A/N- It's that time of the week again for another Release Me update, woo! :)
I just wanted to say how wonderful all of your reviews were for the last chapter. I am so glad that so many of you are enjoying this story so far. You all inspire me to continue!
This chapter is slighter shorter than the previous one. However, it's because it is split into two parts. The next chapter will follow on directly from this one. (Also pre-warning, the next chapter will be M rated)
Without further ado, let's get on with the chapter!
It was late December evening, and the only light that was glowing was her burning candle, flickering gently beside her, for neither the moon nor stars were present in the black canvas above. When she looked out of her window from her desk, the sky looked woollen as the snow clouds hung low, kissing the steeple of a church in the distance. The quivering flame of the candle illuminated a brilliant gold in the darkness of her room. The wax that once protected the wick was now just a micro-lake pooled around the base as melted beads ran down the sides of the candlestick like tears.
It was perfect satire as a droplet of water splashed onto the parchment beneath her, blotting the black lines that were etched there. She hastily wiped the back of her hand across her pale cheek, distorting the tear tracks that glistened there in the glow of the candlelight.
Once a week, Monica bared her soul onto a roll of parchment, retelling the tale of her life since she had become an orphan. From the nib of her fountain pen, ink seeped into the scroll like long tendrils, each letter binding itself to the parchment forever. Usually, she wrote to her parents on a Sunday evening, but unfortunately, time had escaped her grasp. And yet, it didn't matter because there was something oddly poetic about writing to them on Christmas Eve. Something therapeutic, as though they were still here, whispering their words of love to her.
She dipped the nib back into the small glass ink pot, collecting the black liquid, before she continued to scrawl across the parchment, dragging the tip down as she curled the tails of her g's, j's, q's, and y's.
Monday 24th December 1877
To my dearest Mother and Father,
Another week has passed without you, and the grief that flows through my veins remains permanent. Each day I try to breathe a little easier, and for the most part, I do. But then come the hours when it's just me and these four walls, and the vortex of loneliness sucks me back into its core. Phoebe tries to remind me that these scars of grief only prove that I am strong and that as long as I keep you alive in my memory, your hearts will beat on through me. Phoebe is a beautiful soul. So free and so alive. Her kindred spirit flows through the winds like a breath of fresh air. I know you would have both loved her, as I have told you many times before, but it's only because it is true.
It is Christmas Eve, and the chime of Big Ben sings throughout the streets of London, the countdown to Christmas inching closer to the end. I can't help but think about those tucked in bed, waiting for tomorrow to dawn with the promise of presents beneath the Christmas tree, whilst I'm sitting here waiting for my next appointment. I know you wouldn't approve, but I have another client tonight, someone anonymous. In the two years since I've been doing this, I have never had someone not disclose their name before, and it unnerves me. But I know you both protect me from above, and that brings me a sense of calm. Everything will be okay.
I know you would not be proud of me for choosing this life, and I can only beg for your forgiveness with each passing day. I don't want to do this forever. But I also don't know how to live again either. I hope that someday I can. I hope that I will meet someone who will transform my life for the better. I thought I may have already done so, but apparently, it wasn't to be. Perhaps I will have a different story to tell next Christmas Eve.
Never forget how much I miss you both. And remember to always hold each other close in heaven, as I do with you in my heart. I love you forever and always.
Until next week,
Your loving, Harmonica.
A final teardrop smudged the 'H' of the endearment her father had bestowed upon her as a little girl. Her cursive script perfectly transcribed her emotions, allowing her heavy heart to release the pressure that rested upon her chest, if only for a little while. This way of communicating with them allowed the sadness within her to painfully, yet effectively, cleanse her soul each week. It was a way for her to be vulnerable, for her words to express her inner demons, whilst still allowing her façade beyond this room to remain intact.
Monica removed the wooden hairbrush and the glass ink bottle from either end of the parchment, which she had used as makeshift paperweights, and blew over the words softly to ensure the ink was dry. She carefully began to roll it back into the form of a scroll and then tied a small piece of twine around its centre to secure it. Pushing her chair back, causing it to scrape against the rotting floorboards, she walked over to her wardrobe and pulled out a cardboard box from the top shelf. Inside it were rolls upon rolls of parchment, each with a different story, some more yellowed and worn than others. She added it to the pile neatly, lightly stroking her finger down the one on the far left. She gave a watery smile and returned the box to the wardrobe, shielding its contents from inquisitive eyes.
Just as she closed the wardrobe door, the hands of Big Ben positioned themselves exactly on the hour, triggering the clanging of the bell, and she realised that it must be ten o'clock. She jumped as a loud knocking rumbled on the other side of the door, and she clasped her hand to her chest, the sudden noise all around her ringing in her ears. The bell chimed for the final time and even with her window shut, it vibrated through her room.
She walked over to her door and swiftly opened it, the person on the other side standing nervously with one hand tucked into his pocket, the other grasping a small package.
Monica let out a gasp, her heart stopping as she came face to face with the one person who she had given up all hope on.
He gave her a tentative smile, "Merry Christmas Eve."
Her feet remained fixed to the floor, her face unchanging as she continued to stare at him in disbelief.
He skimmed his foot across the floor forwards and backwards awkwardly, "Can…er…Can I come in?" He asked.
"Chandler," she whispered finally.
So, she remembered his name. That was a good sign, right?
Once the shock had worn off, Monica's voice changed.
"So, you are the anonymous client who paid to have me for the night?" She demanded, her voice hard.
Chandler frowned suddenly, not expecting this attitude, and he felt his heart jump at her tone.
"I wanted to come sooner, really I did."
Monica watched as a certain emotion flickered across his face, and she realised it was guilt. A sudden wave of shame washed over her. Who was she to challenge where he had been?
She let out a soft sigh, her shoulders almost slumping forward slightly.
"Forgive me, Chandler. It's just that…I waited for you, and when you never came, I…" she trailed off.
"I have no right to be angry. I just wasn't expecting to ever see you again, that's all," she finished, offering him an apologetic smile.
A sudden relief swept through Chandler. So, she had missed him as much as he had missed her. He couldn't help but do a silent happy dance in his head.
He just smiled at her in return, holding up the hand that was holding the parcel and waved it in front of her, "So, am I going to get my two guineas worth tonight or are you going to rob me of my time and good fortune?" He teased.
Monica shook her head as if she was coming out of a trance, for she had momentarily forgotten that they were still standing in the doorway. "Of course, please come in," she stated, stepping aside to let him enter.
The door shut with a soft click, and she turned to see him standing in the middle of her room. He once again waved the package, then held it out for her to take.
"Merry Christmas," he told her, waiting for her to take it from him.
Monica was speechless. He had gotten her a present? Her? A common prostitute?
"You bought something for me?" She asked, the surprise in her voice evident.
Chandler shrugged, "It's just a little something. It is Christmas, after all."
Monica bit her lip, astonished that he didn't seem to realise how strange it was for a client to gift a prostitute a present at Christmas. She was reminded of his innocence again, and she couldn't help the way that her heart swelled for him. She had never met someone like him before. He was well and truly pulling her in deeper, her yearning for him peaking. And she couldn't do anything about it.
She gratefully took the package out of his hand and pulled the end of the twine, causing it to unravel and drop to the floor. She carefully tore off the brown paper, cautious in case whatever was underneath was delicate due to its weight.
When it was revealed to her, she immediately snapped her head up to Chandler, completely stunned.
In her hand was a beautiful mahogany trinket box with a turquoise stone embellished in the centre of the lid. She traced her fingertip over the smooth texture of the wood and circled the stone, which felt cool against her skin.
"It's a turquoise stone. It is the zodiac gemstone for the month we met, the end of November, making it Sagittarius," he simply explained.
Monica swallowed hard as she felt fresh tears pool in her eyes. She was completely lost for words. No one, not even her parents, had ever given her something so thoughtful and profound. And yet, here was this guy, who she was only meeting for the second time, giving her this extraordinary gift.
She looked up at him, her eyes shining, causing the blue hues of her iris' to shimmer in the candlelight.
"I- I don't know what to say," her voiced cracked as a single tear slipped down her cheek.
Chandler reached forward and swiped the pad of his thumb across her cheek, wiping away her tear gently.
"You don't have to say anything."
Monica bit her lip, swallowing hard again, and lifted the lid to find a soft royal blue velvet lining inside.
"Chandler…" she whispered.
His face beamed with joy, over the moon that she liked his gift. He had gone to the market a few days ago, once again running errands, this time for his father. Chandler had spotted a market stool that was selling handmade trinkets associated with astrology. He didn't understand much about space, or stars and astrology, but he enjoyed the symbolism of it, and so when he asked the trader for something related to Sagittarius and they had suggested the trinket box, Chandler knew it was perfect.
"Plus, the blue reminded me of your eyes. Has anyone ever told you how beautiful they are?" He murmured softly.
Monica swallowed again, still tracing the edges of the stone, as she walked over to her chair to sit down.
"Just my father," she sighed wistfully, "He used to tell me how happy he was that I inherited my mother's eyes, unlike my- … unlike my brother who inherited his brown eyes," her voice broke.
"Oh…you have a brother?" Chandler asked, curious as to where he was. Due to her lifestyle, he assumed Monica was an only child.
Monica gently placed the trinket box on the desk and tucked a curly strand that had fallen from her updo behind her ear.
She picked with her cuticles briefly as the conversation had taken an uncomfortable turn for her. She didn't often talk about her family, apart from with Phoebe. It was too painful for her. She looked at him as he took a seat on the edge of her bed, and she could tell he regretted asking, worried that he had pried too much.
Monica licked her lips, contemplating her answer, "Yes, there's just a year between us."
"Oh, that's cool…I'm just an only child myself. I have a surrogate sister, Rachel, but I guess it's not quite the same," he offered, aware that the topic seemed sensitive to her.
"I guess not," was all she replied.
It was silent for a few more seconds, and she turned her head away from him, desperately trying to keep her eyes from producing any more tears. God, how must she look? He came here for a service, and all he seemed to be getting was a pathetic, little prostitute. How charming.
She stood suddenly, picking up the trinket box once more, before taking it over to her bedside table. This time she was able to easily open the drawer as she had recently fixed the handle. She tucked it into the corner at the back, keeping it protected and hidden from any other clients who may see it as the perfect item to steal.
Chandler rubbed the back of his neck, a slight flush there. "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be so intrusive into your life. That was rude of me."
Monica pushed the drawer shut, then turned to him, standing up straight.
She gave him a reassuring smile, "It's fine, really it is. My family just triggers a lot of raw emotions for me. But I'm okay. Really. Don't feel guilty for asking. It was a simple question."
Chandler shook his head, amazed at her for being so understanding, despite him intruding on what was clearly a difficult topic for her.
He stood back up from the bed and walked a few steps so that he was right in front of her.
She boldly reached out her hand to stroke the side of his face, causing a small shiver to work its way down his spine. Her touch was as soft and as light as a feather, and he felt himself swallow nervously.
"You know, you have beautiful eyes too. Blue like a Robin's egg," she clarified.
Chandler couldn't help but chuckle. "A Robin's egg, you say?"
She nodded, giving him a soft smile.
"I've never heard anyone describe them like that before," he smiled back. "I like it," he added, his expression now serious, and sincere, the atmosphere shifting and becoming thick with anticipation.
"You know, I do believe the last time you came here, you requested something of me," Monica said softly, her hand having travelled down from his face so that it now rested on his shoulder as her other hand came up to rest on the other one.
"I did."
"Do you still request it?" She asked, her voice low.
"I do."
Monica felt her heart rate quicken. They were both dancing on the edge of an unspoken boundary, and she could feel herself beginning to slip. This was nothing like her usual appointments – this time it felt like so much more.
It felt thrilling.
She watched as he stepped forward once more, his body nearly pressed against hers this time, and suddenly her corset felt tighter than usual.
"I'm sorry I didn't get you a gift," she whispered.
"I think what you are about to do for me is enough," he replied, his voice unexpectedly deep.
She stared into his eyes, observing the millions of thoughts and emotions flashing through them like a zoetrope. She imagined hers probably appeared just the same. Blue staring into blue. Both so expressive.
Their proximity was so close she could feel his breath on her face, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. He rested his left hand on her hip whilst he slowly reached up his other hand to her neckline and traced the skin there before slowly trailing his fingertip down the row of buttons at the front of her bodice, making her heart pound.
"Teach me," he breathed before popping open the button at the bottom.
A/N- I just wanted to add a fun fact at the end of this chapter to say that until I wrote this chapter, I had no idea robin's eggs were blue. I saw a picture, and the shade of blue they are is stunning. If you haven't seen any, you should go and search them up - I promise you won't be disappointed!
Also, for those who may not be aware, a zoetrope is one of the several pre-film animation devices that produce the illusion of motion by displaying a sequence of drawings or photographs showing progressive phases of that motion. If any of you have watched the movie Conjuring 2, it is the toy that the crooked man is seen on.