CHAPTER 5

The apartment was cool. All the curtains were drawn, refusing signs of the dawned morning. Marcus closed the door with little noise, and fatigue crashed bitterly in his bones. He dropped his head back against the metal door and his shoulders slumped with a slow exhale. What on earth had just happened? He closed his eyes. And what would happen once Margaret woke?

Any other morning, he would have walked through the door to find Margaret waiting at the kitchen table, a kettle on the oven, roiling steadily. After exchanging simple pleasantries, they would have sat together in loaded silence. It was a quiet that hung heavy with years of unsaid words, lingering resentment, and one-sided hope. Between them, cups of tea would remain untouched, losing their swirls of warmth and growing icy over time.

That was every other morning. Marcus could have dealt with their bitter quiet any other morning.

Not this morning.

Not when his stomach tightened upon seeing his own reflection in the foyer mirror. When Abigail’s pained expression haunted his every breath. When the memory of her retreating silhouette hurt him in a way he didn't understand. To then deal with Margaret’s green eyes gazing at him as she always did, with a tenderness he didn’t deserve nor feel in return? No, he couldn’t sit with her this morning. She would see right through him. With one look, Margaret would diagnose the guilt corroding his every move, his every word. A century at his side warranted that familiarity, that intimate knowledge. She would smell the familiar scent of heavy emotion—of human emotion. Worse, she would ask him what was wrong. Unlike Abigail, Margaret would not concede to unanswered questions, much less to evasive maneuvers. She never did. Interrogation was her preferred method.

Marcus let out a breath. He would have to tell her the truth.

He pushed away from the door and moved into the apartment. He stopped sharply at the sound of a sleepy moan coming from the direction of the sofa. Narrowing his eyes that had since adjusted to the dark, he saw nothing. He didn’t have to. Steady breathing echoed in the silence and pulled him toward the green velvet couch. It was a ghastly thing, but Margaret had loved it. He hadn’t refused her life. How could he have refused her this?

Treading softly, Marcus heard his quiet taps echoing on the wooden floor. He slipped off his shoes lest he waken her and closed the space between them. She lay curled into herself like a child, visibly cold. Her pale figure nestled against a cushion and messy auburn strands draped the green fabric. She held onto a pillow tenderly, just as she’d held Marcus so many times before, but not for a long, long time. Guilt bloomed at Marcus’s core and he looked away.

He pressed a finger to the half-filled cup on the side table—ice cold. She had been there all night, cold and alone.

Marcus retrieved a quilted blanket from the side chair and draped it gently over her small frame. His hand lingered on her shoulder for an added moment, his thumb grazing once against the smooth skin there. He couldn’t deny it. He never had. She was beautiful.

A nostalgic smile curved his lips at the memories of their first encounter, at how terrified she had been standing there beside her father. She shook like the last leaf on a vine, to where a soft exhale would have blown her away. Marcus chuckled lightly. She’d looked scared, but so exquisite. Her red curls had been mounted on top of her head in the ridiculous fashion of old, her slender body accentuated by a lovely silk dress of the same color as her hair. It had been her first Season, the first time the world got to see her for the woman she’d become.

The world saw her. So had Marcus, and she had taken his breath away.

A slight tint of rouge had stained her cheeks when she slid her hand into his. When he placed a delicate kiss on its cool back, her sweet smell of lavender had teased him, torturing his senses. He’d wanted her that instant.

But it had been her eyes. So full of uncertainty and strange hope, she had looked out into the sea of unfamiliar faces as if waiting for someone, for anyone, to ease her, to reassure her, and to accept her. Her vulnerability and innocence brimmed from her eyes, pulsing dangerously through her blood—temptation for a predator. His smile fell. A predator, indeed.

He brushed her hair away from her face, admiring this woman he should have married. He’d known it when lying with another woman while, at that same moment, Margaret stood before God, waiting to take on his last name. He knew it then, staring down at her sleeping.

Marcus frowned and his hand fell to his side. He couldn’t have married her. Something had been missing. It still was. It evaded them and moved further away with each passing day. After more than a hundred years by her side, he accepted that it wasn’t ever going to be found. Those hundred years had left them on polar ends of loneliness, and he no longer knew how to reach her. He didn’t want to. Long drowned in the oceans between them, there was nothing left, but death and service.

Margaret stirred, her small hands curling at her eyes.

Cursing his reminiscence, Marcus drew back to leave.

“Marc?”

He held his breath and took another silent step back.

“Marcus, are you there?”

He stopped. Guilt and pain coalesced deep inside at her words, those words—Abigail’s words. Clearly he could hear her soft voice, its frailty and hopefulness lacing every syllable, ‘You are here.’

Marcus was rooted. In that moment he could have willed himself unseen. Margaret would have never known he was there. He looked down at her again. He couldn’t—wouldn’t. Not when the memory of another phrase, one of his own lips, ground him to where he stood. I won’t hurt you, he’d told Abigail. Yet, he did, once and over again. Marcus shook his head. He didn’t merit privacy from Margaret. He deserved to have her look him right in the eyes and dissect his every breath. He deserved to have guilt swell in his throat until it choked him.

“Good Morning, Margaret.” He flicked on the lamp beside her. Turning away from the soft light, he walked across the room, opting for the wing chair in the corner where light did not reach.

Margaret rose onto one elbow. She rubbed her reddened eyes. Looking at him with a hopeful glint in her stare, she smiled.

Swallowing, Marcus looked down. The space between them gaped, yet wasn’t far enough. Not that morning. He couldn’t take the smile, filled with its usual tenderness, with a silent affection he couldn’t return. But he had to reciprocate or she might know something was wrong. He hesitated. Drawing his lips to a tight line, he tried one as best he could manage. His sad attempt never reached his eyes, not like hers. It settled back into a frown.

“How was work?” she asked.

He nodded. “Fine.”

Though swollen with sleep, her green eyes narrowed. She knew. She didn’t know what, but her stare hummed with wariness and clouded suspicion that thickened the air instantly. Her next words crystallized everything.

“Did you just get in…from work?”

“Yes.”

“And is everything all right?”

“Everything is fine.”

Margaret nodded slowly and sat up. She crossed her legs like a child, her entwined hands falling between her knees. Twisting her old engagement ring with a curious gentleness, she lifted her eyes and fastened them on Marcus. She shrugged. “I don’t mean to pry, but it’s just that I was worried. You’re normally home much earlier, and now you seem distracted. You can tell me anything. You know this.”

He gripped the armrest, resisting the urge to leave—or worse, to tell Margaret everything. He hated their masquerade, the silent song of bitterness. He wanted to tell her that he was with Abigail that morning, that he’d made her cry, and that try as he might, he didn’t know why, after barely a day, he couldn’t rid her from his mind. He wanted to tell her, badly.

He said, “It was a long night.”

She hummed noncommittally. “So it was.”

She reached for her cold tea and cradled the cup in her palms. For a moment she stared down at the tinted water. Lifting her eyes, she smiled, however, this smile raked Marcus. It was the same he’d given her just moments ago, the feigned smile that never reached the eyes.

“I’ll make us some tea,” she said so low, her voice broke.

“It won’t be necessary. I just want to get some rest.”

Margaret let out a flowery laugh and rose. “It’ll only take a second, love. Besides, you’ve had a long night. Tea always helps you relax, regardless of how much you hate it.”

“I’ve already had my tea, Margaret,” he said, although once the words were said, he wished he’d never spoken them at all.

She turned slowly, green eyes boring into his. “But you hate tea. You only drink it here and that’s more out of good manners, for my sake. What would ever possess you to drink it alone?”

And there it was. What on earth was he to say to that? If staying out that morning had been uncharacteristic, drinking store bought tea was a different person entirely.

Grimly aware of his indirect confession, he sighed. “Yes, well sometimes people change.”

“Sometimes they do,” she said. “Sometimes they do. But you never have.”

He sat back, shocked. Not that her words weren’t true, but to hear them from meek little Margaret who never dared say anything hurtful? In his sore bones, Marcus could feel their exchange was going to turn out much different than interrogations of the past. Whereas before she would have stormed to her room in tears or questioned him further, she hadn’t. She had retorted to purposely hurt him. With Marcus’s spirits as low as they were, she had hurt him.

“Now let me make you a proper cup of tea,” she said. “And then we’ll talk. “

“I don’t want it, Margaret,” he was saying, but she had already turned away.

“Nonsense. Don’t be silly. We always have our tea in the morning.,”

“Dammit, Margaret!” He bore his fist down on the armrest, a terrible crash splintering the silence. “I don’t want any damned tea!”

Margaret sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes widened in shock.

He’d never yelled at her before, but in face of her fright, he couldn’t stop. “I just want to go to my damned room and rest and nothing more! My night was a disaster, and no tea in hell can fix it. So, no, I don’t want any tea. I want nothing from you but to be left alone, in peace and nothing more!”

He cupped his mouth and spun in a stagnant circle with silent prayers for restraint. Although it was much warmer inside than outside, he shivered. He needed to stop their war. They couldn’t fall over the edge, chasing after madness. There was only Death at the bottom of that ravine. Any other day Marcus would have opened his arms and willingly jumped, not caring if Margaret decided to go to the Timekeeper and resign from life, thus ending his as well. That was any other day, but not that day. Not when that morning, Abigail Archer had split him in two.

He turned to leave before the inevitable happened, when a trembling breath halted his steps. He looked back to find Margaret’s frame raking with hushed sobs, her face buried in her hands.

Torn between comforting her and simply letting her be, he squeezed his eyes. His rant replayed painfully in his mind. He saw in Margaret’s overcome stance that she understood the true meaning behind his angry words:

I want nothing from you.

It was the truth, but he shouldn’t have said it, not in that way. Defeated, he walked to her. Cradling her shoulders, he gathered her to his chest. He could touch her. In giving up his life, he had gained that simplicity. Sadly, over the years, he’d sought her less and less.

“I’m so sorry.” His lips brushed against her temple and he smoothed a hand tenderly down her back, along the soft silk of her white nightgown. “Please, I shouldn’t have yelled. I have no excuse. It seems I never do. It’s just been a really, really long night and I’m tired.”

“You’ve been tired for a long time,” she whimpered against his chest.

Marcus braced himself. Of all the things he didn’t need, it was that conversation, the one that was set to come.

“I can’t do this with you right now.” He broke away, but Margaret fisted his shirt, not letting him go.

“I never meant for this to happen. Surely, Marc, you must know, I never wanted this. At first I was so angry at you for abandoning me in front of all our friends and family on what was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. I was so heartbroken at all you had done that when you made your deal with the Timekeeper, I thought you deserved to suffer. Damn it, I wanted you to suffer. But never this, not if you are meant to suffer an eternity for my sake. Does it not make me guilty as well? Am I not in sin by keeping you tied to this existence? I shall never be happy knowing you suffer every time you take those souls. I can’t ever be happy when in exchange for my life, you can’t stand to look at me, much less touch me.” Her head fell onto his chest and her soul grieved. “You should have let me die. “

Unable to bear much more, he pried her hands from his shirt and released her sharply. It was too much. Flashes of the past brushed through his mind, all the blood, the screams, and her eyes void of life. Marcus gripped his hair and paced, needing space, air, and peace. The peace that was offered next to a tattered piano and a pathetic bed.

Margaret’s sobs jarred him from desire. Her hands clenched tightly to the back of his coat. “I only wanted you, never this."

“What I did is unforgivable. I think of it all the time and it won’t leave me alone. You never wanted this, but you deserve it. You deserve to live just as I deserve to spend endless eternities making it right.”

“But you have, Marc. When will you see that you have?” she cried. “I have lived a full life, longer than God intended. I have seen my family perish all around me. I have seen things that those of our time could only dream of!” Her nails dug deeper into his back. “I have lived, but my time came. However gruesome it may have been, it came and it passed, and I am still here because of you. I am grateful for all you have done, but we can’t keep doing this. It’s destroying us. Slowly time has been eating away at us and I can’t bear the pain of losing you anymore than I already have. It has been one hundred years, Marcus. I have lived and I am—”

“Don’t.” Marcus snapped, raising a hand. She couldn’t utter the words, not when he heard the rest of her unspoken sentence in his soul, I have lived and I am done.

A minute passed. Margaret came around him, still holding him tightly. She looked up at him, her tear stained cheeks glinting in the weak lamplight. “Do you remember when we first met? Do you remember what you said to me?”

He blinked. How could he forget? It was the same words he’d spoken to every woman he wished to claim. “Your beauty this evening is an exquisite gift I have been blessed to witness,” he replied, soullessly. The empty words clawed at his throat.

She chuckled through her tears. “I must admit, I looked lovely that evening.” A distant gleam twinkled in her eyes, touched by memory. “But even then, standing next to Papa, you said those words to me, fearless. What happened to that confident man, to that rake, to that wolf?”

A tear spilled from her eyes. Marcus didn’t brush it away. Driven by all the denied desire from that morning, he trailed it down her damp cheek, letting his fingers wander along her jaw to the contour of her lips. “He slayed a lamb and he can’t ever forgive himself.”

Margaret’s shuddering breath fogged his lips, his thoughts. Suddenly, their dying embers grew to a blinding flame and in its light, Marcus no longer saw Margaret there in front of him. Every word that left his mouth that moment were those being said as he remembered a different set of green eyes staring back at him. The soft skin he felt in trailing his hands along the curves of her body was a caress given to another he had hurt. It was not Margaret whose mouth he neared while whispering, “Forgive me,” against her lips.

He should have stopped. It was betrayal and his heart panged with the realization that some oceans were better left uncrossed. But her body molded to his, and he couldn’t stop from bringing her closer. Margaret accepted this invitation that although given her, was not extended to her, an met his lips the rest of the way. As the cool glide of her lips pressed against his, then and there, her kiss hurt him more than all the years of his existence.

He forced his lips to move and to swallow her pleasurable sighs as she sought him continuously, softly. They refused. He begged his hands to hold her and touch her for feeling’s sake, but they remained lifeless. Wanting to feel something, to relish in her touch and the way she felt against him, he was disgusted at himself.

Her breathing hitched. She lowered back down and blinked her eyes open. Tears brimmed in them—tears of awareness, of embarrassment, and of shame. As she had once kept him from leaving, it was Marcus who now cradled her shoulders and rested his forehead upon hers, whispering desperate words of forgiveness. For the first time, Margaret pulled back from his affections, and as it hurt her, it hurt Marcus as well.

She pressed trembling fingers against her mouth and took a step back. With a broken smile on her lips, she fell back onto the couch, defeated.

Marcus moved nearer to her.

“No.” She held up a firm hand between them. “Please, stop apologizing. It shouldn’t have ever happened, and I shouldn’t have let you. After a century, you would think I’d know better.” She chuckled bitterly with a helpless shrug. “I’m not who you want. I don’t know who it is, but it isn’t me. It’s never going to be me. But I’m lonely, and I think I’m tired, too. I’ve been tired for a long time now.” She lowered her hands to her lap, clasping them tightly as if wishing to clutch this small bit of strength remaining. “I’m tired of it all, Marc, of what we’ve become—of life. You don’t deserve to keep carrying this curse. You’re a good man, a righteous man, and once you realize that—”

“I’m not,” Marcus snapped. “And once you realize that, you’ll want to live forever to pay me back for what I did.”

“Will you ever tell me?” she whispered. “I won’t hate you. I don’t think I ever could.”

Marcus didn’t answer. He turned and walked toward his room without another word. No words on earth could ever fix this. Fix them.

Margaret’s voice broke through one last time. “If I said I wanted to go to the Timekeeper this instant and end it all, what would you say?”

Marcus stopped cold. That was the tell-tale question. Before that morning, he would have jumped at the chance to end his service and their lives. Margaret knew this. But after the previous night, he found only one answer:

“I don’t know.”

Margaret chuckled weakly. “What is her name?”

Painfully aware of Margaret behind him waiting for his answer, the answer that would end it all, he entered his room and closed the door quietly between them. He leaned back as Margaret’s sobs seeped through the seams of the closed door and whispered, “Abigail Archer.”

The day crept by behind a shield of black curtains. The following did as well. Nights vanished to blurs of souls and repentant tears, a smoky tunnel of death with no end. Seconds had turned to minutes, to countless sleepless hours that now found Marcus standing before his dresser in the dark, waiting.

7:27 p.m.

He looked down at his watch and sighed. He could have waited a bit longer to set out, he just didn’t want to. Margaret had not come in during his sleepless rest, hadn’t spoken to him since their dreaded morning. No doubt she had changed her mind about going to the Timekeeper, granting them another day. Marcus was unsure whether that was a good thing or not. Another day only meant another night, another list, and an added chance for Abigail’s name to appear. The thought twisted bitterly within him, more than having forced himself to stay away from her.

7:28 p.m.

He cursed. Whatever the time, he had to get out of that apartment. Maybe the pain from the first soul of the night, and from those after, would help him forget her—forget her tears, her eyes, and the delicate curve of her mouth.

He groaned inwardly. Combined desire and guilt beat his resolve. He had to hurry before madness lured him to Abigail, to her broken home and her broken song.

Marcus retrieved the list from his inner coat pocket. Unfolding the yellowed paper, he looked to the first name. Cold dread washed over him. He had no words. It just couldn’t be.

He shut his eyes tightly. A map of a thousand blazing stars unfurled. Burning brightly in the black of his closed eyes were the oblivious souls unaware of their pending death. At the center of them all, his first charge of the night sent crimson flares into the dark, pulsing with constant light from within the confines of a record store. Marcus’s hands fell to his sides. He opened his eyes slowly. Although Abigail’s name was not on the list, another familiar name was—Mr. Cornelius Owens.

Mr. C. Owens.

__________________________________________

Thank you for reading! Please vote and comment if you enjoyed the chapter.