Bathed in Mouring's Light

Cicadas sing heavily in the humid air as the dense fog tightly shrouds my sense of direction. Now, I wouldn’t be this far South again if it weren’t for the strangest letter: “I need you, Marcel. Life isn’t what it used to be here. Please hurry to me as fast as possible. I should have married you. Let’s run away together. Your dearest, Jannette.”

Her letter pulls me from the mountains like a moth to a candle flame. I trek down a long, dusty road toward the once-prominent Delmore Manor. Its dull outline looms beneath two weeping willows. The neglect of the estate is evident, with cracked paint and aging windowpanes. The windows catch the faintest flicker of light. I don’t know why seeing her after fifteen years churns my stomach. I can’t tell if it’s my lack of rest or nerves, but slowly, I lift the worn brass knocker and let it fall. A moment passes. Then another. Finally, the dark oak door creaks open, and there stands a small woman. Jannette.

There is more aging and definition on her face. Back then, people would say she was a bright Creole girl with excellent taste, finer than frogs’ hair they’d say, but now…she seems…different. Her once-dark, cascading curls hang uneven and patchy, as if she had taken shears to them herself. “Marcel, you actually came,” she says softly. Her smile is wilted, and her gown is plain and shapeless. “As soon as I read your letter, I knew I needed to be by your side. How could I not?” She steps aside, leading me through the foyer and into the hollow living room.

The disarray stuns me. The side tables are overturned. Books lie scattered across the floor. Torn, loose papers drift near the hearth. Candlesticks light the space, their dancing flames casting long shadows across the walls. Jannette moves slowly; her steps are deliberate yet distant. “Don’t mind the mess,” she says calmly. “Please, Marcel, make yourself comfortable.” I don’t hesitate to sit on her Victorian couch. “Thank you. My legs are aching from walking so far. My dear, I could only afford enough for the ticket to get us back North, so we will have to walk back to the train ourselves.” As I rub my hands briskly on my thighs, I look closely around the room. There’s a rank smell of a mineral I can’t quite place, and the energy I feel here isn’t safe. Voodoo dolls and incantations sleep by the fire, while a cross abandons its betrayed stain on the wall. T

he hearth billows its flame too close for comfort. “Jannette, is there any way you can put out this fire? It’s already burning outside.” “Don’t worry, my love,” she replies, standing by the fire. “We won’t be here much longer. I have everything packed and ready. Live in it for only a moment.” She sits beside me; her face etched with unspoken tension. I thought she’d be more entranced to see me. I certainly was to see her. The awkward silence breaks. “Before we leave, there’s something I must do.” I stiffen up, “And what might that be?” I ask curiously. Her gaze faces downward as her hands twist at the fabric of her linen dress. “I’ve thought about it many times over, Marcel. I see endless possibilities whenever I look at him; it’s the only thing that gives me peace now.” Such bitter words hang in the air like an old church bell. The room grows oppressively quiet, pressing against my chest. My mind fills with an understanding of what she is trying to say. Then, Jannette speaks again— “He ravages me. Lays waste to my soul; I feel hollow, like a shell of the younger woman you once knew. I feel nothing—happiness, sadness, or guilt for wanting Andre to die; he’s taken my life—I even conversed with the old witch doctor off Le Mane—curses be upon him, and yet, my darling, nothing works. Thus, sharing this with you would mean everything to me. You’re the only one who’s cared for me, to see me as I am, but more mon amour, I should have left with you… So, set me free, rule over me, and then, only then, can I live again—I’ll even be able to marry.”

After hearing her words, I’m now caught between sympathy and judgment. “If that’s what you desire, let’s make it so.” Her mixed-colored eyes glimmer faintly, though her face remains unchanged. Her hand moves up my back, our embrace tightens, and in this statuesque moment, I gaze into her eyes, each beautiful yet so irreversibly damaged, and now they were mine, as they should have been so long ago. You always had a unique way of staring into my soul,” she whispers while gently kissing my hand and brushes it against her mouth and cheek. “You can learn everything from a person’s eyes.” Staring at her lips until they meet. The kiss I had always dreamt of, yet time doesn’t fade as it had before.

Now locked in a liberating and imprisoning embrace, she leans back onto the long couch. Her hands draw me closer as her soft lips trail along my neck, each movement carrying emotions that have been held in for far too long. Jannette’s breath quickens while my hands work quickly as I kiss her breast. Our hearts speak between beats and silence. Her feet, clad in royal purple stockings, squeeze against my back—urging me on. Her eyes are detached from passion as if she were studying me. Betraying my certainty. The house moaned faintly as she did, the wind pressing against the windows like an unwelcome visitor.

I hear something... A knock? As I lift my head, Jannette’s hands and lips draw me back in, her touch silencing my thoughts. She notices my lack of fulfillment and sticks her tongue deep in my mouth as if to tether me back in, but instead of bringing me back, it deepens my unease. Each motion felt hollow, like a façade, a darker masking. I can feel it now; her truth is revealed. She didn’t call upon me out of love. She—

Stop! I rise from the couch, sweat dripping down my face, and I wipe my eyes to see a hairpin in Jannette’s hand, the one I gave her by the bay of Renee. “What are you doing with that?” I say breathlessly. She hesitates. “Were you going to stab me?” She drops it and cries out, shaking, “I was told I had to destroy something I hold dear. I’ve tried everything to be free. This was the only way—” her voice soiled with sorrow. “You have to what?” My body trembles, my heart sinks, and my skin runs cold. I know there is no love here, and selfishness led me to her. To my astonishment, she started to smile. “Oh, my love, killing him isn’t enough. I need a guarantee he will be burning with the devil,” she said, unflinching. “What the hell are you talking about?” My voice cracks with agitation. How mad must she be? The veil of my lover’s fantasy lifts, and the stark, solemn reality of Mrs. Delmore’s fractured mind lies in its place. I was no longer looking at Jannette, the woman I once knew, but at someone far more dangerous—someone consumed by brokenness.

Before I can respond, a heavy bang erupts at the door, rattling the frame with its force. “Jannette!” screams a voice from outside, “Where have you gone?” The banging continues, “It’s Andre!” Jannette said, worried. “Go hide!” “Where?” I say urgently, “Find someplace now!” She says her voice is sharper and snippier while the banging intensifies. Frantically, I slide myself under the couch, hiding behind piles of stacked books and torn poems by Keats. My heart is pounding relentlessly, matching the beat of the door. This heat is eating me. The door opens, and a humid breeze blows in. “Finally!” Andre’s voice bellows, his boots thud against the floor in agitation as he storms inside, the dirt and dust creating grimy footsteps. “I lost my key the other night.” He slips up and drops a flask that spills on the floor, “Why in God’s name would you start a fire in mid-July?” Jannette, her voice trembling, almost whimpering, tries to respond. “Get moving, woman! Out of my face, I swear you do everything to anger me.” Andre storms off, searching around the house for water.

From my viewpoint, I see Jannette’s purple stockings shuffle toward the hearth. She kneels there delicately. “Why is this house a wreck?” Andre’s voice grows louder, angrier with each word, but Jannette says nothing, “It’s so hot that you could die of heatstroke. Have you been throwing your books in the fire?” His voice echoes through the house. Jannette stammers, “I thought we could spend some time alone.” Andre slumps on the couch—right on top of me, “Time alone?” He says, eerily calm as if he’s already given up. “What kind of nonsense is that? You haven’t looked in my direction in months.” He laughs bitterly, and Jannette snaps. “Maybe if you spent more time at home instead of whoring, we’d have time alone.” Andre then plants his boots firmly on the ground and strikes quickly, like a cottonmouth. The slap of his hand across her face sounded like a whip cracking, silencing the room.

I want to do something, but I’m already wedged under her couch. “Don’t you ever make accusations you know nothing about!” His voice rises with anger. Jannette stumbles backward and collapses, her face landing within inches of mine. Our eyes meet. Her lips move with no sound. Help me. I’m unsure if she means now or later, but I remain silent. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—” “Don’t you ever!” Andre interrupts her, his voice roaring over hers. “Don’t you ever act like you’re some kind of a victim—when you’re writing letters to Marcel! Though you haven’t seen each other in a decade and then running off with my friend Lucien!” Another strike lands harder this time. “You want to act like a whore? Then, by God’s will, I’ll punish you like one!” Gripping her by the top of her curls with a scalping force, Jannette yelps, and then he shouts. I can only see her stockings as he starts to drag her off into another room. An adrenaline rush surges through me; I can’t watch any longer. I reach out my trembling hand and hook his leg.

Andre halts, startled, and releases Jannette from his grasp. “Ah! What the—” he shouts. Jannette then lunges for the nearest book, driven by planned malice and sheer desperation. Taking hold of King James’ Bible, she brings it down on his head once. Twice. “Jannette, stop!” I yell, cutting through the chaos; she strikes a third time, her hands held high, trembling… Taking advantage of the moment, Andre throws Jannette to the ground in a fight-or-flight rage. Now, on top of her, he wraps both hands around her throat. “You want to kill me?” He snarls, “Let’s make the score even.” He squeezes his hands harder; all you can hear are words forcing out of her throat: “Please—stop!” He lets loose with one hand. Jannette gasps for air and begins to cough. I stand there petrified, like a child again, watching abuse from the doorway. Pulling his knife from his boot, Andre says, “You like to watch Marcel? Hell, watch this.” She screams out, “No, no, no, no. Please. Please! Andre don’t—” breathing so hard, panic might kill her first. Comatose with fear, I could only let out a few words: “Andre—wait!” He pauses, to my surprise, looks towards me, and waits hauntingly, Jannette still gasping for air, as he chuckles and says, “Oh, I’m gutting you next, boy.” Andre plunges the blade towards her face, right beneath her eye, with brutal precision. Carving it from its socket, then holding it close to his chest, resembling her locket.

Her scream pierces the ears and sings through the halls, howling through the house—a pure agony that freezes even Andre. Jannette’s body convulses beneath him. Blood is pouring from the gaping wound as she claws frantically at his neck and face. Her nails rake deep into his skin. Struggling, I pull myself up and slam into Andre with all my weight. Knocking him off of her and tumbling onto the floor, in the mix, the knife slides onto the floor, and he hits his head hard against the corner of the hearth. The fire licks towards his hair, yet the flames can’t reach close enough. “You want this waste of a woman? Take her, damaged goods and all!” Jannette, despite her agony, grabs the knife and pushes me aside. She viciously stabs Andre in the chest repeatedly with his own knife. He struggles and gasps but in vain as his lungs fill with blood and he falls down onto the floor like ink from an overpoured well. Jannette’s hands twitch uncontrollably. I don’t know how to react or if I should approach, treating this situation as I would a rabid animal, terrified of what she might do. “Jannette,” I whisper as I take another step. Her head slowly falls against Andre’s, and all the blood and tears, years of fear, finally, bloodletting.

I move closer to the horrific crime before my eyes, and tentatively, I whisper, “Jannette,” crouching near her, no response, her fingers tightly gripping the knife plunged into his cavity. Her blood drips from her eye socket and runs down her face. Her purple stockings soak in their blood. The warmth of life had not yet left her. I get up too quickly, and the room begins to spin; this combination of feelings, the heat, and the shock is dizzying. I take three heavy steps and loosen my tie. My vision is blurry, and I feel faint and cold despite the heat. My head spins as though I’ve been drinking. I look into their cracked vanity and— I wake to the suffocating smell of smoke and heat. The hearth must have caught loose book pages from the quarrel and set those love poems ablaze as the lightness of their embers spread across the room, starting fires around us.

I pick up Jannette’s body with the knife still clutched in her hand and run outside with haste. The house doesn’t groan anymore. It breathes in the toxic air and blows us out of the house. I almost fell down the old wooden stairs. I hear its last roar as everything burns. Her face looks forward down the road ahead; I can feel blood dripping down my arm. I feel her breathing. Her heart beats faintly. She looks at me with one last forced smile, “Marcel,” she says, “I must tell you something.” Her whisper was almost inaudible. Though what comes from her lips ruins me. Was I too late, or was I a coward? Must my own trauma stop me from saving someone I love, or was she already lost? No, I was but a page in her fate. In my arms, she lies. My love dies—fighting for what she wanted most, and even now trapped between death and soon to be his ghost. Will they haunt this Godforsaken manor together, or will she finally be free? When I’m old and take my final breath, will it be her face I see? What lies hidden, nay, now buried underneath the fiery ground of the Delmore estate? Between the broken oaks and dead thorny bushes, in front of a manor now remade of ash and anguish. I’ll remember her, my dying ember, and the remnants of a single oozing blue-pierced iris, which glimmers faintly underneath the dim light of a waning moon.