Secrets Untold

The glass was misted over, the cold night air causing small water droplets to form on the freezing window. It served as a mirror, the darkness outside too thick to form any visage, only showing the ghost of a reflection. Green eyes flickered down from the train window to the book in his hands.

As one within a Swoon

Goes safely-- where an open eye

Would drop him-- Bone by Bone

Poetry; Always did it have a place in his heart, despite not having the mind for it. ‘Til now, that is. Now, the black ink seemed to drip from the yellowed page, clogging his heart and churning in his stomach. 

He closed the book with a loud snap, not bothering to quiet his actions, as he was alone in the train car. All others had gone to the sleeping cars, drifting off to where the sun had left to go. All but him. His curled black hair was pulled into a ponytail, his nightclothes wrinkled on the seat. The flickering candlelight cast shadows upon his face, clean-shaven and young, yet laced with unrest. 

His name was Emile Thomas, and he was running.

You may ask where Emile is heading, but that would be the wrong question. Where else but home?

Running from? Now that's the true question. The answer is not as simple. The answer lies within the events that led him on the next train from London. Events that swirled around his mind, and, as he stared at the glass window, arranged themselves as he went over them once again.

Two months ago, Emile Thomas received an invitation to the wedding of Edward Parker and Angelica Williams. He had known the wedding was to take place a week earlier, so the invite was not all that shocking. Edward was a fast friend of Emile since college, and he admittingly was surprised when he was told. 

Edward came from a prestigious family and was always at odds with his family's wishes. The marriage was arranged for business, to unite his family and Angelicas, not something that Emile knew Edward to ever willingly agree to, and yet, he did. 

And so, seven weeks later, Emile found himself at the reception. The ceremony was just as any other high-class ceremony, and the reception was proving to be the same. He wasn't rather fond of weddings but attempted to keep face and make it through.

The sound of spoon meeting glass was heard as the groom stood from his seat. “I’d like to propose a toast. A toast, not just to our marriage, but to our guests. I am so happy that you all could make it to-” Edward paused suddenly, brows furrowed as he cleared his throat, a hand instinctively coming to his chest. He looked weary as he continued. “Er-, to our marri-”

Guests gasped as he collapsed backward, champagne spilling as the crystal glass shattered upon the ground. The bride screamed as panic overtook the room. People flocked on either side of him, but it was too late. Edward Parker was dead.

The death of his best friend was the beginning of the longest day of Emile Thomas's life.

The peelers arrived shortly after, launching an investigation. No persons were permitted entrance or exit. It didn't take long for them to figure the cause of death: poisoned, the glass he had been drinking from was laced.

The guests were each interviewed individually, a line of people waiting for questioning. It was to no avail; there was no obvious evidence, and everyone knows they are thick down at Scotland Yard. 

It was clear to Emile that they would not find the culprit. The fact that a killing could happen even here, to a close friend no less, sent chills down his spine. If it was that easy to get away with, how could anyone feel safe? The police obviously couldn't stop it. The cold touch of death went over their heads, destroying life no matter the setting, skeletal fingers extinguishing the bright burning of the soul.

The bride was grief-stricken. Many guests attempted to comfort her, but Emile couldn't help but feel it was quite an overreaction for someone that never truly knew him. Edward did not know his short-lived partner in marriage save for name, face, and wealth. Who was she to shed tears over a man she hardly knew, a man that Emile knew better than anyone? His best friend, his constant confidante throughout the years, now dead. 

Perhaps that is why the police found a vial of poison stashed away in the bride's wardrobe.

It was a shock for most to see Angelica leave her own wedding in handcuffs. Tear-stained, she pleaded that she was innocent, words believed by many. Who could believe that a woman, so filled to the brim with grief, could possibly have committed an act worthy of hanging? 

Public opinion changed, however, once the newspapers got a hold of the story. Woman kills her husband at their own wedding? It would be insanity for the papers to not latch on to a headline like that.

But, what does that answer? Anyone looking in from the outside of all this would not know. It all seems long-winded to avoid such a question. What is Emile Thomas running from? 

The answer is construed without a look into the events that led to such a tragedy. A victim, a killer, and a motive, so obvious at a glance yet so deceptive.

His dark green eyes were unfocused, glazed over as he stared aimlessly through the dark window. The dull movement of the train was static in Emile's mind, filling his brain until a memory surfaced. No, not a memory. A phantom, the ghost of someone only existing within memory. The phantom of the dead.

Porcelain skin adorned with rosy cheeks, dark hazel eyes decorated with a mischievous smile. Golden curls framing a sharp jaw with soft lips that uttered soft words. Strong delicate hands that knew every inch of him. A heart that once beat with his own, now cold and unmoving, as if carved from stone, immortalized through delicate sculpting.

The phantom of Edward Parker. A beautiful phantom, that filled Emile's senses with delight and rage. 

Delights like sneaking off to Edwards dorm under the bright moonlight, darkness of night shadowing the sins that surely would have them prosecuted. The warm touch of his skin, his tender embrace, pleasures to fill the senses.

Rage like the warm fire of passion growing to a blazing inferno, destroying whatever dare foolishly wander in its path. Rage that boils the blood, clouds the brain, and demands revenge. 

The night was scorched into his mind, an everlasting memory, a secret that Emile would take to his grave. The night he was told of the wedding.

They had once again spent the night immersed in sin, much like many nights since they had met at college. So familiar and wonderful, only to be turned upon its head.

Emile could've sworn that he felt his heart shatter. Broken desperation clouding his vision; he had never felt betrayal such as this. They had fought that night. It came to a close, taking his world with it; ending not with a bang, but with a whimper.

“Don't tell me you were careless enough to think I truly loved you?”

With those words, passion turned.

If only Edward had had the brain to not break the heart of a chemist.

The poison was quite easy to brew and even easier to plant. All he needed to do was lace the glass. Undetectable and deadly. The sweetest revenge. 

Edward had shattered his heart and soul. It was only fair for Emile to break his body. He knows one day, they will meet again in Hell, and only then may they stand on the same level, equal and fair, death having shed away all sin and pain.

Angelica was just collateral damage; the police needed an easy culprit. Someone to take the blame while Emile left the country for home.

Home, where he would find new passions and new rage. Home, where new sins were waiting.

The train simply moved along, taking with it secrets untold. Perhaps one day the truth will be revealed. But for now, the night blanketed all, and the moon shone like a spotlight on the sins dancing in the stars, a bittersweet waltz to the march of death, as night kept secrets of passion and bloodshed, forever unknown to all but the cold hand of death.