The Violet Hour

(This story deals with themes of domestic violence.)

On a stormy night, the wind howled through the rain-soaked streets, rattling the shutters of my small abode. I sat at my worn writing desk, quill in hand, ready to write a letter to a long-lost friend. A surge of memories flooded my mind, each tangled with the next.

I felt a weight in my chest, reminding me of the illness that was slowly approaching. Like shadows in the evening, I expressed the deep feelings I had hidden for too long.

*****

October 1, 1850

Dear Flora,

I find myself grappling with emotions as I sit down to write this letter. You may be taken aback when you receive it, especially since it has been many years since our last conversation. Life has continued for both of us, but I must confess that there has been a persistent ache in my heart, a deep pain that has lingered unresolved all these years.

The passage of time hasn’t diminished the vivid memories we created together, each moment etched in my heart. Despite forty years apart, I cherish the warmth of our laughter and enduring bond. After so long in silence, I reach out urgently, longing for a resolution. I hope this letter sparks a dialogue to understand each other’s perspectives and heal the deep wounds that have shaped our lives. As I write this, I am filled with hope and trepidation, knowing that revisiting old wounds can be painful. Yet, I believe that addressing the past is essential to moving forward, and I genuinely wish for us to have the chance to do that together.

We were always close friends. Our mutual respect and shared interests, especially in philosophy, brought us closer. I smile fondly when I recall how you opened my eyes to Margaret Cavendish and Natural Philosophy while I enjoyed introducing you to the great Socrates. Those countless hours we spent beside the hearth, exploring their ideas, were truly enjoyable, and I cherish every moment of our lively discussions! There I was with my virtuous calling, quoting Socrates. At the same time, you emphasised, in Cavendish style, your fascination with the human body and its ancient theories of the microcosm: the body as a miniature universe. I listened to you.

Furthermore, I stood by your side, providing comfort and support during your moments of self-doubt. It always touched me when you plucked up the courage and asked, “Do you love me?”—a question that showed how vulnerable you were in those moments. I must admit that it was mesmerising to see such vulnerability and femininity unfold before me.

Do you remember the time I nursed you back to health? With determination, I supported you for weeks, massaging your legs and hands until the blood flowed freely, rejuvenating your spirit. One day, you leapt up, taking a deep breath, breaking free from the confines of your struggles. As the bandages fell away, you reached out your arms, and we embraced under the moonlit sky, a symbol of resilience and rebirth. I will never forget the silver rays from the moon as they fell upon the floor like a phantom, ethereal but transformative—a positive omen reuniting our passion and love for each other.

But our bond was not to last. In your prolonged state of confusion, you became delirious and violent, laughing hideously. My only solution was to send you to a sanitarium where you could be saved and supported by those who understood your state of mind. You were like a fragile bird trapped inside a cage. Believe me, it was not something I relished as I watched you wither away into those chambers of solitude.

One evening during one of my visits, I was deeply moved when I learned that you had climbed out of a window. I can only imagine the anxiety and fear you felt as they searched high and low for you, desperately hoping for your safe return. But it seemed like you had vanished into the mist. After a year of searching and holding onto hope, we all came to the heartbreaking conclusion that you might have faced a tragic fate.

But how wrong we were. After a long absence of forty years, I learned, quite unexpectedly, that you are living just around the corner from me! What a delightful twist of fate!

I was then informed that you recently married in the charming old church of Penvyn, a stunning Victorian gem famous for its breathtaking stained glass by Berriman.

As I write to you, I feel overwhelming joy and a tinge of sorrow at the silence that has stretched between us for so long. To hear that you are alive, well, and even happy brings me a sense of relief that I can scarcely put into words. For so many years, I’ve carried the weight of uncertainty and sadness; discovering you’re nearby feels almost surreal—a bittersweet revelation that fills my heart with emotion.

Your beauty has always captivated me. Your raven-black hair cascades like a waterfall of night, framing your face with an enchanting elegance. Shimmering like dark pools under the moonlight, your eyes hold a depth that draws me in and leaves me breathless.

I beseech you, my dear Flora, to explain why you have never communicated with me and what possessed you to live this secret life away from me. If I had not found out by pure chance that you were still alive, I would not be writing this to you today.

I beg you to reply and meet me for afternoon tea.

Yours sincerely, with the utmost admiration,

Brandon

*****

October 14, 1850

Dear Brandon,

I respond to you not out of desire but because this letter must be shared and released into the universe. It’s a message meant to guide and support those who come after me, even if it never finds its way to you.

Please don’t pretend you were ever kind; we both know the reality. You were a master manipulator, skillfully crafting a prison of your own making. I often felt trapped by your controlling behaviour, suffocating under the weight of your jealousy and paranoia. You slowly stripped away my freedom, isolating me from friends and family, forcing me into a life that revolved entirely around you. Your obsession became all-consuming—following me down the street, crashing my tea gatherings uninvited, and imposing ridiculous time limits on every aspect of my life. All of this left me with nothing but the fading echoes of who I used to be.

Even after I became your loyal servant, you mentally tortured me with condescending remarks about my looks. You loathed my subdued outfits. You despised anyone who complimented me. I became isolated, lonely, and lacking in confidence while living with you until there was nothing left of me except sickness—a sickness brought on by sorrow and loneliness, made worse by your mental cruelty.

I often felt a deep, chilling terror at entering your study. You would force me to kneel before I spoke, making me more and more subservient each time. It was as if you relished your power over my fear, delighting in how it toyed with my psyche. You hurt me in ways that left scars deeper than any visible mark. My resolve eventually crumbled, but I knew there must be a way to escape you deep down. My answer arrived through the one and only Margaret Cavendish. Reading her novel, ‘The Blazing World,’ I discovered that everything in nature, including human beings, is free!

In a moment of clarity, I discovered my strength and devised a plan to escape the sanatorium. Instead of crawling through a window like a timid shadow, I disguised myself in a nurse's uniform. Blending in with the evening routine, I summoned the confidence and strolled out the front door, displaying a courage you would never have thought I possessed.

Indeed, I am not far from you, a secret I’ve held dear, concerned that you might find it hard to believe I could be so close. You likely envisioned that I had disappeared to a distant location, leaving only remnants of memories that lingered like shadows in your thoughts. Yet here I stand, comfortably situated within this neighbourhood, enveloped by the familiar sights and sounds of home, silently observing life as it unfolds just a short distance from you.

I stand here today, completely unafraid. I am happily married and grounded in a life filled with love and unwavering support. I vow that no man will ever treat me the way you did again. I ask you to let go and pursue your journey. I have moved on, Brandon and genuinely wish never to cross paths with you again.

Regards,

Flora

*****

Diary Entry: October 15, 1850

Today, I found myself lost in thought, reflecting on the complex situation with Flora. Curiosity washed over me as I envisioned her life—a solitary existence wrapped in tranquillity. I longed to grasp the nuances of her world and uncover the mystery of what had transpired over the years. How had she occupied her days? Did she truly embrace life with a new love nestled in the quietude of her own making? The more I pondered, the more the unanswered questions tugged at my heart.

*****

On October 15th, Brandon’s heart raced with intense emotions as he strode determinedly toward the prosperous neighbourhood where Flora had quietly crafted her life over the years. Jealousy and anger swirled within him like a tempest, propelling him forward. As he approached the quaint houses, their facades softened by the delicate copper hues of autumn trees in full bloom, he caught a glimpse of Flora through a shaded window. She moved with serene grace, carefully preparing tea—her every action a testament to the calm of her everyday existence.

The simplicity of this moment hit him hard, igniting a storm of conflicting feelings that battled for control within. He felt as if he were on one side of a vast chasm while she stood on the other, enveloped in peace that felt painfully unattainable to him. Rooted in her front garden, he silently observed her radiant happiness, his heart aching from the contrast to his chaotic thoughts. Then, as if sensing his presence, Flora looked up and boldly met his gaze, the connection sending a jolt through him and deepening the turmoil within. As she calmly stepped through the doorway, he watched and declared, “At last, I find you, my love.,” his voice trembling with agitation. Gazing into his eyes, Flora replied calmly, “Let’s not argue; the past is behind us.” She pulled out a garden chair and invited Brandon to sit down.

“I had a feeling you would come today,” she said, her face pale and solemn as she avoided his intense gaze.

“And so we meet again,” he replied impertinently. “Do you remember I once explained how Socrates believed goodness stems from virtue? Our combined goodness is a form of knowledge, meaning that if someone understands what is good, they will act accordingly. Don’t you agree Flora?”

“The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing”, Flora uttered quietly as she passed Brandon a cup of tea.

Brandon sat there, sipping the elixir and scrutinising her as she shifted uneasily on the wrought-iron chair. The autumn foliage enveloped her in a comforting yet unsettling embrace. Two crows darted carelessly through the violet dusk. After a stretched moment of silence, Flora broke the stillness, her voice soft yet firm.

“Wasn't it courageous of Socrates?”

Brandon listened with curiosity and then concern etched across his features, revealing his unease. “What do you mean, darling?” he asked, his voice soft yet filled with genuine intrigue.

“I meant drinking the poisoned hemlock.”

Brandon searched Flora’s eyes for answers before a sudden realisation washed over him, the gravity of her words sinking in.

Flora looked at him in defiance, and lifting the Grecian ebony teapot, she declared, “More tea?”