Hey everyone, I'm back! Someone asked me ages ago if I would consider writing another RHPS fanfic, and I've finally had an idea of how to write their idea. Thanks for everyone's support for my other stories, and I hope you enjoy this one. Please read and review x
I opened the door to a bitter, biting November wind and the remnants of last night's frost dusting the ground. Pulling my coat tighter around me and adjusting my hemline, I locked my door and turned to begin what had become my daily journey. Even in the summertime, I soon learned that it was best to leave before sunrise to avoid the neighbours' glares; not many people want to live next door to a harlot. And the glares started long before that…
I listened to the silence being broken by the sound of my heels echoing down the cold, suburban street. Some days I feel like the heels empower me – I feel seductive and in control, the way Frank was in his heels. Other days, I feel like the noise gives me away and the echo reminds of how hollow my life has become. But I live in hope, because of this daily journey.
Walking the country roads, I barely take in the scenery around me anymore. Each step is embossed into my mind and my heart explains why my brain does not deserve more sleep. My arms ached with the weight of the bag I was carrying containing my supplies for the day: minimal food, my hip flask, some extra layers, 80 cigarettes, my little black book and a blanket to sit on. I lost count long ago of how many days in a row I took this journey, but the aching never subsided.
I arrived at the same empty field I saw every day and set up camp. The disappointment seemed to diminish as time went on, but the pang in my chest and the hole in my heart only seemed to grow. I approached the gate, the rusty sign still hanging the way it was that fateful night many moons ago, and shivered as it groaned under its own weight, swinging open and inviting me in. It was one of the rare mornings where my heels did not sink into the grass which meant I could omit their cleaning from my night. I tottered over the frozen mud and lay down a blanket no more than 40 feet from the gate, emptying my bag and kneeling awkwardly facing where the manor used to be; the manor which began my story - and my downfall.
The sun rose shortly after my arrival, and I gave a toast to the day from my hip flask, praying to no-one in particular that my luck would soon change. I lit a cigarette and hoisted myself from the blanket and staggered over to where the house should have stood. I paced the perimeter, where the scorch marks on the grass were still visible, and closed my eyes.
A flash of his eyes, his painted lips, his hands… his voice in my ear… his taste…
I felt the smile creep onto me as one hand felt my heart begin to race. But I opened my eyes and the images fell away from me, leaving me in the same empty field. Frank's death only hit me once Brad had gone: I had convinced myself that I had chosen Brad but once I was left on my own, the absence of Frank felt like losing a limb. I had loved Brad, there was no doubt of that, but I loved the security more than I wanted him. Frank was danger to me, excitement… lust. Maybe it was because I had given myself to him, but I fell head over heels for him. He was everything Brad has failed to be to me. His death, I eventually realised, shattered the future I had planned for us the first time he kissed me.
As the sun set again, I gathered my things and began the long route home, draining the dregs from my flask, smoking the first cigarette of my last pack of cigarettes and singing to the moonlight.