Drown in My Own Tears

A/N: You can find any of the songs that inspire the chapter titles on the WPIP Spotify playlist.

He feels Beryl's hand on his arm, a gentle squeeze reassuring him that she is beside him, that she has been beside him, both of them, throughout this ordeal, and that she will be throughout this too. He cannot tear his gaze away from Elsie though, cannot bring himself to pull his eyes away from her face, which at last is so calm. She has made it through the worst of it. She has come out on the other side.

He studies the hollows of her cheeks, the fine lines etched into lips parched from fever, and eyes resting closed, sunken into the sockets. Auburn hair, not her own, fringe falling over her forehead, to disguise the devastating nature of her illness. He shakes his head; she is a shell of the woman he loves.

"It isn't right," he finally stutters. "They told us it was benign."

Beryl leans into him and rests her head against his arm. No, it is not right that just as they were beginning their life together that this should happen; that a simple discovery, a mistake, a missed diagnosis, should have devastated their lives this way.

"No it isn't, love," she answers quietly. "She fought hard."

"She didn't give up!" he bristles.

"No, of course she didn't," Beryl gently assures him. She wipes at the tears that fall from her eyes as she feels Charles tense.

"She promised me once, that she would always be with me. She said to me once, 'I am right here. I always will be.'" Tears fill his eyes but he refuses to be a spectacle put on public display. She would hate that.

"They all left me. Mary, Alice, and now her," he gestures sadly to the coffin. Beryl holds to him tightly, her heart breaking for him anew; she turns to find Bill among the crowd of friends and family. She gestures for him to draw near to them, for him to offer his support.

"Why did you go Elsie?" he begins to question looking down at her. "Why? You promised me that you wouldn't leave me. You promised….you promised…..you promised…" He feels a warm arm wrap around his shoulders, pulling him away and he tries to push back.

"Charles…."

"Why did she go?"

"Charles…"

Suddenly his eyes fly open, she is there, her hands on his shoulders, and she is gently turning him, calling his name. It takes him a moment to register where he is; the room is dark with only the faint stream of moonlight teasing around the drapes. He blinks hard twice, then focuses on her face, and realizes that he is safe, that she is well, they are in bed, and it had all been a terrible dream.

"Charles, are you all right?" Elsie asks sweetly, smoothing his hair back and cupping his face in her hands.

"It was just a dream," he answers. "I'm sorry I woke you. Go back to bed." He places a kiss to her forehead and settles back against his pillow. Drawing her into a secure embrace, he sighs deeply. He feels her fingertips lightly trace across his chest as she snuggles in close but he cannot sleep. Truth told he does not want to sleep because in this world she is beside him, whole and well, warm and soft. She is all gentle fingers sliding across his skin, soft lips, and loving words whispered in the still of the night; she is the one who keeps him righted, the lighthouse in a stormy sea.

He sees the moonlight catch on the diamond in her ring causing it to cast a spark. She has worn it days now and he thought that those days would have been filled with happiness and passion, not endless worry and fear. He feels anger rise in his chest; anger at her for not telling him sooner, anger at himself for not proposing earlier, anger at this thing that is growing insider her, anger because they have to wait to find out the diagnosis. He needs something to lash out against, something that will take his frustrations and be none the worse for it. He had lied when he told her that it did not matter if they had only five months together because it does matter. It does matter that he has only had less than a year with her. It matters that he has wasted so much time on Alice Neal. It all matters.

"Damn!" Having unsuccessfully tried three times to thread the cuff link through the buttonhole, Charles is near to giving up when, out of the corner of his eye, he sees her sweep in from the bathroom.

"Let me," Elsie says as she stills his fumbling hands with her own steady ones. She threads one cuff link and then the other, fastens them into place. She then begins to work on the buttons of his shirt.

"I am supposed to be the one supporting you," he offers, a bit ashamed at his anxiety.

"You are," she assures him. She makes short work of the remainder of the buttons and then lovingly pats his chest. She looks up to him and finds a worry in his eyes that she wishes she could wipe away with a word, a kiss, a simple gesture but she knows that she cannot. She drops her hands from his chest and makes her way back into the bathroom to finish dressing and she needs a moment for herself. A moment to gather her thoughts, to prepare herself for the day they have ahead of them.

She closes the door and leans against it. She knows that Charles did not sleep because she lay awake as well. She had heard the things that he had said, the anguished murmurings of a man in distress. To think that the women he loved had left him, that he felt all alone, broke her heart. She will never tell him that she had heard him utter those words, never tell him she knew of the anger that laced his voice as he questioned her as to why she left him when she had promised to always be with him. No, she will keep those things locked away.

She knows that he is angry. He tries to hide it, his words are still kind, his eyes still soft when he looks at her, but the hard set of his jaw when he looks away is what lets her in, lets her see into the world that he is trying to keep her out of. Since he forced her confession days ago, they haven't spoken much of her condition. She took his fingers, guided them over the delicate skin, as he felt the lump for the first time. She felt the tension spread from his fingertips through his entire body. When he asked her if it hurt, she had told him 'No' but she still is not sure if he believes her. He has demanded that she rest, taken to staying the nights with her to ensure that she does. But other than that, they've discussed little. She knows that he is shutting her out but then she figures that she is no better; she had done the same to him.

She casts a gaze over the countertop and sees his things lying next to hers. The straight razor, the shave soap mug with the bristle brush carefully washed and shaken dry, lying beside it. The bottle of cologne, filled with the amber liquid that she now associates only with him sits next to her menagerie of cosmetics. Her heart swells at the thoughts that one day this will be permanent, his things next to hers. But now, she must get on, get about her business. Their appointment will not wait and they cannot put their lives on hold any longer.

He is glad that she retreated to the bathroom; he needs a moment to himself. He is so very overwhelmed with it all, the realness of the dream still lingering with him and the anxiety over what they may learn in an hour's time. He knows that she likely heard his murmurings; he felt the tears slip from her cheek onto his chest though she tried to wipe it away with her fingertips. He never meant to hurt her, to place more of a burden on her with the mumbled speech of his dreams. He shrugs into his jacket, adjusts the collar and cuffs, tugs down on the cuffs of his shirtsleeves, and touches the cuff link she fastened for him. He draws himself up to his full height and breathes in deeply.

TBC…...Thank you all for your readership, reviews, re-blogs on Tumblr, etc. It means more to me than you know. x