A Tragic Loss

Inspired by the genius that is Emily Jane Bronte.

 

Here I am.
Take a look. Although you cannot see me standing beside two withered trees, one last time. I look upon the world below me. Moorland, covered in heather with bent over trees, spread out, marking their territory.
        This is lonely world for many, but it is my home. Away from it I am dreadfully homesick. The dark skies, lightning, and thunder, I thrive from, even in death I long to be here.
        I walk a few footsteps further down the moors, to where the farmhouse stands, Top Withens. That wonderful place which helped my imagination come alive with the greatest story I could ever have told. I wonder if they still roam the moors, Heathcliff and Cathy. Maybe one day I shall meet them again, for we are all three in death. Here was their home. The place they both were born. I shared that world with my younger sister, Anne. How sad her little face was when I left the land of the living. I could not see her eyes for all those gushing tears which fell for many days hence.
        I long to write. To dip my pen in ink and scrawl a thousand words, and more, upon my paper. But I cannot. My time for that has ended. For I am no longer part of the living world.
        I walk further across the moors. I follow one of the paths I used to take, down past the trickling stream. On the moorland above is the great stone seat I used to sit upon to see the world around me. I wrote many of my poems there, some of which were published three years back. I did not want them to be read. I was, at times, reluctant for my own sister, Charlotte, to read them. But she insisted, saying that mine were far superior to either her or Anne’s. I am not sure I believe what she said.
        I wish to see my sisters again, before my soul truly lies to rest with my body. I know that they both are lost, unsure of what to do, or where to go. They have suffered much loss in their young lives. First their mother, then Maria and Elizabeth. But the greatest losses were their brother, Branwell, and I. We four were very close, tightly knitted together. Now only two remain.
        I want to wash my hands in the stream, our stream, where we came so often. I bend over and put both hands into the cold water. I feel it, but the water makes no movement. I see no reflection of myself. I exist no more.
        I walk onwards until I reach the point where I can see the Parsonage, my home. And the graveyard and church beyond it. Home, all my home. The place I grew up with my dear sisters and Tabby, my darling servant and friend.
        Closer I go. I peer through a window. And there they are, Charlotte and Anne, sitting at the table where we often wrote together. But there is an empty seat, with papers and a pen still in place. Occasionally they look up from their writing and glance towards the silent space. Their eyes glass over with tears. They are thinking of me. I know they miss me, deeply. But I hope they know my presence will be with them forever.
        I notice that Charlotte looks worried. She also glances towards Anne. Anne looks weak, tired, ill. Both Charlotte and I are worried she too will not be in the living world for long. What suffering Charlotte has seen. I wonder, if Anne soon fails, Charlotte may find herself in despair, far too grief-stricken to have the will to live much longer.
        I hope not. I hope at least one will survive to see our names triumph over the literary world. To keep our family alive. To be of comfort to our lonely father.
        I go to my resting place in hope.

Reviews

[Bubo]

Terribly sad, a ghost returning to home and family, a mother already lost, brother and the others
weak...........images you portray are beautiful in setting........her thoughts and hopes before she goes
to rest, I hope with her Mum who waits............

[Armon Badill]

Ahh the prolific genius of the Brontes sisters...
very well written...
here's an idea for you, though it matters less than a little
you write: This is lonely world for many, but it is my home.
suggest: This lonely world is my home.
I"m sure there's some arrangement of words that is even better but I'd have to break into the previous sentence and the one after this to achieve the balance and flow I'm thinking of...
but like i said, its just fine the way you wrote it too...