Damsel in Distress

Trigger warning: suicide

“Lord, I stand before you, a man having sinned in the most exquisite and intimate ways one could devise, and for that I plead forgiveness”.

I was alone in my parlor, facing the windows and watching the flames creep up the manila wallpaper. The crackling of the fire was loud, but the strained desperation of my voice overtook whatever noise surrounded me.

“I, engulfed in my artificial hell, beg of you only to pass over me. Forget that I reside in a world of your holy creation, in a now defiled body.”

The curtains dropped to the floor, now unrecognizably charred.

“I cry out to you for the sake of my mother, my father, and all those with the misfortune to have witnessed my upbringing. I beg of you, Lord, to pardon them, for it is I who have failed you”.

I swallowed hard as I watched the oaken writing-desk, a favourite of my father’s, fall victim to the brutal inferno. I was suddenly aware of the scorching heat I had subjected myself to, and the sweat pooling in my shoes. I glanced at my pocket watch. Two minutes.

Behind me I could hear an oil painting slide down the wall and crash to the ground, adding to the abhorrent smell.

I stood fixed in my position, almost entranced. I was certain he would be too late. 

A great many occurrences lead to me employing the services of the London Fire Engine Establishment, all of which involve esteemed head firefighter Elliot Winfield.

I first felt Elliot lay his sinful eyes on me in late June, an atrocity the wickedly vain Alice Winfield did not seem to notice. Though his words of shallow greeting seemed harmless, his eyes lacked the subtlety I had learned to adopt in my adolescence. I applied for my insurance a week later, and filled many cream-coloured pages with fantastical stories of fragile ladies being swept off their feet and brought to safety by an all-too familiar character.

My father was a little skeptical of my new-found interest in the heroic practice of fire-fighting, but he was happy to indulge in the many dinners and charity events hosted by the brigade. Visions of Elliot Winfield slowly trickled into my resting thoughts, and their presence overtook me during particularly sleepless nights. Never had my moral conscience been so brutally and deliciously assaulted. Never had I been so jealous of Alice Winfield. 

The sound of shattering glass abruptly ended my reminiscing, and I noticed the liquor fed the flames quite nicely. I knew my prayer would be the last I would ever utter, as the shame of my future endeavors would stop me from addressing God again.

I looked to my right and watched the bookcases catch, but then had to look away. Perhaps that part was the most painful.

It was mid-September before the cream-coloured pages began to fulfill the many daydreams I had scrawled onto them. Elliot Winfield became a greater presence at the bankers, depositing small sums of money every few days and eyeing me carefully as I counted them.

I noticed the absence of Alice Winfield often correlated to his proximity to the counter, but said nothing. Her affair with blacksmith Reginald Barkley was likely something he knew about, as I had begun to notice them slip away together during banquets and events, his roaming hands clear in their intentions. Alice Winfield was thin and pretty, blonde and blue-eyed, the perfect wife for a man of Elliot’s position. Unfortunately, Alice’s meandering eyes showed no evidence of her desire to be a wife. Elliot pretended not to notice, but I was certain of his awareness. Perhaps it was loneliness that drew him to my presence first.

His hand was warm when I shook it, and calloused. He gripped me tightly, often lingering for a second longer before leaving. It was for those few seconds that time stood still, and I grew impatient for more. 

Private discussions of finance in the residence of Elliot Winfield slowly became private discussions of day-to-day proceedings, weather and news. I found his life easy to slip into, but I suppose the door was open wide. Handshakes became sorely anticipated embraces, each one a second longer than the last.

I could only hope he was as enchanted by me as I was him, as I loathed my fruitless resistance more than my immoral nature. It was evident that Elliot had a stronger will than I, but perhaps more was at risk. Elliot Winfield was a career man, a married one at that, who bore his silver cross proudly at his breast. His eyes would dance between lust and confliction, and being both with me and without me brought him equal torment.

It was November when Elliot Winfield finally kissed me, and I knew the many feelings I had been trying to direct towards suitable brides could be cultivated only by him.

Though my tears were of utmost release, Elliot’s were of defeat. Reginald and Alice were now madly in love, and Elliot had fallen victim to his deepest unholy desires. His life was venturing far off of the path that his silver cross implied, and it was my lack of willpower that slowly led his own to crumble.

I lie awake for many nights conflicted, helplessly bewitched by the devilish temptation that was Elliot Winfield, and craving a world that embraced the sin I wanted so badly to indulge in. 

I looked over at James Pattinson, now a motionless heap on my right side, his face contorted in a permanent state of shock.

It was James who had had the misfortune of interrupting our immoral display one brisk December evening in the bank. Elliot Winfield promptly released me from his sinful embrace, begging young James to ignore his witness and offering him copious sums of money. James was a greedy and gullible youth, and fortunately one that would not be missed.

The promise of money led to a rather unfortunate event in the furthermost room of the bank hours earlier, and now poor orphan James lies peacefully at my feet, waiting to be swallowed up by the insatiable flames.

I glanced at my watch. Four minutes. The heat was becoming unbearable.

Five minutes had passed before I heard the cries of the long-awaited fire brigade, and my heart began to beat at an exhilarating pace. I had predicted which firefighter would venture into the burning residence, searching frantically for signs of movement while the others tossed pails of water over the ravaging fire. I remember exactly which address I had put on the insurance slip, and I was certain Elliot Winfield remembered the name accompanying it.

I looked down at James Pattinson and noticed the flames had begun to lick his feet. I gingerly grabbed hold of his shoulder and dragged him closer. The smell was intolerable already, and the mix of burning flesh was not something I anticipated with great excitement.

To my left I heard the staircase collapse, prompting several cries from beyond the house. I closed my eyes and tried to remember my last utterances to my parents. The pain of grieving my death would be nothing compared to the shame of keeping me alive.

As the cries from outside the house grew louder, I began to panic. Progress of this kind could not be made, not while my plan was going so brilliantly. 

The sound of glass shattering once again caught my attention, and I turned to see none other than Elliot Winfield in the kitchen doorway. “Jasper!” he called out harshly, trudging through the vast destruction in his wake. “Follow me, out through the garden! There-” Elliot stopped suddenly, eyes growing wide as he observed the heap on my right. “Is that- it cannot be…”.

“Elliot” I interrupted, “I perished in this fire. You understand, don’t you?” Elliot nodded, eyes still fixed on the lifeless and now burning body of young James Pattinson. “Elliot,” I said once again, causing him to look up. I noticed I was shouting. “Elliot, you perished in this fire too. The brigade will find your helmet, as well as your suit. Unfortunately, they will fail to find your body.”

Elliot’s eyes were now fixed on me, and for the first time I could observe genuine fear within them. I felt a twinge of guilt, having not informed him of my arrangements, and now watching his panic grow as precious minutes slipped away.

“Elliot, we haven’t much time, not in this fire nor on this earth”. I swallowed hard and grabbed his hand. “My mother and father will need a body to bury, and after that I am liberated in every sense of the word. Join me, Elliot”. Elliot’s eyes cried out for me, craving what I had just described, but his body drew back. I pulled him closer. “Elliot, we cannot live like this.” He paused and then nodded slowly, his face once again bearing a defeated look. “Pity”, he whispered, glancing down at the body of James Pattinson. “He looks so good in your suit”.

The cries from outside were nearly deafening as Elliot ran out the back of the house, promptly stashing me in the brambles of the garden. I watched him remove his leather helmet and suit, dashing back through the charred doorway only to return empty-handed. Elliot Winfield, like me, was to be freed by his untimely death. The prospect of it was almost poetic, and he seemed eager in the way he needed to be. We had to be quick.

On Elliot Winfield’s back I travelled for what felt like minutes, fending off both smoke inhalation and heat stroke, but easily distracted by the possibilities laid out before me. He dropped me in the back garden of his empty home, and led me through the door with one hand.

The panic-stricken look I had originally observed was now sullen and thoughtful, and Elliot Winfield slid into a kitchen chair, his chin resting on his hands. “Alice will be at the site of the fire,” Elliot said, eyes glued to the tile floor, “and it will be quite a while before the blaze can be tamed. We have enough time to leave”. He looked up at me hesitantly. “I suppose Canada may be the best course of action”. 

I must admit I was taken aback by how calm Elliot Winfield was an hour after learning of his untimely death, but it occurred to me he must have been craving an escape for a long while. Elliot rose from his chair to collect a small carpet bag, and promptly began stuffing a number of goods into it. “We leave tonight”. I removed my suit jacket and undid my collar, then began rummaging through the cupboards in search of dry food.

“Keep your head down when we arrive at the loading docks” Elliot continued, “and we will board a cargo ship due west. It should be dark enough for us to avoid suspicion” He stopped suddenly, looking over at me. “Jasper” he said, and my heart nearly stopped. “Are you certain this is what you want?”. His eyes were filled again with fear, but not a panic-induced fear. For the first time in my life, I observed an unease in Elliot Winfield's eyes that could have almost made me smile. I turned my back to him and continued my search for food. “Of course.”

I heard him exhale, and then felt his strong hand grip my left shoulder. He spun me around in one motion, and embraced me. I gripped him tightly, and as I felt his hands pull me closer, a mortified Alice Winfield stopped dead in the kitchen doorway. 

“Elliot!” Alice cried out in both terror and disgust, “You… you’re dead… they found you… your suit…” Her words trailed off as her eyes roamed the room, finally settling on me. “Jasper! They found you! Your body! They found it, by the fireplace! You’re dead! Both of you! I saw it! My eyes do not deceive me, they cannot! You-” She now stopped suddenly, and a look of realization spread over her face.

“You- oh my God. You, you coward!” Alice cried out, tears in her eyes. “You filthy, sinful coward! I knew it! I knew it since the day I met you, you had been touched by the devil! I know exactly what you are!” “Alice,” Elliot released me, “Alice this is not what it looks like”. He ran toward her, arms extended, but I knew it was already too late.

Alice screamed, grasping Elliot’s cross and tearing it off his breast. “You vulgar thing, how dare you tarnish this holy symbol!” “Alice- Alice darling, look at me…” I backed away from Elliot, but I wouldn’t dare leave without him. “ALICE!” Both Alice and I stopped, and her look of repulsion was slowly overtaken by a look of resentment. Elliot was no longer pleading. “Alice", he continued, now sneering, “when I married you, I knew exactly what you were. I let you roam the streets like an undignified heathen. I turned my back on your flirtatious little remarks in my presence, and I let you have your fun with that brute Reginald.”

Elliot stepped closer to her, as did I. His stare was cold and hard, and he leaned over Alice’s tiny frame.

“I let you embarrass me for years, and now that I am dead, you will embarrass me no longer. I am as free from you as you are from me.” He grabbed my wrist and pulled me closer to him, and I now observed a thoughtfulness in Alice. “Now walk away, and you will never see my face as long as you live. I will be but a figment of your past, if you let me.”

Alice stared back up at him in contempt. She took one step closer to us, her clear blue eyes still fixed on Elliot, and uttered one word, “No.”

“Alice”, Elliot was once again pleading, “Alice, you cannot do this to me, to us-” He reached out to grab hold of her, but she struck his arm with disgust.

“The world has to know what you are, Elliot Winfield. I will not walk the streets of London as an adulterer. I am a victim, the wife of a homophile, turning to other men in an effort to endure the torture of the devil’s presence in my home”. Alice was no longer fearful, or disgusted, or resentful. Alice was now appeased, in a manner of evil I did not predict of her. Alice Winfield had transformed herself from a flighty adulterer to the pitied wife of a monster. It was almost brilliant, and it made my stomach turn.

“Alice,” Elliot grabbed her by both arms, restricting her movement. Alice began to scream. “Let go of me, you indecent, filthy-” Elliot began to shake her. “Shut up!”, he cried. “Shut up, you devil-woman, shut-up, shut-up, shut-up!” “Monstrous, repulsive-” “SHUT-UP!” Elliot shook her harder, tears streaming down his hot face. I was frozen in my position. “Disgusting BEAST!” And with that, Elliot Winfield threw his tiny wife to the ground, nearly missing the kitchen chair, but not quite.

Alice Winfield’s clear blue eyes were open, and blood slowly began to seep into her knotted blond hair. Her pale little face was finally still, and as Elliot observed his crime, he dropped to his knees and sobbed.

I was stationary, and at once my mind was bombarded with the gravity of my doings. My home was nothing more than a pile of ash by now, housing the body of James Pattinson. Both Elliot Winfield and I were murderers, killing for the sake of engaging in a greater sin. I began to shake as I backed away from Elliot Winfield’s cries, and out into his garden. 

I sat in the bushes for what felt like hours. My thoughts were blurry and shallow, and my body was numb. I ached for my parents, but ached more for Elliot. I wanted to cry at my own wickedness, but the tears refused to flow. I was too eager to submerge myself in the unholy life that liberated me so.

I was startled by the sound of shouting, and I promptly whirled around and peered through the low window I was situated under. Elliot stood erect, once again pleading over the body of the late Alice Winfield, but this time to another figure. Out of the darkness stepped blacksmith Reginald Barkley, his ugly face twisted into an uglier scowl. I felt my knees go weak, and my mind go numb. His beady eyes remained on Elliot Winfield as he removed his pistol from his side pocket, cutting short Elliot’s cries of horror.

I did not hear the first gunshot that Reginald Barkley fired, nor the second one that he turned on himself. All I could hear was the deafening sound of my prolonged cry of anguish as I crawled through the kitchen doorway, blinded by my own stinging tears. Elliot Winfield bore his familiar look of defeat, now worn in death. I made a point of smashing Reginald’s face in with my shoe before hastily removing the pistol from his grasp and turning it towards my own skull.

My shaking hand gripped Elliot’s, which no longer squeezed mine back. Elliot Winfield died twice that fateful December day, once a determined hero in my burning home and then again a sinful victim of my burning passion. I breathed in deeply and removed myself from him, lying several feet away before pushing the pistol into my temple. I could not bring shame to Elliot Winfield on an earth of God’s creation. I hoped instead for another world lying beyond the one I knew, a world free of God’s divinity, a world that embraced the Elliot Winfield that had breathed such unholy and beatific life into me.