Post by Dominator / Mortimer on Feb 21, 2019 18:24:51 GMT -5
Tuesday 5th February 2019 - 12.50pm
Location; Residence of Horacio Mortimer, Totton, Southampton, Hampshire, England, United Kingdom
A large bay window bulges out of the side of the house, giving an uninhibited view of Horacio’s back garden; a lawn currently awash with a thick sheet of pure white. The crystallisation is tarnished only by the minimally visible footprints of small birds that had landed in order to forage for food beneath the snow, along with a few pieces of debris carried by the wind; leaves, twigs and even the odd feather. The perimeter of the garden is barricaded by a hedge that towers at a height where no man might be able to look within, not even someone with a frame similar or even slightly higher than that of Dominator himself. Indeed, the hedge provides both beauty and security.
What little space on the wall that is unencumbered by parallel rows of bookshelves is instead placed by a countless number of clocks all ranging in different shapes, sizes and styles; from analog to digital, from standard to novelty, from grandfather to cuckoo. Each are configured perfectly to tell the time in perfect unison, not one of them even a fraction of a second slower or faster than another. The room must be nigh upon deafening upon the strike of the hour. The cacophony of sound must be traumatically capable of waking the dead.
A desk comprised of thick, polished mahogany takes up a large portion of the floor-space, accompanied by an office chair composed of the same wooden material whilst furnished with a layer of red leather over a cushioned seat and back rest. The top of the desk is a seemingly endless array of paperwork and articles that range from photographs to personal documents and even items of clothing. Female clothing, at that. Horacio Mortimer is sifting through each and every item individually, classifying different objects by placing them into an array of boxes at one side of the desk.
Horacio briefly pauses. One particular photograph catches his eye.
Unlike the others, this one is framed. It is propped up by a stand integrated into the back of the decorative surround, as if it one from Horacio’s own personal collection. He slowly lifts the frame, looking longingly into it and lets out a long, almost exhausted sigh. So lost does he become by looking at such a mimetic memory that he uncharacteristically misplaces the realisation of the passage of time itself. What feels like seconds are, in fact, minutes. His lips twitch, as if mouthing some form of prayer or statement towards the photograph, perhaps hoping that whatever… or whoever is shown in the photograph might somehow be able to hear him.
The only reason he removes his spectacles is to wipe away an invasive tear before it can form.
His moment of solemnity is shattered by five rapid yet gentle knocks on the study’s door. Uninvited, the door slowly opens regardless. Horacio immediately places the photograph back on the desk, face down, so that he nor anybody else might become encapsulated by it. He positions himself so that his back is turned towards the entrant; the familiar hooded black cloak of May Trenton. He begins to forage frenziedly through the assortment of paraphernalia atop the desk, inadvertently focusing on the items of clothing in particular.
May tilts her head, perhaps a little perturbed by witnessing an act that borderlines depravity. Horacio only glimpses away from his task for a moment to confirm the intruder’s identity at the precise moment that she removes her hood to reveal strands of auburn hair. Confirmation fulfilled, Horacio returns his focus to the matter at hand, continuing with his endless categorisation.
“The fruits of Harley’s endeavours,” Horacio proclaims with one final sniff before any questions can be asked, as if to justify himself. “I must admit, he has exceeded expectations. Where I originally conceived in my mind that he would only muster a few irrelevant pieces of worthless material, he has truly outdone himself with this haul.” May takes a few steps deeper into the study, looking at the exenterated piles and boxes with equal incredulousness. Horacio wipes his brow with the back of his hand. The subtle meaning of this is not to display the toils of his task, but rather to check the temperature of his skin as to not give away his moment of grief.
“Is this not a little… counter-intuitive?” May says with a puckered brow. “You could have had Harley dispose of all of this on his own, rather than take the time out of your own day to sort through all of this.”
“Given Harley’s recent questionability, I would prefer to oversee this matter more personally,” He replies, still refusing to make eye contact. “Besides, you need not concern yourself with the assignments of the other Watchmen when you yourself have your own obligations to adhere to. So, what fruit have you brought for me?”
Silence befalls the study instantaneously, aside from the shuffling of material against cardboard. Listening out for some form of response, Horacio places no more than five more objects into their respective containers before slowly twisting his neck to one side to look at the macabre manifestation that forms on May’s unveiled face.
“I’m still a little uncertain as to what you initially intended for me to do,” May eventually confesses, prompted only by the single footstep forward that Horacio makes. “I know you wanted me to provide Dominic with a sense of closure, as to rid himself of the burden he carries over Amy’s death, but the question is; how exactly?” She takes a step towards a mirror that has managed to claim the smallest piece of wall-space amidst the countless clocks. Her reflection shares her confused expression, gazing at one another’s facial features, hair and overall appearance. “Resemblances aside, I have nothing in common with Amy. She was a devout Christian, a loving Mother and a shining light in his blackened heart. If I can see that, then Dominic will surely be able to see through this façade.”
Horacio pauses, ceasing the arrangement of memorabilia in order to evaluate May’s stance. With a smile, he reaches under the desk and produces two tall wine glasses alongside a bottle of Cava. He unravels the foil seal, wraps his fingers around the bulging cork and gently begins to prise it free using small twisting motions. With a loud pop filling the room, the carbonated gases burst free, yet no alcohol is spilt. He methodically pours the sparkling wine into the two glasses before returning the bottle from whence it came. Pinching the thin glass stems, he walks around the desk and towards May’s vicinity, offering her one of the glasses.
Begrudgingly, yet submissively, May accepts the glass and the two sip the glasses simultaneously.
“No, you are not the woman that Dominic loved,” Horacio says after smacking his lips, savouring the tingling sensation on his tongue, “what you are though is an integral part of Dominic’s recovery.”
“But there is so much more to it than convincing him that I share Amy’s blood,” May sighs, agitation and anxiety forming amidst her words. “He is bound to start asking questions. What if he goes to Marx? Or Amy’s parents?”
“Hush now,” Horacio silences her reassuringly, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Do not concern yourself with such insignificant hypotheticals. As far as the matter of Amy’s parents go, I invested some of my own resources towards relocating them somewhere far away; somewhere where Dominic will not simply just be able to ’bump into them’ or indeed make any form of contact. Consider it a bereavement gift on behalf of The Chronological Order. And as for Marx, well, he is currently on a mission to make contact with Hangtown alongside Matthew. He is practically off the grid, such is the way of a Watchman. Of course, they might be searching for a while,” Mortimer snickers under his breath. “Hangtown isn’t defined by a pinpoint on a map. Not just anybody can make their way there. You of all people should know that.”
May lowers her head. Indeed, she had attempted to follow Dominic on one of his most recent ventures to Hangtown, but ended up losing him in the wilderness. She recalls that sense of hopelessness, wandering aimlessly amidst the fog, disorientated with no trail of breadcrumbs of which to speak of in order to follow back towards civilisation.
And it is upon that realisation that she lets out a loud gasp.
“So that’s why you sent Marx off to Hangtown,” May exclaims. “You knew that he wouldn’t be able to find it. You just needed to keep him out of Dominic’s way.”
“I had advised them both against seeking out Hangtown,” comes the rebuttal from Horacio, “instead, I suggested that they should attempt to make contact with one of the town’s residents; perhaps Ruth or Phinehas. Whether or not they’ve sent themselves on a wild goose chase, I still maintain faith that the two shall succeed in their mission.” Newfound disgust slowly begins to creep across May’s face.
“Even if Dominic is unable to interrogate Marx or Amy’s parents, he is certainly asking me a lot of questions.” May states with concern before taking a moment to recollect her thoughts. Never had she envisioned that what little time she had shared with The Zenith would be so harrowing before setting out to complete her task. Squinting her eyes to diffuse her own sorrow, she slowly lowers her head. “He’s… not a good person, Horacio,” she says somewhat out of the blue, sparking an immediate interest in the Order’s founder. “Whatever anguish he is hiding is nigh upon consuming him whole. His heart is so cold that I could literally feel it in the air around him.”
“Are you sure that wasn’t just the winter weather?” Horacio smirks with sarcasm.
“You say that my instructions were to rid him of his burdens,” May reiterates, “but the one thing that he has confided in me is that, above everything else that has happened to him, he hates, hates, HATES the constant deception being thrown at him. For him to say that to my face, whilst I myself recited a fabricated backstory to him, makes me nothing short of a hypocrite, just like…” she begins to stammer. “Just l-like…”
“The man who broke your heart?” Horacio completes her sentence. With that, the old sores left from such a tragedy in May’s own past have been opened once more. She huddles herself away from Horacio, consuming what remains in her champagne flute in one swift, almost painful gulp before placing it on what space she can find on one of the bookshelves. Insulted by such an act, Horacio sidles past May with a glare, removing the tall glass and walking back across the study. placing it back in it’s rightful home.
“What about my own burdens?” May splutters. “How am I suppose to help Dominic when I am unable to even help myself?” She has become flustered, her face turning the same shade of scarlet exhibited by Horacio during his own moment of veiled sorrow. His own skin has now paled, perhaps fatigued by May’s outcry. “Do you know how difficult it is? To constantly lie to someone’s face?” she asks. Her voice is not so much full of genuine frustration as it is of loathing and self pity. So sudden is this change that Horacio quickly finishes his glass of Cava and places it delicately back on the desk as so that it avoids the looming threat of confrontation. “I know exactly what it is like,” emotions rises in her voice, “so why must I act towards Dominic in the way that has brought me to my knees so many times before?”
Horacio simply lets out an unpitying smile.
“Is that not why you came to me?” he says, immediately silences her. “It was merely circumstantial that our paths happened to cross. And yet, you bestowed your trust onto me, a relative stranger, and requested that I change your life for the better. I understood your plight. I still do. Who wouldn’t want to make changes to their unfulfilled lives when the proverbial human excrement hits the fan? What I offered you is a way out; a new way of thinking. And you relished such an opportunity. So why now, at the first instance of drudgery do you want to turn your back on The Chronological Order?”
“Because you are asking me to do exactly what was done to me,” May immediately snaps back. “It brings back too many painful memories. I joined The Chronological Order because I wanted to change. I saw doubt in myself that not even the power of Christ could reconcile within me. You alone convinced me that it was possible and that The Order could provide me with an answer to all my life’s problems. That’s why I chose to listen to you. I have hung on your every word for so long. And for what? To stalk a man? To convince him to stick by your side? What have you done for me, Horacio? Tell me!”
Horacio exhales forcefully through his nostrils. It seemed that no matter how good his intentions, he had been met by nothing by opposition and sprouting defiance. Though his methods were somewhat unconventional to say the least, he had devoted all of his effort and, more importantly, all of his time into rebuilding The Chronological Order from the ground up.
‘Rebuilding’ being the optimal word as evident by his glance towards the lowered photo frame that he’d held in his hands moment prior. He places his hand on it, wrapping his fingers around one corner to lift it ever so slightly.
Then, he freezes.
Within seconds, he lowers the picture back down up reconsidering. May seems curious by such a reaction.
“If there is anybody on this earth who knows about reliving painful memories, look no further than I,” Horacio says, trailing off into a mumble at the end. All the while, he stares at the back of the photo frame as if he is unable to take his eyes off of it. With clenched eyes and a jerk of his head, he is finally able to tear himself away. “I won’t divulge you with the details, but believe me when I say that I have sacrificed everything that I knew, everything that I ever loved in order to fulfil the destiny of somebody else.” May slowly lifts her head, looking at Horacio. “Harley tried to make a similar accusation not so long ago; how I’ve never experienced tragedy. Believe me, there are more untold truths in my life than lies.” He pauses for breath. His voice had become restless, almost erratic. A deep breath and a moment’s solace is enough for a calmer demeanour to return. “You were the one seeking a new life,” Horacio says softly, eager to get his point across without sounding aggressive or abrasive. “That is what I gave to you. I gave you a new purpose for being; a whole new identity. One that you could start your existence anew without your past catching up to you. I have every belief that you will do me proud, May…” he pauses momentarily. “Or should I return to calling you Dolores?” Horacio’s smirk grows even wider upon saying her truthful name.
“Don’t you dare call me that!” May, or Dolores, responds with venom. Horacio simply chuckles to himself, all of the angst in his voice moments ago has been banished completely.
“It is surprising how similar the two of you are; you and Dominic,” he gurns. “Both of you have lost somebody close to you, albeit through different circumstances. You are still capable of chasing after the person who abandoned you, but Dominic cannot chase Amy into whatever life that exists beyond death. Instead, you fight through your transgressions. Dominic’s is far more literal; fighting to become stronger physically. Your battle, I feel, is in more of a mental capacity than even Dominic‘s.”
“Was this your plan all along?” Dolores frowns, “to have me masquerade as Amy’s twin sister?”
“You told me you were tired of the lies,” Horacio shrugs his shoulders opposingly. “You wanted the truth? That is precisely what I have given to you. You’re simply too engrossed in your own sense of self-righteousness to accept it as such. Whose benefit are you doing this for, after all? If it isn’t Dominic’s, then it certainly isn’t mine.”
“Don’t you have a conscience?” Dolores stamps her foot against the floor. “This is not the inner workings to yield expansion and recognition for The Chronological Order as a whole. This is the manipulation of one man for your own selfish gains.” To have been insulted by such accusations is an understatement. Indeed, Horacio’s face has curled to such an extent that Dolores’ words are symbols of betrayal. Horacio turns slowly and methodically in her direction, taking a couple of slow strides towards her. Hesitantly, she plants one foot behind her, acting as a brace.
“Everything about May Trenton is a lie that you are currently living.” Horacio scorns. “Until you are ready to accept who you really are, Dolores Aurelian, then I can help you no further.”
“You’ve ruined my life!” she shrieks, red-faced.
“Your life was already ruined,” Horacio callously retorts. “Don’t tell me that this resurgence of guilt is going to cost you the one that I‘ve crafted for you.”
Dolores, or May, or whoever the hell this woman is, cannot hide the eruption of volcanic emotion any longer. Tears streak down her face from both her eyes in torrents. In a comforting manner, an action wildly contradictory to the tone of his voice, he outstretches his arms as if to welcome an embrace. She looks at the rippled figure of Horacio through her crying eyes. She accepts this gesture, wrapping her arms around Horacio. He rubs her back soothingly in an attempt to calm her down as she sobs.
As if moving independently, betraying her free will, Dolores’ fingers slowly coil around Horacio’s, pressing them close into her cheek. Placing her vacant hand onto Horacio’s pectoral, Dolores butts her head softly into Horacio’s shoulder, nestling her scalp beneath Horacio’s chin. Her eyes gaze into a distance that lies far beyond the four walls of the study.
He lowers his head and, in a compulsive display of unfathomable compassion, places his lips delicately against her scalp. He does not pucker them, nor does he move from the one spot on which they land. His eyes furrow, as if to wonder why he might have even opted to perform such an unusual act. Even Dolores seems surprised, breaking the pseudo-kiss to regain her focus, this time looking directly into the windows to Horacio’s soul; his bright, blue eyes.
In that moment of misplaced euphoria, Dolores pulls gently at the back of each Horacio’s head to bring her lips to meet Horacio’s. Despite maintaining a rigid and unmoving stance, Horacio slowly closes his eyes to accept the gesture’s magnetism born from a combination of comparable woes and impulsive lust.
So lost are they in their kiss, the ensuing bedlam of a dozen clocks signalling the arrival of a brand new hour does not deter them.
TO BE CONTINUED
Location; Residence of Horacio Mortimer, Totton, Southampton, Hampshire, England, United Kingdom
A large bay window bulges out of the side of the house, giving an uninhibited view of Horacio’s back garden; a lawn currently awash with a thick sheet of pure white. The crystallisation is tarnished only by the minimally visible footprints of small birds that had landed in order to forage for food beneath the snow, along with a few pieces of debris carried by the wind; leaves, twigs and even the odd feather. The perimeter of the garden is barricaded by a hedge that towers at a height where no man might be able to look within, not even someone with a frame similar or even slightly higher than that of Dominator himself. Indeed, the hedge provides both beauty and security.
What little space on the wall that is unencumbered by parallel rows of bookshelves is instead placed by a countless number of clocks all ranging in different shapes, sizes and styles; from analog to digital, from standard to novelty, from grandfather to cuckoo. Each are configured perfectly to tell the time in perfect unison, not one of them even a fraction of a second slower or faster than another. The room must be nigh upon deafening upon the strike of the hour. The cacophony of sound must be traumatically capable of waking the dead.
A desk comprised of thick, polished mahogany takes up a large portion of the floor-space, accompanied by an office chair composed of the same wooden material whilst furnished with a layer of red leather over a cushioned seat and back rest. The top of the desk is a seemingly endless array of paperwork and articles that range from photographs to personal documents and even items of clothing. Female clothing, at that. Horacio Mortimer is sifting through each and every item individually, classifying different objects by placing them into an array of boxes at one side of the desk.
Horacio briefly pauses. One particular photograph catches his eye.
Unlike the others, this one is framed. It is propped up by a stand integrated into the back of the decorative surround, as if it one from Horacio’s own personal collection. He slowly lifts the frame, looking longingly into it and lets out a long, almost exhausted sigh. So lost does he become by looking at such a mimetic memory that he uncharacteristically misplaces the realisation of the passage of time itself. What feels like seconds are, in fact, minutes. His lips twitch, as if mouthing some form of prayer or statement towards the photograph, perhaps hoping that whatever… or whoever is shown in the photograph might somehow be able to hear him.
The only reason he removes his spectacles is to wipe away an invasive tear before it can form.
His moment of solemnity is shattered by five rapid yet gentle knocks on the study’s door. Uninvited, the door slowly opens regardless. Horacio immediately places the photograph back on the desk, face down, so that he nor anybody else might become encapsulated by it. He positions himself so that his back is turned towards the entrant; the familiar hooded black cloak of May Trenton. He begins to forage frenziedly through the assortment of paraphernalia atop the desk, inadvertently focusing on the items of clothing in particular.
May tilts her head, perhaps a little perturbed by witnessing an act that borderlines depravity. Horacio only glimpses away from his task for a moment to confirm the intruder’s identity at the precise moment that she removes her hood to reveal strands of auburn hair. Confirmation fulfilled, Horacio returns his focus to the matter at hand, continuing with his endless categorisation.
“The fruits of Harley’s endeavours,” Horacio proclaims with one final sniff before any questions can be asked, as if to justify himself. “I must admit, he has exceeded expectations. Where I originally conceived in my mind that he would only muster a few irrelevant pieces of worthless material, he has truly outdone himself with this haul.” May takes a few steps deeper into the study, looking at the exenterated piles and boxes with equal incredulousness. Horacio wipes his brow with the back of his hand. The subtle meaning of this is not to display the toils of his task, but rather to check the temperature of his skin as to not give away his moment of grief.
“Is this not a little… counter-intuitive?” May says with a puckered brow. “You could have had Harley dispose of all of this on his own, rather than take the time out of your own day to sort through all of this.”
“Given Harley’s recent questionability, I would prefer to oversee this matter more personally,” He replies, still refusing to make eye contact. “Besides, you need not concern yourself with the assignments of the other Watchmen when you yourself have your own obligations to adhere to. So, what fruit have you brought for me?”
Silence befalls the study instantaneously, aside from the shuffling of material against cardboard. Listening out for some form of response, Horacio places no more than five more objects into their respective containers before slowly twisting his neck to one side to look at the macabre manifestation that forms on May’s unveiled face.
“I’m still a little uncertain as to what you initially intended for me to do,” May eventually confesses, prompted only by the single footstep forward that Horacio makes. “I know you wanted me to provide Dominic with a sense of closure, as to rid himself of the burden he carries over Amy’s death, but the question is; how exactly?” She takes a step towards a mirror that has managed to claim the smallest piece of wall-space amidst the countless clocks. Her reflection shares her confused expression, gazing at one another’s facial features, hair and overall appearance. “Resemblances aside, I have nothing in common with Amy. She was a devout Christian, a loving Mother and a shining light in his blackened heart. If I can see that, then Dominic will surely be able to see through this façade.”
Horacio pauses, ceasing the arrangement of memorabilia in order to evaluate May’s stance. With a smile, he reaches under the desk and produces two tall wine glasses alongside a bottle of Cava. He unravels the foil seal, wraps his fingers around the bulging cork and gently begins to prise it free using small twisting motions. With a loud pop filling the room, the carbonated gases burst free, yet no alcohol is spilt. He methodically pours the sparkling wine into the two glasses before returning the bottle from whence it came. Pinching the thin glass stems, he walks around the desk and towards May’s vicinity, offering her one of the glasses.
Begrudgingly, yet submissively, May accepts the glass and the two sip the glasses simultaneously.
“No, you are not the woman that Dominic loved,” Horacio says after smacking his lips, savouring the tingling sensation on his tongue, “what you are though is an integral part of Dominic’s recovery.”
“But there is so much more to it than convincing him that I share Amy’s blood,” May sighs, agitation and anxiety forming amidst her words. “He is bound to start asking questions. What if he goes to Marx? Or Amy’s parents?”
“Hush now,” Horacio silences her reassuringly, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Do not concern yourself with such insignificant hypotheticals. As far as the matter of Amy’s parents go, I invested some of my own resources towards relocating them somewhere far away; somewhere where Dominic will not simply just be able to ’bump into them’ or indeed make any form of contact. Consider it a bereavement gift on behalf of The Chronological Order. And as for Marx, well, he is currently on a mission to make contact with Hangtown alongside Matthew. He is practically off the grid, such is the way of a Watchman. Of course, they might be searching for a while,” Mortimer snickers under his breath. “Hangtown isn’t defined by a pinpoint on a map. Not just anybody can make their way there. You of all people should know that.”
May lowers her head. Indeed, she had attempted to follow Dominic on one of his most recent ventures to Hangtown, but ended up losing him in the wilderness. She recalls that sense of hopelessness, wandering aimlessly amidst the fog, disorientated with no trail of breadcrumbs of which to speak of in order to follow back towards civilisation.
And it is upon that realisation that she lets out a loud gasp.
“So that’s why you sent Marx off to Hangtown,” May exclaims. “You knew that he wouldn’t be able to find it. You just needed to keep him out of Dominic’s way.”
“I had advised them both against seeking out Hangtown,” comes the rebuttal from Horacio, “instead, I suggested that they should attempt to make contact with one of the town’s residents; perhaps Ruth or Phinehas. Whether or not they’ve sent themselves on a wild goose chase, I still maintain faith that the two shall succeed in their mission.” Newfound disgust slowly begins to creep across May’s face.
“Even if Dominic is unable to interrogate Marx or Amy’s parents, he is certainly asking me a lot of questions.” May states with concern before taking a moment to recollect her thoughts. Never had she envisioned that what little time she had shared with The Zenith would be so harrowing before setting out to complete her task. Squinting her eyes to diffuse her own sorrow, she slowly lowers her head. “He’s… not a good person, Horacio,” she says somewhat out of the blue, sparking an immediate interest in the Order’s founder. “Whatever anguish he is hiding is nigh upon consuming him whole. His heart is so cold that I could literally feel it in the air around him.”
“Are you sure that wasn’t just the winter weather?” Horacio smirks with sarcasm.
“You say that my instructions were to rid him of his burdens,” May reiterates, “but the one thing that he has confided in me is that, above everything else that has happened to him, he hates, hates, HATES the constant deception being thrown at him. For him to say that to my face, whilst I myself recited a fabricated backstory to him, makes me nothing short of a hypocrite, just like…” she begins to stammer. “Just l-like…”
“The man who broke your heart?” Horacio completes her sentence. With that, the old sores left from such a tragedy in May’s own past have been opened once more. She huddles herself away from Horacio, consuming what remains in her champagne flute in one swift, almost painful gulp before placing it on what space she can find on one of the bookshelves. Insulted by such an act, Horacio sidles past May with a glare, removing the tall glass and walking back across the study. placing it back in it’s rightful home.
“What about my own burdens?” May splutters. “How am I suppose to help Dominic when I am unable to even help myself?” She has become flustered, her face turning the same shade of scarlet exhibited by Horacio during his own moment of veiled sorrow. His own skin has now paled, perhaps fatigued by May’s outcry. “Do you know how difficult it is? To constantly lie to someone’s face?” she asks. Her voice is not so much full of genuine frustration as it is of loathing and self pity. So sudden is this change that Horacio quickly finishes his glass of Cava and places it delicately back on the desk as so that it avoids the looming threat of confrontation. “I know exactly what it is like,” emotions rises in her voice, “so why must I act towards Dominic in the way that has brought me to my knees so many times before?”
Horacio simply lets out an unpitying smile.
“Is that not why you came to me?” he says, immediately silences her. “It was merely circumstantial that our paths happened to cross. And yet, you bestowed your trust onto me, a relative stranger, and requested that I change your life for the better. I understood your plight. I still do. Who wouldn’t want to make changes to their unfulfilled lives when the proverbial human excrement hits the fan? What I offered you is a way out; a new way of thinking. And you relished such an opportunity. So why now, at the first instance of drudgery do you want to turn your back on The Chronological Order?”
“Because you are asking me to do exactly what was done to me,” May immediately snaps back. “It brings back too many painful memories. I joined The Chronological Order because I wanted to change. I saw doubt in myself that not even the power of Christ could reconcile within me. You alone convinced me that it was possible and that The Order could provide me with an answer to all my life’s problems. That’s why I chose to listen to you. I have hung on your every word for so long. And for what? To stalk a man? To convince him to stick by your side? What have you done for me, Horacio? Tell me!”
Horacio exhales forcefully through his nostrils. It seemed that no matter how good his intentions, he had been met by nothing by opposition and sprouting defiance. Though his methods were somewhat unconventional to say the least, he had devoted all of his effort and, more importantly, all of his time into rebuilding The Chronological Order from the ground up.
‘Rebuilding’ being the optimal word as evident by his glance towards the lowered photo frame that he’d held in his hands moment prior. He places his hand on it, wrapping his fingers around one corner to lift it ever so slightly.
Then, he freezes.
Within seconds, he lowers the picture back down up reconsidering. May seems curious by such a reaction.
“If there is anybody on this earth who knows about reliving painful memories, look no further than I,” Horacio says, trailing off into a mumble at the end. All the while, he stares at the back of the photo frame as if he is unable to take his eyes off of it. With clenched eyes and a jerk of his head, he is finally able to tear himself away. “I won’t divulge you with the details, but believe me when I say that I have sacrificed everything that I knew, everything that I ever loved in order to fulfil the destiny of somebody else.” May slowly lifts her head, looking at Horacio. “Harley tried to make a similar accusation not so long ago; how I’ve never experienced tragedy. Believe me, there are more untold truths in my life than lies.” He pauses for breath. His voice had become restless, almost erratic. A deep breath and a moment’s solace is enough for a calmer demeanour to return. “You were the one seeking a new life,” Horacio says softly, eager to get his point across without sounding aggressive or abrasive. “That is what I gave to you. I gave you a new purpose for being; a whole new identity. One that you could start your existence anew without your past catching up to you. I have every belief that you will do me proud, May…” he pauses momentarily. “Or should I return to calling you Dolores?” Horacio’s smirk grows even wider upon saying her truthful name.
“Don’t you dare call me that!” May, or Dolores, responds with venom. Horacio simply chuckles to himself, all of the angst in his voice moments ago has been banished completely.
“It is surprising how similar the two of you are; you and Dominic,” he gurns. “Both of you have lost somebody close to you, albeit through different circumstances. You are still capable of chasing after the person who abandoned you, but Dominic cannot chase Amy into whatever life that exists beyond death. Instead, you fight through your transgressions. Dominic’s is far more literal; fighting to become stronger physically. Your battle, I feel, is in more of a mental capacity than even Dominic‘s.”
“Was this your plan all along?” Dolores frowns, “to have me masquerade as Amy’s twin sister?”
“You told me you were tired of the lies,” Horacio shrugs his shoulders opposingly. “You wanted the truth? That is precisely what I have given to you. You’re simply too engrossed in your own sense of self-righteousness to accept it as such. Whose benefit are you doing this for, after all? If it isn’t Dominic’s, then it certainly isn’t mine.”
“Don’t you have a conscience?” Dolores stamps her foot against the floor. “This is not the inner workings to yield expansion and recognition for The Chronological Order as a whole. This is the manipulation of one man for your own selfish gains.” To have been insulted by such accusations is an understatement. Indeed, Horacio’s face has curled to such an extent that Dolores’ words are symbols of betrayal. Horacio turns slowly and methodically in her direction, taking a couple of slow strides towards her. Hesitantly, she plants one foot behind her, acting as a brace.
“Everything about May Trenton is a lie that you are currently living.” Horacio scorns. “Until you are ready to accept who you really are, Dolores Aurelian, then I can help you no further.”
“You’ve ruined my life!” she shrieks, red-faced.
“Your life was already ruined,” Horacio callously retorts. “Don’t tell me that this resurgence of guilt is going to cost you the one that I‘ve crafted for you.”
Dolores, or May, or whoever the hell this woman is, cannot hide the eruption of volcanic emotion any longer. Tears streak down her face from both her eyes in torrents. In a comforting manner, an action wildly contradictory to the tone of his voice, he outstretches his arms as if to welcome an embrace. She looks at the rippled figure of Horacio through her crying eyes. She accepts this gesture, wrapping her arms around Horacio. He rubs her back soothingly in an attempt to calm her down as she sobs.
As if moving independently, betraying her free will, Dolores’ fingers slowly coil around Horacio’s, pressing them close into her cheek. Placing her vacant hand onto Horacio’s pectoral, Dolores butts her head softly into Horacio’s shoulder, nestling her scalp beneath Horacio’s chin. Her eyes gaze into a distance that lies far beyond the four walls of the study.
He lowers his head and, in a compulsive display of unfathomable compassion, places his lips delicately against her scalp. He does not pucker them, nor does he move from the one spot on which they land. His eyes furrow, as if to wonder why he might have even opted to perform such an unusual act. Even Dolores seems surprised, breaking the pseudo-kiss to regain her focus, this time looking directly into the windows to Horacio’s soul; his bright, blue eyes.
In that moment of misplaced euphoria, Dolores pulls gently at the back of each Horacio’s head to bring her lips to meet Horacio’s. Despite maintaining a rigid and unmoving stance, Horacio slowly closes his eyes to accept the gesture’s magnetism born from a combination of comparable woes and impulsive lust.
So lost are they in their kiss, the ensuing bedlam of a dozen clocks signalling the arrival of a brand new hour does not deter them.
TO BE CONTINUED
