Find Heaven In Your Maker

There are three things that follow the appearnce of the light: the scent of smoke, a heavy weight at my feet, and the knowledge that I should not be afraid.

I can't be sure of how long he'd been there. I didn't notice the shift of the bed as he settled his weight down, didn't hear the creaking of the door or even the window as he entered. It is only the light that wakes me, bright enough to permeate my close eyelids as I slept that I'd jolted awake at the sudden, unwelcome disturbance.

When my eyes open, however, there is only darkness to greet me. My head swivels in confusion, sure I hadn't simply imagined the sudden brightness, and it is then that I see him.

He sits perched at the end of my bed, his slim figure cloaked in a frock coat so dark his already ghostly figure is obscured even further in the dark of the night. It is only by moonlight I am able to make out his features. I squint into the gloom, forcing my eyes to adjust to the darkness and see that he’s an older man with skin so transparent he looks sickly, the image of indisposition only further enunciated by his hollow cheekbones and deep, sunken brown eyes. The harshness of his visage would be intimidating if it weren't for how the curvature of his face falls into the softness of a well-trimmed beard and how he sits, hunched and unopposing, his hands splayed on his lap, palms outturned as if in surrender.

It is this gentle manner that eases me. I relax from so intensely studying him, letting my shoulders drop as my body finds comfort once more in the plummage of pillows that surrounds me.

“Dickens.”

His name falls from my lips with ease, as if he were an old friend I was reuniting with after a period of abscence. It surprises me at the familiarity of which I seem to know him, but the old man simply smiles as if he, too, can understand the closeness in which I greet him.

Charles Dickens moves, the first sign of life he's offered. A boney hand emerges slowly from the layer of clothing he's hidden himself in, and produces an already-lit pipe pipe that he brings to his lips with a slow, exasperated inhale.

"Am I dreaming?" I regret the question the second it passes my lips, angered at myself for such a thoughtless question, though I don't move to say as much; part of me wants to hear the answer.

He takes his time in responding. He exhales, a soft cloud of smoke floating past me as he closes his eyes to lean back onto the post of my small twin bed. He seems to debate the question, his lips twitching into something like a grin before he opens his eyes to meet my gaze. "That depends. Would you like to be?"

"That would make it easier, surely."

A soft hum of agreement passes his lips, "Indeed."

Silence follows. Charles Dickens is a man of many words, and yet... silence. Though where I am unsure in this quiet, awkward and yearning to make conversation but falling short of knowing the words to make it, Charles is comfortable. He sits, eyes closed, at the foot of my bed, unmoving and resting peacefully. He seems sure of the quiet he has created, content in this world that is not his.

It angers me for a moment, the assuredness in which he sits here. He has enetered my home, disturbed my peace, and now dares to sit in a content silence while leaving me to brew in my confusion? He offers me no explanation, no words of wisdom, nothing of use that might be uniform for a man of his caliber.

"You're here for a reason, dream or not." I sling my words at him as an accusation, and though my eyes narrow and arms cross to complete the picture of annoyance , I once again find myself surprised at the way I speak to him.

Charles is unperturbed at the venom I spit. He nods, not bothering to open his eyes. "As are you."

There is the same fiery passion in my tone as I answer, "And what might that be?"

An eye cracks open, but when I meet his gaze, his expression is not alight with the usual teasing joy I had come to expect. Instead he is somber, his brows upturned in what seems like pity for me. "To pass over, young one."

His words hit me like a gunshot. Any feeling of indignation that had been once again ignited at the idea of this man pitying me falls away with the sudden realization.

Part of me knew this truth. Part of me does not tremble under the weight of his words, does not crumble with the knowledge that the reality of Charles Dickens' prescence in my bedroom means.

With this realization comes the memories. They flood me, sudden and unexpected, crashing against me to send me reeling.

Memory: I trusted him. Memory: He has hurt me before. Memory: I was foolish to trust him.

Charles sighs as he pushes himself away from where he had leaned against my bedpost, grunting in the effort it takes him. I offer him no assisstance but instead draw myself away from him, disgusted.

"Girl..." He reaches for me then, and though I recognize the sorrow in his eyes and I know he does not mean me any harm, I open my mouth and I scream. I scream loud enough my throat goes raw with the effort and I'm left curled into a ball, pressed into myself tight enough so that I may stitch myself together.

I scream for myself, for who I was, for who I never would be. I scream for the death that Charles Dickens has written unto me, fated me to without a second though. Moreover, I scream for the life I was destined not to live.

"Why would you do this to me?!" It's another accusation slung at him and this time I recognize where my anger comes from.

He nods in understanding, which only makes me hate him more. "It could only ever be this way."

Each word is another punch to the gut, another memory of my undoing. Each word only brings me back to the night and I can taste the blood in my mouth and feel my body begin to weaken, give up, and turn to the comfort of the light that threatens the corner of my vision.

I only manage to cough a sob in response, turning my face into my pillow.

"Come," he says, and this time when he reaches for me I do not flinch, I do not pull away. My body aches with the effort that crying brings, and though Charles has brought my death, he also offers my salvation.

Charles Dicken's lifts me into his arms and holds me close to his chest as he presses a kiss to my forehead and smoothes down the messy curls atop my head. "You were a wonderful character, Nancy, and, oh, how I loved you. It's time to come home with me now."