Note from Author: All apologies for being so evil. But, it had to be done.
I am almost done! Yay! And I promise, promise, promise things will lighten
up in the next chapter. Please read and review and enjoy..
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The structure was antediluvian, unbearably looming in stature, like some unforgiving sentinel against the backdrop of the early morning winter storm. Lightening streaked across the cold sky, illuminating the world in its eerie bath of light for a moment, just giving Darby Rockwell enough time to read the chipped wording of House of Refuge, before averting her eyes, a shutter creeping down her spine.
She lowered her somber gaze to the slush covered walk, ignoring the cold eyes of the ever-present guards, as she made her way up the chipped stairs, proceeding as though she were partaking in a funeral procession. She passed through the monstrous arched doors, a stale, pungent odor invading her nostrils. The atmosphere was dark, dank, damp, blazes of fire encased in glass tossing haunting shadows all about.
Darby walk down the straight away for a few moments before she came to a crossroads of corridors, a hulking figure suddenly stepping out in front of her, causing her to halt and utter a fearful gasp, placing a gloved hand to her heart.
He stood, the shadows playing upon his rough features, his black hawk-like eyes piercing her mortal soul, causing an icy fear to slowly gnaw its way throughout her, internally.
She gazed at him, her eyes stark with the purest of fear. She could do nothing but stare.
The guard's eyes ravaged her, until he elicited a guttural growl, the scowl upon his mouth broadening. "You. This way."
And without another word, he had turned and was striding down the haunting hall, Darby quickly jumping to the present moment again and following behind, her eyes darting wildly about the hall, unabashed at how any soul could be captured in this ungodly fortress.
He led her down the corridor, the shadows and flickers of fire playing upon the panels of the highly polished, deep maroon wood, the grime glowing phosphorescently upon the spaces where walls were bare, revealing cold cement.
The hall finally broke off and the guard veered sharply to the right, only to disappear through an unhappy doorway covered in chipping olive paint. Darby followed, her deep breathing coming out in drifts of frozen crystals, the absolute coldness that covered the entire grounds like a shroud saturating through to her marrow.
She plunged her hands more deeply into her mink muffler, her teeth still chattering as she followed the guard through the warped doorway, entering now a small flight of cement steps, slippery with smatters of stagnant water.
Their shoes clicked against the pavement in unison as the stairs leveled and they were now in a narrow corridor, flanked on either side by splintered wooden doors, the boards moaning under the guard's severe weight.
Darby allowed her gaze to linger on each door, the faint drip of water in her ears, wondering if he was behind any of them, the accompanying mental pictures too utterly terrifying even to begin to comprehend.
Suddenly, the guard halted, almost causing Darby to slam into his muscular back. Yet, she skidded to a standstill just in time, her stilettos' traction wavering under the slick hardwood.
He turned partially over his shoulder, his brutal eyes alive in the shadows, and jerkily nodded his head in the direction of one extremely decrepit door. "In there," he barked in a low voice. "Make it quick."
Darby only nodded, her breath bated and heart painfully pounding with a vengeance in her chest cavity.
The guard released an inaudible murmur, lumbering past Darby and down the desolate hallway, the floorboards accepting his size as though they were being diabolically murdered.
She paid no heed whatsoever as he disappeared, and as a heavy door slammed in the distance. Her ice blue eyes were only trained on that awful door. It took every single iota of her being to suppress herself from breaking down into utter hysterics in that hallway.
She only closed her eyes tightly, trying desperately to bridle the untamed sobs that were begging to unsheathe themselves from her throat. She inhaled deeply, catching her breath, stiffly approaching the door. She allowed her eyes to flutter open to find that she was only mere inches away from the fragmented door adorned with many knot holes. She parted her lips to parley, yet found herself only choking back a sob.
Darby immediately placed the back of a gloved hand to her mouth, spinning about and slamming her back quietly against the door. She knew there was no way in hell she could possibly speak. She would die of tearful convulsions if she did.
Alas, she heard a faint groan from behind the rotted door, and her breath caught jaggedly in her throat, as she turned her head sharply over her shoulder, and then in one slow, smooth motion turned so she was facing the door once more. Pain and despair surging rampantly throughout her veins, Darby quickly shut her eyes and rested her forehead against the grimy sheet of wood.
"Spot?" Her voice was low and quiet and cracked.
Another faint moan was heard from behind the door and Darby clenched her eyes together, pressing her hands to her mouth to stifle the sobs.
"Who-who's dere?" The voice was weak and fractured, yet Darby realized it at once, and as she did so the hot bitter tears freed themselves, pouring down her cheeks.
She fell to her haunches, her forehead still against the door, allowing her hands to search for the small, rectangular metal flap in the door. Gathering a constricted breath, she pulled the flap towards her, allowing her eyes access to the dark cell, save for the faintest light that flickered in a lantern in a corner.
"Who's dere?" the voice came again, this time breaking. There was the faint creak of floorboards before a face appeared on the other side of the flap.
And what Darby saw caused her to elicit a horrible vociferation, allowing her to let the flap fall shut as she fell back on the gleaming, dark hued floor, drawing a passion from the cries.
"Jesus Christ, izat you, Dahby?" his cracking voice came combining with the rusted sound the flap released as it was pushed open.
Darby was stuck with the notion that she could not possibly open her eyes, could not possibly see that face through that horrid flap again, yet she willed herself to open them and regard the door through tear-stained vision. Wiping her eyes on the back of her gloved hands, Darby rose to her knees, unsteadily pulling herself to the door and rising to her knees.
"Yes, it's me," her voice was unusually soft as she battled to hinder the tears.
"DAHBY?" There was a clatter in the room behind the warped door of objects being struck to the ground. Spot Conlon's face suddenly appeared at the flap. "What da hell are ya--"
Yet, Darby interrupted him with her howl. "WHAT THE HELL DID THEY DO TO YOUR FACE?"
He raised a brow, backed away from the flap, allowing his hands to map his face before a grim smile crossed his lips, and his glimmering eyes connected with Darby's. "What? Dis? Hell, woise t'ings have happened ta me befoah. Hell, I'se da leadah of Brooklyn."
Darby could not comprehend how he could find humor in such a condition. She allowed her eyes to rapidly scan his face, taking in his double black eyes, the right one swelled shut, the dried blood under his nose, and the congealed claret on his split lip. Her head fell against the flap. "What the hell happened to you?" she inquired in a soft, tear-laced voice.
A smile touched his lips as his head fell forward, his skin clammy and his wisps of his slovenly hair against her pale flesh. "Da bulls don't take too much to ya if dey t'ink ya a street rat who kidnapped and raped a rich goil- -"
"Oh, Jesus!" Darby breathlessly sobbed, falling away from the flap and to the door, collapsing against it. "Oh, Christ. I'm, I'm sorry. I'm such a goddamn idiot. It's all my fault. All my fault. If we never would have met then you wouldn't be in here--"
"Hey, hey, hey!" Spot cried sharply, as Darby felt his fingers blindly poke at her bonnet.
She shook her head, the convulsions over taking her, burying her face in her hands. "No! It was a mistake from the beginning. If we would have never met then you wouldn't be in here--"
"God damn it, Dahby, will you look at me?" he hissed.
Darby slowly raised her head, her fingers grasping onto the hole cut into the door as she pulled herself to her knees. His ice-cold hands immediately found hers, and she flinched at the sight of them.
"Your-your hands!"
He grimly nodded. "Well, da kindness at da House of Refuge transcends not only to ya face but to ya hole body as well."
Darby uttered a choke, pressing her forehead against the grimy door and reaching her arm blindly through the flap, finding the back of his skull, her fingers intertwining in his filthy hair, pressing his head against the hole, and pressing her brow to his. "I'm sorry. It's all my fault." The tears broke her speech. "I've been thinking about nothing, absolutely nothing but you for the past two days. I wanted to be with you with such a passion. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. But I never thought he would do anything like this! I, I never thought he would be so-so damn evil. I'm sorry. It's all my fault. It would have been best if we never would have met--"
Spot sibilated, reaching his hands out and interlacing them firmly about her shaking head. "Ya listen and ya listen good, Dahby Rockwell. I would radah been in her foah an entire lifetime dan nevah have met you."
Darby raised her tear filled eyes to meet his, his good eye glittering stark against the black. She avidly shook her head. "No. No."
Yet, he tightened his grip and stopped it. A slight smile touched the corners of his lips. "Yes."
"No," she choked.
"Yes," he said firmly, his eye glittering. "Jesus Christ, goil. Dis isn't ya run of da mill t'ing, here. I nevah said t'ings like dis to anyone else, even Adelle."
Darby raised her eyes to his and had to crack a subtle smile. "Oh, how can you crack jokes at a time like this?"
Spot's eyes grew serious. "If I didn't, den I'd go absolutely fuckin' crazy ovah not seein' ya."
She pressed her brow firmly against his, and shut her eyes as tight as humanly possible, yet was not able to bridle the tears that cascaded down her cheeks. "What about the trial?"
He released a bitter laugh, his breath icy-cold against her flesh, causing goosebumps to arise. "What is dere ta say? He's da mayah of New Yawk's son, coise dey gonna believe any damn woid he says. He stood up dere, in his 'spensive suits and solemn expressions and accused me while I sat dere. Said dat I was infatuated wit ya and dat he'd seen me hangin' around befoah. Said dat night he perposed to ya, and ya went out side but I knocked ya ovah da head unconscious and took ya back to da lodgin' house and raped ya. Judge believed every damn woid, coise. Why not? And I'se in here till I'se twenny one, den its off to da big pen foah me."
Darby lowered her head, a convulsion over taking her. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know-I would never fathom that that spectacular bastard would do something like this. Never, ever--" Her laced fingers grew tighter.
Suddenly, she felt Spot's fingers searching her hands. She raised her head. "What are you doing?"
His good eye glimmered with determination until his grasp came to a halt, and Darby felt her breath sharply bate in her throat.
His eye shifted to her and it seemed as though it was piercing her immortal soul. His palms had come to a rest on her left hand.
Darby's eyes widened as she feverishly shook her head. "No, no, don't."
Spot pulled away from the flap, rupturing Darby's hold as he roughly took her left hand in his grip.
"No, Spot, don't!" she cried in a strained, tear-infected voice, desperately trying to pull away.
Yet, his battered hands were strong and in a quick motion, he had pulled her immaculate white glove off, the atrocious diamond of the ring glittering violently in the soft light of the lantern.
Darby bowed her head, the sobs overpowering her as she fell to her knees, her hand falling easily out of his lax grip. "I'm sorry-I'm sorry--"
"Why in Christ's name are you apologizing?"
Darby raised her swollen eyes skyward to see Spot's hand pushing open the flap.
"Give me your hand," he said in a fierce voice.
"Why?" she cried in reluctance, staring up at the flap.
Spot once again had his visage pressed against the hole, his green eye gleaming against the pitch black of the socket.
"Just do it, Dahby," he said, softening his tone.
With a choke and her eyes on her hand, Darby slowly raised her hand, where his cold grasp grabbed it. She felt the impossibly heavy band being slid off her finger and she opened her eyes marvelously wide just in time to see Spot's hand poised backwards, and as he released it, the ring sparkling fiercely as it took to the air, landing with a distant clatter at the end of the hall.
"Oh, its still no use!" she exclaimed, rising to her knees once again.
Darby's eyes burnt with a blue fire as she bore into Spot's gaze. "I still have to marry the bastard tomorrow! Tomorrow! As Saint Patrick's Church! The event of the century! All of New York's finest will be there. Spot, it's not that easy! You can't just slip the damn ring off my finger and say that I can't marry him! I have to! As far as my parents are concerned, he OWNS me now. Why the hell do you think I was allowed to visit you?" Darby slammed her fist against the warped door, causing Spot to retaliate from the flap. "Because he SAID I could! Tonight is my last night in the Rockwell estate. We already have a stunning opulent mansion all prepared for us." A bitter laugh escaped her throat. "Well, shall I say after the honeymoon. The wonderful honeymoon where he'll be able to rape me all he wants--"
She broke off, once again the tears finding her eyes as she let her forehead rest upon the door. She felt his clammy palm find her cheek.
"He ALLOWED you to come?" Spot asked incredulously.
Darby wearily nodded her head, the splinters driving themselves into her brow. "Yes. He said in front of all our family that I should look into the eyes of the man that raped me." She raised her eyes to his. "But he of course has other motives. I wanted to wear black. Why the hell do you think I'm wearing red?"
He somberly shook his head, pressing his cool flesh against hers.
Darby desperately wish that the moment would last for eternity, yet it was harshly shattered whenever she heard the most awful sound under the sun manifest itself in her ears, echoing off the gleaming maroon hued wooden walls.
"Oh, Darby? Darby, darling? Are you ready?"
She immediately raised her head, snapping her gaze down the hall and then to Spot, his eyes wide.
Trying to level, the fear that was swirling throughout her, Darby fell to her haunches, warily watching the hallway. And then he suddenly he appeared from around the corner, impeccable in his tweed overcoat and gleaming smile.
David Van Wyck held his arms open as he approached Darby with his long strides, his teeth blinding. "Oh, my dear, dear Darby, I'm so sorry to have kept you this long with, with this monster. But my dear sweet girl, before you are married you need closure, and I daresay, but I think you have attained it."
Darby turned away from his deceptively malicious eyes and to Spot. Her deep eyes quickly scanned his as she balanced the rusty, metal flap open. "I love you," she said rapidly under her breath. "I love you, I love you, I love you."
David suddenly grabbed her hand, sharply pulling her to her feet. He clucked his tongue, shook his head, motioning to her ungloved finger, and vanished ring. "Darby girl, Darby girl, Darby girl how many more times must we go through this? That little ring cost me quite a bundle."
Her eyes narrowed into slits of burning hate. "Don't you mean it cost your daddy a little bundle?"
David compressed his eyes into thin lines, before hissing at her and brusquely stalking past her and down the hall to collect the ring.
Knowing what little time she had to spare, Darby fell to her knees and pressed her forehead to the hole, her eyes gaze disappearing into his glittering green eyes. "I love you. I'll always love you, always remember that," she said breathlessly, before David reappeared and forcefully gripped her left hand, causing her to stumble as she rose to her feet. He passionately drove the ring onto her finger.
"Come along, dove," he said lightly, yet his eyes remained malevolent.
Darby arched a brow. "No."
His deep umber eyes flashed, as he snaked his arms forcefully about her torso, causing the utter air to be drawn from Darby's lungs. "Yes, we really must be going."
And with a flourish, he had turned, signaling at to the hulking guard with a curt nod of the head, and began to stride down the polished hall, the boards creaking under his weight, Darby screaming as though she were insane.
"NO! NO! LET ME GO! LET ME GO!" A hot fire pulsated throughout every fiber in her body and she writhed furiously about, finally breaking out of his grasp when they had reached the stairs. Without even thinking, her chartreuse heels were clicking with a vengeance down the corridor, her bonnet loosening and fluttering to the ground. She halted only in front of Spot Conlon's unforgiving door, pulling open the flap, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"I love you, Spot Conlon. I'll always love you," she sobbed.
Spot reached his hands out of the rectangular hole and grasped her flushed cheeks, pulling her close. "I've always loved you," he gritted, before he feverishly pressed his lips against hers, the metallic taste of blood filling her mouth. Yet, this only made her more tempted and she held on until David Van Wyck's strong arm wrapped around her abdomen, rudely breaking away the embrace, stealing the air from her. He held her in a grip of the purest iron as he pulled her down the hallway in the stormiest of gaits, her professions of adoration being obliviated only when the brutal guard slammed the heavy door, severing her from Spot Conlon.
***
The dress was spectacularly immaculate, a shade to rival the veils of snow that fell outside in the dark sky. It had indeed been purchased from the same tailor in Paris who had conjured the exquisite peach dress.
The wedding gown was hanging neatly on the back of a chair, as Darby Rockwell sat amongst the layers of the voluptuous bedding staring at the wretched thing with absolute loathing.
She cast her eyes from the gown once more to the gleaming blade she held in her hand, running her fingers over the piercing ridges. She experienced a prick and cried out in pain, raising her left ring ringer to reveal tiny droplets of blood.
She glanced from the dress to the blade, from the blade to the dress.
At this particular moment, she fancied that hysterical young people should not be toting about fatal weapons.
She caressed the bejeweled hilt, her psyche an absolute train wreck of thoughts. She tightly grabbed the hilt and raised the blade.
There was a soft rap at the white door. "Darby, are you still awake?"
It was Ava.
With a disgusted exhalation, Darby tossed the blade to the plush carpeting, where it gleamed in the moonlight.
Her mother must have been content for the soft click of her shoes disappeared down the hallway.
Darby settled herself into the goose-down bed, morbid notions encircling her mind.
Why the hell was suicide so utterly difficult? It wasn't for Romeo and Juliet.
Yet, wedding David Van Wyck wouldn't be suicide. It would be homicide.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The structure was antediluvian, unbearably looming in stature, like some unforgiving sentinel against the backdrop of the early morning winter storm. Lightening streaked across the cold sky, illuminating the world in its eerie bath of light for a moment, just giving Darby Rockwell enough time to read the chipped wording of House of Refuge, before averting her eyes, a shutter creeping down her spine.
She lowered her somber gaze to the slush covered walk, ignoring the cold eyes of the ever-present guards, as she made her way up the chipped stairs, proceeding as though she were partaking in a funeral procession. She passed through the monstrous arched doors, a stale, pungent odor invading her nostrils. The atmosphere was dark, dank, damp, blazes of fire encased in glass tossing haunting shadows all about.
Darby walk down the straight away for a few moments before she came to a crossroads of corridors, a hulking figure suddenly stepping out in front of her, causing her to halt and utter a fearful gasp, placing a gloved hand to her heart.
He stood, the shadows playing upon his rough features, his black hawk-like eyes piercing her mortal soul, causing an icy fear to slowly gnaw its way throughout her, internally.
She gazed at him, her eyes stark with the purest of fear. She could do nothing but stare.
The guard's eyes ravaged her, until he elicited a guttural growl, the scowl upon his mouth broadening. "You. This way."
And without another word, he had turned and was striding down the haunting hall, Darby quickly jumping to the present moment again and following behind, her eyes darting wildly about the hall, unabashed at how any soul could be captured in this ungodly fortress.
He led her down the corridor, the shadows and flickers of fire playing upon the panels of the highly polished, deep maroon wood, the grime glowing phosphorescently upon the spaces where walls were bare, revealing cold cement.
The hall finally broke off and the guard veered sharply to the right, only to disappear through an unhappy doorway covered in chipping olive paint. Darby followed, her deep breathing coming out in drifts of frozen crystals, the absolute coldness that covered the entire grounds like a shroud saturating through to her marrow.
She plunged her hands more deeply into her mink muffler, her teeth still chattering as she followed the guard through the warped doorway, entering now a small flight of cement steps, slippery with smatters of stagnant water.
Their shoes clicked against the pavement in unison as the stairs leveled and they were now in a narrow corridor, flanked on either side by splintered wooden doors, the boards moaning under the guard's severe weight.
Darby allowed her gaze to linger on each door, the faint drip of water in her ears, wondering if he was behind any of them, the accompanying mental pictures too utterly terrifying even to begin to comprehend.
Suddenly, the guard halted, almost causing Darby to slam into his muscular back. Yet, she skidded to a standstill just in time, her stilettos' traction wavering under the slick hardwood.
He turned partially over his shoulder, his brutal eyes alive in the shadows, and jerkily nodded his head in the direction of one extremely decrepit door. "In there," he barked in a low voice. "Make it quick."
Darby only nodded, her breath bated and heart painfully pounding with a vengeance in her chest cavity.
The guard released an inaudible murmur, lumbering past Darby and down the desolate hallway, the floorboards accepting his size as though they were being diabolically murdered.
She paid no heed whatsoever as he disappeared, and as a heavy door slammed in the distance. Her ice blue eyes were only trained on that awful door. It took every single iota of her being to suppress herself from breaking down into utter hysterics in that hallway.
She only closed her eyes tightly, trying desperately to bridle the untamed sobs that were begging to unsheathe themselves from her throat. She inhaled deeply, catching her breath, stiffly approaching the door. She allowed her eyes to flutter open to find that she was only mere inches away from the fragmented door adorned with many knot holes. She parted her lips to parley, yet found herself only choking back a sob.
Darby immediately placed the back of a gloved hand to her mouth, spinning about and slamming her back quietly against the door. She knew there was no way in hell she could possibly speak. She would die of tearful convulsions if she did.
Alas, she heard a faint groan from behind the rotted door, and her breath caught jaggedly in her throat, as she turned her head sharply over her shoulder, and then in one slow, smooth motion turned so she was facing the door once more. Pain and despair surging rampantly throughout her veins, Darby quickly shut her eyes and rested her forehead against the grimy sheet of wood.
"Spot?" Her voice was low and quiet and cracked.
Another faint moan was heard from behind the door and Darby clenched her eyes together, pressing her hands to her mouth to stifle the sobs.
"Who-who's dere?" The voice was weak and fractured, yet Darby realized it at once, and as she did so the hot bitter tears freed themselves, pouring down her cheeks.
She fell to her haunches, her forehead still against the door, allowing her hands to search for the small, rectangular metal flap in the door. Gathering a constricted breath, she pulled the flap towards her, allowing her eyes access to the dark cell, save for the faintest light that flickered in a lantern in a corner.
"Who's dere?" the voice came again, this time breaking. There was the faint creak of floorboards before a face appeared on the other side of the flap.
And what Darby saw caused her to elicit a horrible vociferation, allowing her to let the flap fall shut as she fell back on the gleaming, dark hued floor, drawing a passion from the cries.
"Jesus Christ, izat you, Dahby?" his cracking voice came combining with the rusted sound the flap released as it was pushed open.
Darby was stuck with the notion that she could not possibly open her eyes, could not possibly see that face through that horrid flap again, yet she willed herself to open them and regard the door through tear-stained vision. Wiping her eyes on the back of her gloved hands, Darby rose to her knees, unsteadily pulling herself to the door and rising to her knees.
"Yes, it's me," her voice was unusually soft as she battled to hinder the tears.
"DAHBY?" There was a clatter in the room behind the warped door of objects being struck to the ground. Spot Conlon's face suddenly appeared at the flap. "What da hell are ya--"
Yet, Darby interrupted him with her howl. "WHAT THE HELL DID THEY DO TO YOUR FACE?"
He raised a brow, backed away from the flap, allowing his hands to map his face before a grim smile crossed his lips, and his glimmering eyes connected with Darby's. "What? Dis? Hell, woise t'ings have happened ta me befoah. Hell, I'se da leadah of Brooklyn."
Darby could not comprehend how he could find humor in such a condition. She allowed her eyes to rapidly scan his face, taking in his double black eyes, the right one swelled shut, the dried blood under his nose, and the congealed claret on his split lip. Her head fell against the flap. "What the hell happened to you?" she inquired in a soft, tear-laced voice.
A smile touched his lips as his head fell forward, his skin clammy and his wisps of his slovenly hair against her pale flesh. "Da bulls don't take too much to ya if dey t'ink ya a street rat who kidnapped and raped a rich goil- -"
"Oh, Jesus!" Darby breathlessly sobbed, falling away from the flap and to the door, collapsing against it. "Oh, Christ. I'm, I'm sorry. I'm such a goddamn idiot. It's all my fault. All my fault. If we never would have met then you wouldn't be in here--"
"Hey, hey, hey!" Spot cried sharply, as Darby felt his fingers blindly poke at her bonnet.
She shook her head, the convulsions over taking her, burying her face in her hands. "No! It was a mistake from the beginning. If we would have never met then you wouldn't be in here--"
"God damn it, Dahby, will you look at me?" he hissed.
Darby slowly raised her head, her fingers grasping onto the hole cut into the door as she pulled herself to her knees. His ice-cold hands immediately found hers, and she flinched at the sight of them.
"Your-your hands!"
He grimly nodded. "Well, da kindness at da House of Refuge transcends not only to ya face but to ya hole body as well."
Darby uttered a choke, pressing her forehead against the grimy door and reaching her arm blindly through the flap, finding the back of his skull, her fingers intertwining in his filthy hair, pressing his head against the hole, and pressing her brow to his. "I'm sorry. It's all my fault." The tears broke her speech. "I've been thinking about nothing, absolutely nothing but you for the past two days. I wanted to be with you with such a passion. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. But I never thought he would do anything like this! I, I never thought he would be so-so damn evil. I'm sorry. It's all my fault. It would have been best if we never would have met--"
Spot sibilated, reaching his hands out and interlacing them firmly about her shaking head. "Ya listen and ya listen good, Dahby Rockwell. I would radah been in her foah an entire lifetime dan nevah have met you."
Darby raised her tear filled eyes to meet his, his good eye glittering stark against the black. She avidly shook her head. "No. No."
Yet, he tightened his grip and stopped it. A slight smile touched the corners of his lips. "Yes."
"No," she choked.
"Yes," he said firmly, his eye glittering. "Jesus Christ, goil. Dis isn't ya run of da mill t'ing, here. I nevah said t'ings like dis to anyone else, even Adelle."
Darby raised her eyes to his and had to crack a subtle smile. "Oh, how can you crack jokes at a time like this?"
Spot's eyes grew serious. "If I didn't, den I'd go absolutely fuckin' crazy ovah not seein' ya."
She pressed her brow firmly against his, and shut her eyes as tight as humanly possible, yet was not able to bridle the tears that cascaded down her cheeks. "What about the trial?"
He released a bitter laugh, his breath icy-cold against her flesh, causing goosebumps to arise. "What is dere ta say? He's da mayah of New Yawk's son, coise dey gonna believe any damn woid he says. He stood up dere, in his 'spensive suits and solemn expressions and accused me while I sat dere. Said dat I was infatuated wit ya and dat he'd seen me hangin' around befoah. Said dat night he perposed to ya, and ya went out side but I knocked ya ovah da head unconscious and took ya back to da lodgin' house and raped ya. Judge believed every damn woid, coise. Why not? And I'se in here till I'se twenny one, den its off to da big pen foah me."
Darby lowered her head, a convulsion over taking her. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know-I would never fathom that that spectacular bastard would do something like this. Never, ever--" Her laced fingers grew tighter.
Suddenly, she felt Spot's fingers searching her hands. She raised her head. "What are you doing?"
His good eye glimmered with determination until his grasp came to a halt, and Darby felt her breath sharply bate in her throat.
His eye shifted to her and it seemed as though it was piercing her immortal soul. His palms had come to a rest on her left hand.
Darby's eyes widened as she feverishly shook her head. "No, no, don't."
Spot pulled away from the flap, rupturing Darby's hold as he roughly took her left hand in his grip.
"No, Spot, don't!" she cried in a strained, tear-infected voice, desperately trying to pull away.
Yet, his battered hands were strong and in a quick motion, he had pulled her immaculate white glove off, the atrocious diamond of the ring glittering violently in the soft light of the lantern.
Darby bowed her head, the sobs overpowering her as she fell to her knees, her hand falling easily out of his lax grip. "I'm sorry-I'm sorry--"
"Why in Christ's name are you apologizing?"
Darby raised her swollen eyes skyward to see Spot's hand pushing open the flap.
"Give me your hand," he said in a fierce voice.
"Why?" she cried in reluctance, staring up at the flap.
Spot once again had his visage pressed against the hole, his green eye gleaming against the pitch black of the socket.
"Just do it, Dahby," he said, softening his tone.
With a choke and her eyes on her hand, Darby slowly raised her hand, where his cold grasp grabbed it. She felt the impossibly heavy band being slid off her finger and she opened her eyes marvelously wide just in time to see Spot's hand poised backwards, and as he released it, the ring sparkling fiercely as it took to the air, landing with a distant clatter at the end of the hall.
"Oh, its still no use!" she exclaimed, rising to her knees once again.
Darby's eyes burnt with a blue fire as she bore into Spot's gaze. "I still have to marry the bastard tomorrow! Tomorrow! As Saint Patrick's Church! The event of the century! All of New York's finest will be there. Spot, it's not that easy! You can't just slip the damn ring off my finger and say that I can't marry him! I have to! As far as my parents are concerned, he OWNS me now. Why the hell do you think I was allowed to visit you?" Darby slammed her fist against the warped door, causing Spot to retaliate from the flap. "Because he SAID I could! Tonight is my last night in the Rockwell estate. We already have a stunning opulent mansion all prepared for us." A bitter laugh escaped her throat. "Well, shall I say after the honeymoon. The wonderful honeymoon where he'll be able to rape me all he wants--"
She broke off, once again the tears finding her eyes as she let her forehead rest upon the door. She felt his clammy palm find her cheek.
"He ALLOWED you to come?" Spot asked incredulously.
Darby wearily nodded her head, the splinters driving themselves into her brow. "Yes. He said in front of all our family that I should look into the eyes of the man that raped me." She raised her eyes to his. "But he of course has other motives. I wanted to wear black. Why the hell do you think I'm wearing red?"
He somberly shook his head, pressing his cool flesh against hers.
Darby desperately wish that the moment would last for eternity, yet it was harshly shattered whenever she heard the most awful sound under the sun manifest itself in her ears, echoing off the gleaming maroon hued wooden walls.
"Oh, Darby? Darby, darling? Are you ready?"
She immediately raised her head, snapping her gaze down the hall and then to Spot, his eyes wide.
Trying to level, the fear that was swirling throughout her, Darby fell to her haunches, warily watching the hallway. And then he suddenly he appeared from around the corner, impeccable in his tweed overcoat and gleaming smile.
David Van Wyck held his arms open as he approached Darby with his long strides, his teeth blinding. "Oh, my dear, dear Darby, I'm so sorry to have kept you this long with, with this monster. But my dear sweet girl, before you are married you need closure, and I daresay, but I think you have attained it."
Darby turned away from his deceptively malicious eyes and to Spot. Her deep eyes quickly scanned his as she balanced the rusty, metal flap open. "I love you," she said rapidly under her breath. "I love you, I love you, I love you."
David suddenly grabbed her hand, sharply pulling her to her feet. He clucked his tongue, shook his head, motioning to her ungloved finger, and vanished ring. "Darby girl, Darby girl, Darby girl how many more times must we go through this? That little ring cost me quite a bundle."
Her eyes narrowed into slits of burning hate. "Don't you mean it cost your daddy a little bundle?"
David compressed his eyes into thin lines, before hissing at her and brusquely stalking past her and down the hall to collect the ring.
Knowing what little time she had to spare, Darby fell to her knees and pressed her forehead to the hole, her eyes gaze disappearing into his glittering green eyes. "I love you. I'll always love you, always remember that," she said breathlessly, before David reappeared and forcefully gripped her left hand, causing her to stumble as she rose to her feet. He passionately drove the ring onto her finger.
"Come along, dove," he said lightly, yet his eyes remained malevolent.
Darby arched a brow. "No."
His deep umber eyes flashed, as he snaked his arms forcefully about her torso, causing the utter air to be drawn from Darby's lungs. "Yes, we really must be going."
And with a flourish, he had turned, signaling at to the hulking guard with a curt nod of the head, and began to stride down the polished hall, the boards creaking under his weight, Darby screaming as though she were insane.
"NO! NO! LET ME GO! LET ME GO!" A hot fire pulsated throughout every fiber in her body and she writhed furiously about, finally breaking out of his grasp when they had reached the stairs. Without even thinking, her chartreuse heels were clicking with a vengeance down the corridor, her bonnet loosening and fluttering to the ground. She halted only in front of Spot Conlon's unforgiving door, pulling open the flap, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"I love you, Spot Conlon. I'll always love you," she sobbed.
Spot reached his hands out of the rectangular hole and grasped her flushed cheeks, pulling her close. "I've always loved you," he gritted, before he feverishly pressed his lips against hers, the metallic taste of blood filling her mouth. Yet, this only made her more tempted and she held on until David Van Wyck's strong arm wrapped around her abdomen, rudely breaking away the embrace, stealing the air from her. He held her in a grip of the purest iron as he pulled her down the hallway in the stormiest of gaits, her professions of adoration being obliviated only when the brutal guard slammed the heavy door, severing her from Spot Conlon.
***
The dress was spectacularly immaculate, a shade to rival the veils of snow that fell outside in the dark sky. It had indeed been purchased from the same tailor in Paris who had conjured the exquisite peach dress.
The wedding gown was hanging neatly on the back of a chair, as Darby Rockwell sat amongst the layers of the voluptuous bedding staring at the wretched thing with absolute loathing.
She cast her eyes from the gown once more to the gleaming blade she held in her hand, running her fingers over the piercing ridges. She experienced a prick and cried out in pain, raising her left ring ringer to reveal tiny droplets of blood.
She glanced from the dress to the blade, from the blade to the dress.
At this particular moment, she fancied that hysterical young people should not be toting about fatal weapons.
She caressed the bejeweled hilt, her psyche an absolute train wreck of thoughts. She tightly grabbed the hilt and raised the blade.
There was a soft rap at the white door. "Darby, are you still awake?"
It was Ava.
With a disgusted exhalation, Darby tossed the blade to the plush carpeting, where it gleamed in the moonlight.
Her mother must have been content for the soft click of her shoes disappeared down the hallway.
Darby settled herself into the goose-down bed, morbid notions encircling her mind.
Why the hell was suicide so utterly difficult? It wasn't for Romeo and Juliet.
Yet, wedding David Van Wyck wouldn't be suicide. It would be homicide.