if I sit idly in this house any longer than absolutely necessary. But the winter is hard. It has shown the stark and brutal unforgiving circumstance of being poor. Women cradling babes to their chests for warmth as they sit on the cold ground. Starvation is everywhere. I find it difficult to go through the Princeton District without being affected. I pray fervently for some idea of how to relieve their suffering. The most obvious would be an increase in their pay from the mills, Bessy assures me that it will likely never happen. I overheard murmurings of a possible strike. I somewhat understand the concept of a strike, but as far as I can tell, it seems the most illogical way to get your point across.

If they strike, the Mills will have no more income. How do they anticipate they will be paid a higher wage upon their return, when there is no income left to pay it with? Nicholas seemed quite offended by my words, dismissing them as 'southern nonsense'.

Mr. Thornton came to tea. We really do not get on together at all. I spoke my concerns about the poverty in Milton, hoping perhaps he might have thought of something that I had not. I was met with disdain and a heavy touch of irritation. I was given another story this evening, but this story has affected me far more than I thought.

The way Mr. Thornton phrased it, there can be no doubt his father took his own life while his sister was but in infancy, and he away at school. A mere thirteen years old. To become the head of your family at such a young age? Unimaginable. If they lived in accommodations, or a situation even slightly resembling that of the Higgins family, how in God's name did he manage to pay his father's debt? As much as I am loathe to admit it, I feel shows a very true and real strength in his character and will. I do not think that I possess the same determination to see myself through a situation of that magnitude.

I can barely bring myself to write such words down in the privacy of my own journal. It would not do to make Mr. Thornton aware that he has a very slight amount more respect from would not do at all.

I met Mr. Thornton's mother and sister. I found their company more amusing than insulting. Perhaps that is a good thing. Lord knows I quarrel with Mr. Thornton more than enough to last a person for entire lifetime. I can easily see where he gets his proud, overbearing nature from. He is the spitting image of his mother's character. As for Fanny Thornton...I would not be surprised to find she was adopted into the family, so different in appearance and character she is. I had somewhat hoped to find myself with another new friendship, but now I do not think it likely to happen. If there is one trait shared between all three Thornton's, it would be overbearing pride, and a startling lack of compassion for anyone they deem beneath their station.

John lay the book in his lap, and sighed. He wondered at how long ago these events took place, and how much happened in between to change their lives to drastically. It appeared that she absolutely loathed him, but also his mother and sister as well. He had seen Margaret so often with his mother, that he simply could not fathom them behaving in any other way. They often communicated with a single glance, perfectly comprehending the other. This Margaret, however long ago she was, seemed to be a very different Margaret than the one he was married to. John skimmed through several pages noting Margaret's birthday, although she did not date any of her entries. She seemed to write only when she felt as though she had no one to speak to. He paused on a page that seemed to be hastily written and smudged in several places.

Bessy is dying. I discovered only this afternoon after inquiring about her persistent deep cough. Fluff in her lungs from spending her short life in the Mills. She will die, a very prolonged and painful death so that others might make a profit. She has not even seen twenty years on this earth. How can this happen! Why do Masters employ children when they know better than anyone the risk of health it is! It is barbaric, unfounded. Bessy is the first friend I have ever had. Why must she be the victim?

Am I being punished for some crime that I committed? Milton is a city of misery and pain, and death. Nothing is proper here. No one cares for one another, has any desire to care for their neighbor. It has everything to do with profit, and I have never felt so desolate over money than I find myself at this moment. Even Mama has not improved.

I think God has truly forsaken this place. I think Milton is truly cursed.

Mrs. Thornton has invited us to her annual dinner party. With Mama being so unwell, I had hoped that would be excuse enough for me to respectfully decline the invitation altogether. I was overruled it seems; Mama, Papa, and Dixon all objected quite fiercely at the mention of it. I fear I may have to attend.

The workers finally went on strike. The whole of Milton is bereft because of this. Am I truly so powerless to do anything of consequence? Mr. Thornton seems entirely immovable in his business ideas. The remaining Mill Masters seem to follow Mr. Thornton. I may not be able to do anything for the workers other than provide the poor Boucher family with warm bread, but I am not entirely useless, if not stupid. Mother is worse. Mr. Bell has come to visit, with no set schedule to leave. I do not believe she will last to the winter. I wrote to Frederick. She should see her son one last time.

Mr. Thornton can believe whatever he wishes about giving food to his workers during a strike. I will not see a child starve for the judgments of his parents.

I knew I should not have gone to the dinner party. I knew in my soul it would end with discord between myself and Mr. Thornton. It always does, every time we meet. I did not anticipate that he would turn charity and compassion into a public spectacle. It pained me to see him mock me in front of his peers. I have actively worked to form a friendship with him for the sake of Papa. I know he tires of hearing me bicker with Mr. Thornton. I wanted so very badly for it to be a success. Mr. Thornton is so much more than he appears to be upon first inspection. He has a fierce temper to be sure, but he is also extremely intelligent. Behind his stern mask, you can see the pride of the business he has built with his own two hands. The pride he takes in his work, and the pride he has for his workers for making such an excellent product. You can see the deep, almost fatherly affection he bears for his sister. His generosity in the way he pays Mama such special attention. He is a man of impeccable honor and sense, and I grown a great respect for him.

But his abominable arrogance!

Despite the insult of the final words of the first book, John could not help but smile slightly to himself. He leaned back into the headboard and closed his eyes, digesting the new information. As he let out a deep sigh, he saw Margaret in a beautiful evening gown, gazing at him with a look of hesitant hope. She smiled shyly, and held out her hand. He could not tear his eyes from her form. She had never looked so beautiful to him as she did in that moment. He felt a burning hope in his chest, a feeling that had accompanied nearly all of their interactions to this point, rise with strength once more. He wanted to fall to his knees right then, and wax lyrical on everything he admired about her. Beg her to become his wife. But it was an illogical thought, and he tried to convince himself that he could not ascertain his own feelings on the matter, let alone hers. It was a passing fancy, surely. Nothing more. He would grow accustomed to her beauty and wit soon enough, and thoughts of her would cease their incessant clamoring for the full attention of his already preoccupied mind.

John suddenly sat bolt upright. It had worked! He had gained at least one memory from reading! One was all he needed. He was desperately pleased that this memory did not show him grief, despair, or pain. He had not had a pleasant memory resurface for some time now. Grinning excitedly to no one, he picked up the next book.

It has been three days since the disastrous dinner party, and I find I am still upset by Mr. Thornton's attitude toward me. He's made far worse commentary on my naivety that had far less effect. Why should this be any different? Although I am quite vexed by this, I must brave at least Mrs. Thornton. Mama has given me reason to call upon them and request some form of water mattress that was mentioned in a prior visit.

What was I thinking?! I told him to face an entire mob of rioters and hold his ground. I am either blind or stupid to assume they would not try to harm him. I should never have told him to face them. I do not regret saving him from danger, though my head feels as though it has been cracked open-

John started, the violence of the memory throwing itself to the forefront of his reality. A massive horde of furious workers, all of them clamoring for his attention, desperately angry at him for bringing in the Irish workers. Someone yelled something at him, but it seemed muffled. John was angry too, furious even. His hands were shaking. The door behind him opened, and Margaret flew out of it, rushing down the steps and addressing the crowd:

"In God's name stop! Think of what you are doing! The soldiers are coming. Go home, and you shall have an answer to your complaints!"

"When will you send the Irish home?" someone yelled.

"Never!" John bellowed. Ignorant fools, thinking they could force his hand by making a show. They did not know him, did not know his character. He turned sharply.

"Go back into the house, Miss. Hale." he said, instinct pleading with him to have her flee, to have her safe. Fear blossomed in his belly as he looked at her beautiful face, imagined it contorted with terror as workers drug her away from him.

"They will not want to hurt a woman!" She cried, almost begging him to understand. He shook his head. Without any warning or indication of her thoughts, jumped at him and threw her arms around his neck holding firmly. Reflexes alone made his arms move, to hold her too him. His fear increased tenfold when somehow managed to force his body to turn, shielding him from the mob.

No.

He regained is senses very quickly, and attempted to turn them both, but she fought against him. "Go inside, or I will take you!" He cried, feeling fully terrified for her safety. Margaret forced them to turn once more, a word half from her mouth when it was cut short, and she fell limp against him. His heart beat, if possible, faster than before. His hands shook uncontrollably, whether from rage or fear he did not know. Deafening silence filled the Mill Yard as he lay Margaret on the steps, watching with morbid fascination as a very steady stream of blood left a gash in her temple and pooled on the steps below.

John coughed and spluttered, struggling to breathe properly as he remembered. He even remembered carrying her back into the house. He remembered that it was also the moment he knew he could no longer deny that he was in love with Margaret Hale. He picked the book up once again, furiously looking for the place he left off.

-but I was the one who placed him in danger in the first place. Why? What possessed me to scold him into going out there? Who can know what would have transpired had I not followed him? I fear it may be worse than simply that, however. Fanny talked in great animation of how everyone in the house, including the servants, saw me throw myself at Mr. Thornton. I fear my reputation may have been damaged thus. It may be some time before I am accepted into polite society once more. I shall bear well enough. A great many people would be suffering if Mr. Thornton had been injured. Many people depend on him, whereas I am not nearly so important. I would not take my actions back.

I fear I have made a mistake that I will regret for the remainder of my life.

I do not understand myself anymore. I truly believed Mr. Thornton's offer of marriage to be one of obligation, that his honor forced him to make the offer because I compromised my reputation. It was this reason, and this reason alone that I rejected him. I could not bear to be the wife of a man who married me because of obligation. I could not bear to be forced into a marriage that I did not wish for myself. He seemed so stiff through his entire speech that I could not help but draw the conclusion that he had absolutely no desire to marry me.

I was cruel to him. I cannot discern if my vanity was wounded, or if his manner did actually offend me, but I cruelly rejected him. He told me loved me, twice. There existed such a truthful passion in his eyes that it terrified me. I told him I had never liked him, but I did not mean it. As soon as I said the words, I regretted them bitterly. I tried to apologize, I truly did, but the damage was done. I could see in his expression so clearly the pain I had caused him. I thought him honor bound. I could not have been more wrong. He left, and I cried. I was filled with such an immediate regret. I do not understand it. I do not love him, but when my mind is idle...all I can see is the horrified expression on his face as he told me he had no wish to possess me, but to marry me because he loved me, begging me to understand him.

I told him I did not care to understand.

Be with God now, Bessy. I will always cherish our friendship.

My visit to London has gone exactly how I anticipated: Wonderful nostalgia for the first day. The previous four days have done nothing but vex me to distraction. I do not believe I can stomach London society any longer. Perhaps I truly have changed. Papa suggested it many days ago, but in my pride I fiercely rebuked him. I do believe I must apologize to him at once. If not for Mama's special request, I should not even be here. I find myself more infuriated than ever at things that I used to consider amusing. Henry will not leave me in peace. It is not so much that he is being improper, it is more that it appears he believes I will suddenly change my mind about rejecting his offer of marriage with every insult he makes towards Milton and it's people. I fear I am very close to losing my temper. I was not in falsehood when I told him last summer that I was not ready to marry anybody. I want to be free. Moreover, I want a man who will not feel the need to cage me. A man that respects my ideals and accepts for exactly who I am already, and with no desire to change that. I suppose if I had to provide and example, I would want a man such as Mr. Thornton.

Mr. Thornton was at the Exhibition. I thought perhaps to speak with him, rekindle the friendship we once had. He made it quite clear it would be out of the question. Upon knowing him better, I believe he prefers public humiliation as his preferred defense when he has been injured.

I am not so much angry as I am bitterly disappointed.

I cannot find the words to express my turmoil even here.

I feel as though I am a complete failure. I could not even protect Fred. This is too much to bear. It should almost be a relief to speak the whole truth to the inspector when he comes again, if not for fear of him finding my brother. I could not bear the loss of my dear Mama, and a brother to the gallows in the same month.

How could I have suspected that Mr. Thornton would understand what he saw. I am already full aware what he must assume, seeing me with Fred at the train station. The desire I have to confess everything to him is so great I can almost no longer bear it. I can not place him in that position though. I will not. He is a man of such honor, and to ask him to keep information on the location and last whereabouts of a known fugitive? No.

It seems my indebtedness to him grows daily. The stress of waiting to see if she would be accused of murder is so profound I apparently fainted once the inspector left with his less than pleasant news. As fate would have it, Mr. Thornton discovered me. I know nothing was what transpired while asleep, but when I woke there was a letter for me. Mr. Thornton, the Magistrate presiding over the case, dismissed it, taking full responsibility for negative repercussions.

How could I not have known that Mr. Thornton was a Magistrate?

What he must think of me.

He has not been to visit for months. I fear I will never have the opportunity to speak to him. If I could just speak to him, make him understand...I do not know what will happen, but anything is better than this silence. This guilt. I feel so miserable. My chest aches when I think on it for any given period of time. I can not make myself move past it. The loneliness I feel is absolute with his absence. He has spent so much time with Papa, I can feel acutely the loss of his presence. I just need to speak to him. I need to know that somewhere in the world, John Thornton does not hate me.

Though I cannot say that I do not deserve every bit of scorn from him.

Despite how confident I was that he did indeed loathe me, I do not think I ever could have prepared myself for the experience of seeing it firsthand. I wish I could resolve it. I wish I could tell him about Fred. Perhaps then I would not be regarded as a fallen woman, a liar. Maybe then he would look at me with something other than disgust.

I do not understand. I cannot make myself out at all. Mr. Thornton walked me back to Crampton from the Higgins home. I have never felt so alive. Perhaps there is hope after all. A very, minute chance that he still cares for me despite everything I have done to him.

Perhaps he simply wanted to rekindle the friendship as I have been longing for.

It matters not. I find I am desperate to have his good opinion once more.

I am truly a fallen woman now. My heart is broken, though I cannot conceive the reason with certainty. Something inside me shattered upon hearing him declare he would not marry me, even now when my reputation is thoroughly destroyed. A part of me wishes he never asked to walk me home. Part of me wishes he could merely tolerate me enough to marry me under such circumstances. I do not know why I thought to hope. I cruelly destroyed him. I let him believe deplorable things of me. I lied to him. I would not marry me either.

Today was very informative for me. I have discovered just how important a woman's reputation is. Today, I refused entrance into a grocers. Not even Dixon is allowed. I have destroyed my family by my own actions. Mrs. Thornton was right all along. I am disgraced, and I disgraced him with me.

I have a small moment of clarity for the moment. I am sick to death of being ill. My entire view of reality has changed radically in merely a day. Yesterday, Mr. Thornton still despised me. Today he is my betrothed. I dearly wish I might have spoken to him. I feel as though Papa has called upon Mr. Thornton's impeccable honor. I firmly believe that he has likewise been forced into the position of marriage to me. I cannot say I am unwilling to marry him. But I would not have wished this circumstance to be the cause. If Papa had not pleaded with me to accept, I would have declined once more. I would have given much better reasons than my first rejection though. I would have spoken to Mr. Thornton himself instead of my father. I am trying very hard not to be angry with him that he could not bring himself to speak to me, even ask me himself, but I have had very little success. I do not wish to be, but I am angry with him. I want to know why he changed his mind. I want to know if he still hates me. I want to know that I did not force this marriage on him any more than he forced it on me.

But those wishes are impossible. We are forced to marry, and it looks like the first opportunity I will have to speak with him is when I address him as husband.

I wish there was another way. I do not want to do this.

I have never desired running away before this moment. I can not do this. I do not want to do this. There should have been another way. I will bear this black mark on my reputation for all my days. I wish I knew if he still loved me.

If he still loved me...this would certainly be easier to bear. Perhaps that's selfish of me. Certainly he has no desire to marry without affection either. Else I am sure he would have married a long time ago.

The door opened, and John jumped so badly that the book flew from his hands, landing with a thud on the floor. He turned, horrified and saw Margaret. What? He looked around wildly. The sky outside the window was black, the fire burned low. He had no even realized how much time passed, so engrossed in Margaret's memory. Looking back towards his wife, he saw with no small amount of fear that she knew exactly what books were in his hands. He shouldn't have done it. He knew he shouldn't have done it. Dear God, his hands were shaking at the implication of what she would say. He could not stand this suspense. He needed her to say something, anything to relieve this dreadful burning…

"What are you doing?" she all but whispered. If the room had been any less silent he may not have heard her. He faltered, unable to find the words, the apology he knew she deserved. He did not know what to say to her anymore. The clarity afforded by all her memories was not enough. He knew her too well, and yet now...not at all it seemed. She did not look at him with anger, so he hoped. It seemed to be more of betrayal.

"I—I" he stuttered. He could not form words, panicked at his inability to think of anything useful, fear pushing, begging him to run. To leave her, and never speak of it again. She took a step towards him, and it was incomprehensible as to why his instinctually flinched, and turned away. To look at her and know what she thought of him. To know how she felt as she was forced to marry him. To completely understand her feelings of his character, save for the last year. It was atrocious. He looked wildly for his cane. He needed to leave this room, leave her presence.

Her journals. He held her journal in his hands. She had no idea how far he made it into her past before she walked in. Fear raked at her insides. Her journal contained her deepest, darkest thoughts. Things she barely admitted to herself. It was the only place she had to vent during the darkest moments of her life. She had sad utterly deplorable things about John. Dear God in Heaven, he would hate her. There was a reason she was not ready to speak of their past. She had been absolutely cruel to him. She did not know how to explain it to him. She was terrified beyond reasonable thought that it would put fuel to his illness. He was doing so much better, only small things she was certain he had not even realized that were easily overcome.

She could not go back to that silence. That loneliness. She could not have him look at her with such pure hatred for the things she had done. The misery she had bestowed him. She had already lost her husband three times. Once to illness, once to injury, and once to memory loss. She could not do a fourth.

He moved, looking for something. Margaret had seen that look before. It was the look he bore in his illness when he tried to escape her. The same look he gave her the night he kissed her, before pushing her away. Before leaving her in silence. No. She took a step towards him, and barely managed to hold in a sob at the sight of him flinching away from her.

"John, wait!" she cried, throwing caution to the wind, and fully approaching him. She knelt in front of him, his torso still turned away from her, and grasped his knee. He was breathing so rapidly, and she had absolutely no idea how to calm him. She had to try something.

"What-" he breathed, somewhat raspy. He looked at her, his expression one of extreme anxiety.

"John, you are afraid, are you not?" He nodded, his brow creasing. "Tell me." she stated firmly. "Tell me why". He shook his head, slowly at first, but determined.

"I—I don't know." he gasped. Margaret's mind was reeling.

"Is it me?" she asked softly, but refused to lower her gaze from his eyes. "Are you frightened of me, or is it something else?" He shook his head again, and his breathing seemed to slow slightly.

"No, its-" He broke off, brow furrowed. "Not you. I think. What is happening to me, Margaret?" He breathing had mostly returned to normal. Whatever episode had occurred seemed to be passing. "I felt such a fear that I had done something unforgivable. That I had ruined something. I wanted to run, leave you here and never speak of it again. At the time it seemed so rational. If I left, you would not hate me." He glanced briefly down at her before looking away.

"How far did you get?" Margaret asked. He met her eyes once more.

"Pardon?"

"Where are you at right now, in my journals?"

"You are describing how very much you do not wish to marry me." he replied softly, and she could see the pain he tried to conceal in his eyes. She sighed, ashamed of herself.

"You should continue." She said at long last. There was nothing else for it. This was the best way.

"But I have betrayed your trust, Margaret." John said, sounding desperately apologetic.

"Yes, you have." she replied, hating the necessary words. "But I confess that had you come to me beforehand with such a scheme, I may not have consented." Margaret to a deep, steadying breath. "I will never be able to recount our history together with such detail, or without pain, or even without shame. I fear that I will never know how to describe such events as they took place, as I am not the same person I was then. But in here-" she paused, picking up the book from the floor and placing it on his leg. "In here, nothing is hidden, or even censored. My unguarded thoughts, as I know you will have noticed by now, will show you the truth of our past in a way I could not duplicate."

"It does not make you angry with me?" John asked, his tone bearing heavy marks of self-depreciation.

"It makes me uncomfortable, yes." she replied. "John, even now where you are at in my past, I have said truly horrid things about." he nodded slightly. "To have you know of those things, all at once, makes me uncomfortable because I know of the pain it must cause you."

"But I have also done, and said horrid things about you." John said quickly, as though to reassure her. "I have publicly ridiculed you, or so it seems." She sighed once more.

"There are many things in there, that I know you have questions about." John nodded. "I will make you a promise." Her voice held far more confidence than she felt, but she owed at least this one concession. It was only fair. It was not in any way his fault that he had no memory. "If you will compile a list of things you would like clarification on, we will sit down and discuss them all once you have finished the journals."

"Are you certain, Margaret?" John asked, his expression one of astonishment.

"It is only fair, John." she said. "I did not write in my journal to preserve memories. I wrote because I often felt I had no clear form of expressing myself. I know that it would leave some gaps in information for someone who has no prior knowledge of the events."

"Like when I asked you to marry me the first time." he stated, though it seemed more to himself than to her. She cleared her throat, uncomfortable.

"Yes." He did not ask her to elaborate, for which she was grateful.

"I have gained some memories." John said after a pause. Margaret felt the rush of thrilled excitement fill her.

"You have?" she asked breathlessly. It was curious, that she suddenly be so excited for his memories when before she seemed to dread them. He nodded, a small pleased smile gracing his features. He turned his body to fully face her, his hand coming to rest on hers that still lay touching his knee.

"I remember seeing you for the first time at the dinner party." John said, his gaze captivating her. "I remember how beautiful you I thought you were, and how I tried to convince myself that I was not actually in love with you." He chuckled lowly. "I was wrong of course, but I had not realized it at the time." Margaret could not tear her gaze away from the warmth of John's eyes. It was mesmerizing.

"When did you know for sure?" Margaret asked, before she could change her mind. It was something she had never asked before, never thought to ask him before, but she found she desperately wanted to know. John's smile widened, and his eyes fairly twinkled.

"I shall have to tell you when I find out." he said mischievously. He expression sombered slightly. "I remembered the riots as well." He seemed surprised when Margaret laughed.

"Yes, what a source of misunderstanding. For us both."

"You did not sound so amused when I read of it." he said, rather serious. "I for one, cannot find any humor in it. I remember thinking they would drag you off, and I would be powerless to do anything. I was still powerless in the end."

"Don't despair, John." she replied, softening her tone. She hoped he did not think she was mocking him. "You will understand all in time." She stood, stretching her legs.

"Margaret," John began quietly, looking at his hands. "What happened to me earlier? When you walked in?" She thought hard on how to answer him.

"Keep reading John." she said softly. "The answers you seek exist on those pages." John nodded, still not meeting her gaze. On whim, not giving herself a moment to reconsider, she placed her hand on one side of his face and kissed him high on his cheek. A shuddering breath escaped his lips when her own made contact, and she willed herself to control the fluttering nerves within.

I told you I was inspired. I finished this chapter so quick, that I almost considered waiting a few days to post it, but come on, I owe you guys for leaving you with this story for like, five years haha. I didn't think I'd finish this one before next weekend to be honest.

I felt, and still feel honestly, that these few chapters have been somewhat out of character for the flow of my story, but I'm hoping that I'm wrong. You guys have been there through some major shit in my life. I know it comes out in my writing. I have read, and re-read my story more times than I can count, but I find myself unable to follow the previous flow in the way I had originally planned. This story once had a completely different path from the point where John wakes up. That is where I have struggle the most. I could not make myself write the story out the way I intended from the beginning, because it was attached to some really painful memories for me. I tried to revamp, continue in a similar path, but with a different tone to the plot, but found I couldn't do that either. That's where the 'one update a year' came along. It took me a stupidly long time to come to the conclusion that I can just change the entire end. What can I say? Stubborn to a fault, I am.

My original ending was essentially that John would recover, have no memories of any kind, and just randomly they come back all at once like a year later. He and Margaret have basically just been in this co-habitation state, and bam. Just like that he remembers everything, and they live happily ever after. But that's crap. that's not life. Feelings don't work like that. People don't work like that, and John and Margaret have been through waaaaay too much shit for that to happen. I feel a profound need to make this real. So I will.

On another note, as the story draws to a close, I've thought more and more about publication, which was originally put into my brain by you wonderful readers. I think I will. But I think I need to make a few changes, and for this I would love your input. I have a few ideas swimming in my brain.

-should I pull a Stephanie Meyer, and change the necessary items to make this a true original work?

-should I publish it exactly how it is now?

-should I add more content, perhaps a real beginning? If I do that, should I split it into two books? (I mean, i've almost hit 150k words here)

-finally how should I publish? Ebook, hardcopy, both?

Let me know, guys!