/oc/ - Original Creation

Begin!

It was a dark and stormy night…

>>1328
He stared out into the chaos outside his window. The streetlamps flickered and glowed amidst the pouring rain, the only solace for the lost and weary pressing through the storm. The windows shook from the wailing gales and thunder, a sudden clash of the iron gates slamming into the fence. Large trees groaned as its ancient roots were lifted from the ground. Only the grim-hearted could find beauty in this dangerous weather.

Soothing and nostalgic, and yet embittered with the taste of tobacco and regret. He pressed his head against a shuddering window to dull his headache and slow his racing thoughts. A stiff drink would be good right about now. Reaching for the bottle beside his drawer, he poured the rest of its contents into his teacup and drank away. Surely this would stop his mind from screaming.

It never worked, but he always pretended it did.

>>1331
Suddenly a chime rang out, making him jolt in his seat. He managed to avoid dropping the cup on the floor but in the process he spilled its contents all over his trousers. It took him a moment to realize it was the doorbell. Someone was at the door? At this hour and in this weather? Who on earth could it possibly be? As he tried to recall whether he had made plans before that slipped his mind, the chime sounded once more.

>>1332
He pressed his cigarette into the ashtray and made his way to the door. At this hour, in this unyielding torrent, a visitor could only mean trouble. A lost child, a stranded traveler, a wounded man smearing the solid cedar door bright crimson. Any other day he would’ve left an unwelcome visitor waiting, but perhaps the thundering rain pelting his roof in a cacophonous frenzy had weakened his judgment. Oftentimes, he’d think back to this moment, that had he neglected to answer that doorbell how different a path he would take. It was a thought that could only be had in vain, for even in his dreams the doorknob would always turn. Fantasy was no reprieve. And here as well, the doorknob turns. Against the backdrop of deep grey skies stood a spectacled man in a dark suit. He held a matching dark umbrella over himself, water running off the spines and pooling at his feet. His trousers were wet to the knees despite the cover. Had he walked here? There was no car in the driveway.

“Pardon my intrusion. Is this the residence of Mr. Allendale?”, the mysterious visitor inquired. Indeed it was, and Mr. Allendale stood beyond the threshold from him.

“Yes it is”, Mr. Allendale responded. “Can I help you?”

“I understand the circumstances are not ideal, but I come here regarding a matter of utmost urgency.” The stranger reached a gloved hand into his suit and retrieved a thin navy blue box with a single red ribbon tied longways – a little bigger than the length of his palm. “This package is for you, please open it at your earliest opportunity.”

Allendale’s suspicions rose, but he accepted nonetheless. In his hand now, the soft velvet box felt chilled his fingers. “Can I have your name? You could have dropped this off before the storm, you know.”

“I’m afraid I could only deliver it to you directly. My name is not something you need to know right now. I’m sure you’re perplexed, but your answers lie within the gift, not in me. I’m afraid I have to take my leave now. It was brief, but a pleasure regardless. Farewell, sir.”

He turned on his heel before his coattails could be grasped and disappeared into the storm, leaving a speechless Allendale behind him. And a little blue velvet box.

>>1338
A gust of wind splashed the rain onto face and body, awakening him from his stupor. Closing the door, Allendale wiped his face with his moistened white undershirt. The weight of the box grew heavier with each step up the stairwell. A feather, a rock, a gun, an appliance, an elephant, his heart. Opening he door, he could have sword his arms were close to ripping from its sockets from the enormous burden the box carried.

Frustrated by his apprehension, he threw the box on his bed and glared at it. Oh but of course it would look like it came from an expensive boutique full of niche designers only the richest of spoiled swine would visit. How its rich color and velvet mocked him!

"No, it couldn't be." Allendale paced around the room. The more he turned to see it, the faster his heart pounded. Open it now or later? Never was also an option to consider. No sufficed. No completed transactions and sentences. What did it matter to that stranger if he decided not to? Not like he or his sender would ever find out if he decided to burn it or throw it in the trash.

Fingers twitching, Allendale picked up the box and smelled it. Memories flowed with the scent, ending with a sorrowful and aroused gasp. "And topped with the most pretentious chypre."

On three he would open it and never look at its contents.

One - it was going to be nothing.

Two - he shouldn't fear anything: it's a box.

Three - now or never.

Ribbon pulled and plucked away. Deep breath, deep breath. Soft fabric rubbing against the edges. He could always turn away and leave the box unopened forever.

He swallowed and yanked the lid off. Regret and fear seeped into his veins.

Intact blue violets and yellow roses cut from its stems.

>>1339
Allendale sat beside the box and ran his hands back through his hair. He wanted a bright shock of tea, or the bitter burn of whiskey, or perhaps just to have never opened the door at all.

"Can't come to the door tonight," he muttered to himself, feeling quite mad. "No one's home."

He plucked one of the violets from the box and held it between his first finger and thumb. The compulsion to crush it overcame him, but he ignored it, marveling at the delicate skin and deep color of the blossom. He held it to his cheek—felt the petal softness there—and dropped his hands between his knees.

A flash of cream caught his eye: a folded sheet of paper, nestled deep in the box of flowers. It was plain, but when he shifted aside the roses to touch it, he could practically feel how expensive it was by the weight.

Allendale held it up, tilting it this way and that, and trying to work himself up to opening it. The paper tilted, and opened, and although he didn't mean to read it, he couldn't help but recognize the familiar, curling script:

'My dear Daniel,'

>>1341
His breath caught in throat. It was familiarity he had hoped to never feel again. The flowing letters were like creeping vines wrapping their tendrils around his heart, pulling taut. This handwriting was a memory, one that hurt.

The letter continued: “Before you read this, I must ask you to sit down. I hope this letter finds you in good health, and the shock isn’t too much to bear. You have many questions running in your mind I’m sure, I’ll try my best to answer them. I know you’re upset that I haven’t written to you in all the years since we matriculated and I have no excuse that will set you at ease, so I will not defend myself. I will also not ask for your forgiveness, it’s not of use to me anymore. The only thing I ask of you from now on is an open ear.”

It was him. The handwriting, the carefully woven words that planted an ache somewhere he wasn’t aware could ache at all. The memories bubbled up, floating higher and higher in his mind until the whole space was filled with an endless film reel playing on repeat. The dark storm and thundering lightning were split with the early summer sun beaming down. A thousand raindrops glittered and shattered in the newfound light, refracting a thousand more images of that sight he’d buried so deep within himself. Shining blonde curls framing deep amber eyes. A lilting smile that belied chaos.

Allendale gripped the paper until it tore beneath his nails and read to the end.

>>1343
For a letter attempting to make amends, it certainly did nothing to hide the airs of arrogance seeped deep in the paper. From the thick parchment to the elegant strokes and bright blue ink, everything exuded an unwarranted sense of superiority - all save the poor penmanship.

The corner of his lips twitched. Only he could read that bastard's handwriting without furrowing a brow. He shook his head and chased away the old pleasant memories that had been wrought with mire and heartbreak. The past built the foundation for his present and future. Good, bad, uneventful, each memory laid a brick one piece at a time to create his stronghold. The sweetness with his former lover had crumbled and cratered into a vulnerability not even time could repair. Instead Allendale used his anguish and rage to fortify the weakness and hoped to never encounter the one person who could topple it with a single breath.

Down came the walls and exposed the pathetic, sorrowful man who had no more heart to give.

"Of course forgiveness isn't of any use to you, Vincent," Allendale scoffed, folding the note neatly inside the box. "Such a thing is unbecoming of a social climber who landed himself in high society and turned your back on the lessers."

He removed a detached rose head and crushed it in his hand. Idiot had to use the most ambiguous and controversial flower. And those violets? Did he stay faithful to him or simply decided to watched from a distance while he stumbled through life?

Shivers ran through his body. What if it had been both?

>>1344
Lightning crashed outside the window and startled Allendale so badly that he flinched.

The rain pounded on his bedroom window, so violently that Allendale got up and checked to make sure that it wasn't hail. He leaned his forehead against the cool glass.

How long had it been since Vincent had ruined his life?

No. That wasn't fair. An affair took two, after all, but it was hard to be even-keeled when he was all but banished to this empty manor in the far north while Vincent was…

The last Allendale had heard of him, he'd been spotted with some niece or cousin of the Queen. He was like a climbing rose—a parasite.

>>1346
Ah, but what good did it do to stew in these pitiful, miserable thoughts? Vincent had everything he wanted. The fame, money, prestige: it all belonged to him and more. This box only served to rile him up and spiral further into his depression. It worked, but Allendale had a tried and true method to forgetting the messenger and the ominous gift.

Yawning, he picked up the flowers and red ribbon and placed them inside the box, then slid it underneath his bed until it hit a wall. Out of sight out of mind. He changed into his usual nightwear consisting of his boxer briefs and a fitted tank top, laid on his bed, set his alarm, and closed his eyes. A good night's rest would help him forget or at least numb his feelings.

He dreamed of nothing, or at least that was what he felt waking in the morning with a long stretch and sleep in his eyes. Everything happened the same as every morning - light exercise, shower, eggs and tea. He packed a few extra biscuits in his satchel and walked out the door with his umbrella. A deep breath and a relieved sigh with the smell of petrichor and concrete, soft raindrops pattering against his umbrella. Today would be a good day.

>>1347
In spite of his exile, Allendale still had a good rapport with his mother's family, namely a set of twin cousins who ran a successful pâtisserie spanning across the country, France, and New York City. Cassandra the business and accounting, and Liam the patissier; together they created their empire and offered a shoulder to their downtrodden cousin.

Hopping to the train, he made his way to Liam's workshop, put on an apron, and shaped the proofed dough for its final rise. He chatted with the helpers, having his first cup of coffee of the day, savoring every bitter note with a dollop of cream and honey. He greeted Liam with a smile and poured his cousin a cup the way he liked it: no cream with too much sugar.

"I'm not paying you," Liam said with a laugh, sipping on his cup.

"I figured I could work some shifts to pay a favor."

"Make me macarons and we'll talk."

"Not with this weather."

"It's just a fucking cookie, Danny. Don't let those baking blogs talking about how mango chutney reminds them of their dead nan from Wales tell you otherwise." Liam nudged Allendale's shoulder. "So, what's up?"

Allendale stared at the floor, spinning the band around his left ring finger. "Well…"