Sealed in Crimson
A sister in love is a sister in debt
![](https://res.cloudinary.com/jerrick/image/upload/d_642250b563292b35f27461a7.png,f_jpg,fl_progressive,q_auto,w_1024/61c037c95ca14a001ef70ec0.jpg)
If there were any time to admit that the smell of ink and fresh parchment did not thrill me, it would be at this moment. Watching her scratch at that blank page, insisting on tapping the pen back into the glass pot with a shrill clink every odd minute.
I was too far to see, but I knew she was writing to that incessant sister of hers. And she would ask me to deliver it, as always. To her prestigious house of pillars and vanity I would sully toward atop the poor dapple gray that could barely keep its eyes open. To be greeted with a pitied look that I wasn’t sure was for me or the horse. Invited in and shown the latest waste in the name of lavishness, and a portrait for every year the anniversary of the grand arrival of the veridian deity from the 10th circle of Hell came upon us.
It wasn’t anything she said outwardly, she was well brought up, at least enough to know how to play the part of a polite and normal member of society. But it was the way her eyes narrowed when she thought no one was looking. The sideways glances filled with spite and triviality. The way her hands would recoil to her skirt when she received an answer that displeased her. She had an unshakeable air of jadedness that hung over everyone in her vicinity and seemed to stifle anyone unfortunate enough to be near. A proverbial sweat of shame and guilt commonly washed over the more susceptible. Nothing was good enough for her, no one could prove otherwise. She filled her home with trinkets and grand statues in attempts to assign herself meaning and value. But she hated them. I almost had the sneaking suspicion that these decorations were covered up or tucked away when visitors had gone, so that she wouldn’t have to see them.
I never read the contents of any of the letters, but I knew they were unkind. Not to the sister I lived with, but to myself. I had to be the one to deliver them so that suspicion wouldn’t be aroused. She would come and greet me as if I were a long lost friend and bring me in with talks of refreshments since she knew the journey was long. Any time I spoke, she would make small corrections. All that was missing in that house was a blackboard and ruler. I was taken back to my youth. Nothing more than a petulant child content with wasting my days away calling on those that didn’t care for my existence and weaving stories from the shapes in the clouds.
Today she offered me currant wine from her cellar as an excuse to tell me I looked tired without having to say as much. It irked me immensely watching her try and hide her backhanded remarks. The conversation we held was dull, as always. Every question about my life was accompanied by three facts about herself, the majority which I had heard before.It was almost as if every time I came over, she forgot we’d ever talked. She only had about five stories which she would rotate through, embellishing here and there, or mixing details up between them.
In truth, I was slightly worried that her sister would become part of this web of vanity, one day morphing into a twin head for the hydra that seemed to wrap itself over every aspect of my waking life in one way or another. I had a knotting feeling in my gut that she already was, in some capacity. She seemed to get more and more aloof as the time and the letters went on. I was almost afraid of her. That warmness she intrinsically had for years seemed more dull, more impersonal. I racked my brain for a solution but one would never come. For now I was watching myself vigilantly to note any changes in my demeanor that may have prompted it. That must have been it, right?
My thoughts were shattered by the silver tongue clearing her throat and pulling an envelope from her absurdly ornate coat pocket. This was an indicator that our visit had come to an end. Now would begin the next stage of the never ending cycle; she’d give me the letter, sealed with thick monogrammed crimson wax and send me on my way where the half dead horse and I would make our way back to that small house that dared only have one room.
I took the letter, bowed, and went on my way. The steed was still with its eyes half closed. Every day I found myself sympathizing with this creature more and more. He made nary a complaint on the way back as the roads became gradually more uneven and the people upon the streets more disheveled. I wish I could say the same. That gnawing from earlier grew into horrid gnashing in my insides until the path ahead of me blurred into a haze of anger and confusion. I pulled the horse aside in a field in a vain attempt to pull aside my own thoughts. My hand gained its own sentience and ripped the letter from my own pocket to thrust it up to my face.
I had never once read any of the letters shared between my love and her sister. I had never seen a reason to betray either of their private discourse. All my mind could relay to me in that moment was that cold, grim feeling. Without another hesitant thought I coaxed the wax from the paper underneath and freed the parchment within.
In my haste all I could do was scour the thing for any words that might catch my eye.
As always, I hope this letter finds you well. I have to thank you for your generosity and understanding during this ordeal. I know it is not in your nature to be unsociable toward anyone, much less someone you have spent so long in love with.
In the times I have seen him, it is clear to me that my aloof nature has been difficult for him to respond politely too. Of course you know that it is not my intention to do so. I fear when the time comes I may not be able to tell him how I truly feel.
Your guidance in this matter has been most enlightening. I only hope I can learn to adapt it into my own life and have the courage to tell him that I love him….that I have always loved him.
Please know that whatever happens, I will be there to help you as you have so graciously helped me.
Be well.
About the Creator
Syd Static
I like to write, play games, and make music. I wonder why I didn’t realize I was an art major sooner.
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed. You could also pledge your support or give them a one-off tip, letting them know you appreciate their work.
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.