“Sleep?” You laughed a little at that and turned to face me. Your hands went to my cheeks, stroking them lovingly, and you stared up in my eyes. “To sleep, perchance to dream. For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.”
In that moment, I loved you, and you loved me. I heard you say those words, and I thought you meant death as in our lives, since we are truly the undead. You smiled as you said it, and I thought surely you must mean that we had been sleeping in this death until we met each other. Every moment we spent together had been a dream come true.
I thought you had misquoted Shakespeare as a declaration of love. But now I wonder… were you ever truly happy, my love? Did you mean the soliloquy by its true intention? Even on our honeymoon, had the melancholy taken hold, so that you were thinking of suicide even as I held you in my arms?
Or am I thinking on this too much? Elise, my true, return to me quickly, and tell me what dreams may come for us.
Yours, forever and always, in this life and the next –
Peter
June 15, 1863
Peter-
By now you must know that something has happened, and that’s why I’m writing to you instead of Elise. I’ve gotten all your letters, and I’ve read them all, even though most of them were addressed to Elise and not Catherine.
I pray you haven’t gotten on a ship to return back here, the way you said you would in the last letter. Not hearing from Elise on your anniversary had to be a shock, and I am certain she would’ve written to you had she been able.
I should’ve written to you months ago, and I know that. I just didn’t have the words to say to you, and I was in mourning myself. You had Elise for eleven years, but I’ve had her for fifteen.
Peter, I love you as much as I loved my own brothers. There isn’t a person on this earth I cared for more than you, other than Elise. That is why it is with such despair that I have to tell you this, and in such an impersonal way. This is not how I meant for you to find out, but I have no other means to tell you.
Peter… Elise is dead.
I’m not sure if you’ll keep reading this after that, if you’ll even be able to. But I feel I should tell you how it happened, in case you have the strength to read on.
As you know, she was trying to close up the farm and sell it so she could meet you in America. We talked some of me keeping the land, but the townsfolk had become far too suspicious of us both, so I began visiting villages farther north.
Elise went with me. She felt bad about leaving me behind, and no matter how I tried to ease her guilt, she insisted on helping me getting settled into somewhere new.
I know now I shouldn’t have let her come with me. I beg your forgiveness, knowing I will never receive it, nor do I deserve it. I didn’t think anything would come of it.
We stopped at a pub in a village far up the road. We didn’t know that it was already overrun with vampyres, not until it was much too late. They’d claimed the town as their own, and thought we were trying to take over their territories.
Elise and I tried to leave. She kept telling them she didn’t want their land. She even offered them hers. A vampyre grabbed her arm, meaning to throw her out of town himself, and dear Hamlet saw the brute put his hands on Elise, so the dog rushed in to save her.
The vampyre reacted, lashing out the dog, and Elise wouldn’t stand for that. She would never let anything happen to Hamlet. I swear she loved that dog more than me.
I tried to help. I tried to save her. Truly, I did, Peter, and they nearly killed me too. Somehow, Hamlet and I escaped with our lives, but just barely.
Elise…
I’m not sure how much I should tell you. How much you’d want to know.
She fought valiantly, Peter. You would be so proud of her bravery. She fought with a purpose I didn’t even know she had.
But it was one move. A farmer’s pitchfork propped up against a stable that did her in. I pulled it from her chest, and I threw her onto her horse. I raced us out of town as fast as I could, thinking if I got her home, I could do something. I could save her.
Now I know that she was gone as soon as that fork pierced her heart. I tried to do everything I could for her. Anything I could think of, no matter how insane sounding, I had to try. But nothing would bring her back.
I buried her out in the garden behind the house. I know that’s where she’d want to stay. Hamlet has hardly left her grave. He whimpers every night for her, but she never wakes up.
Oh, Peter, I am so sorry. I can’t even begin to express how terribly feel. You left me in charge of your wife. The last thing you said to me was to take care of her, and I have failed you in the worst possible manner.
It’s this shame that has prevented me from writing for so long. Elise died on the twenty-seventh of March, and I’ve been unable to bring myself to tell you. I started writing a thousand letters, but they all came out wrong.
She loved you, Peter. Elise truly loved you. A darkness had settled over her these last few years, but that wasn’t because of you. She hated herself for feeling any sadness when she had you, and she was grateful for every moment with you.
Elise wasn’t meant for immortality. Eternity had never set well with her, and the longer she lived, the more it seemed to eat away at her.
That is the one blessing in all of this. Elise never wanted to do anything to hurt you. She never wanted to leave you. But I think she might find some solace in death that she was unable to find in life.
I hope the opposite is true for you. I hope that you can find some happiness in life, even without Elise. May her love comfort you in the years you have ahead of you. Her heart is always with you, of that I am certain.
With my deepest sympathies-
Catherine
November 12, 1863
My Elise, my love, my true, my only.
I’m not even sure why I’m writing this. It’s not that I believe that you can get letters in heaven. I’ve been unable to stop talking to you, even though I know that you’re no longer there. I spent so long telling you all my thoughts and hopes and fears, and a little thing like death won’t stand in my way.
Catherine sent me a letter, telling me what happened, and I didn’t even read it through. As soon as I opened it, I knew something was the matter. My hands trembled so badly, I could scarcely read it. When I saw the words Elise is dead, the world fell away from me. Everything went black.
Then I heard screaming. This horrible, tortured yelling so loud it hurt my ears. It took me a moment to realize that it was coming from me.
My vision blurred so badly from the tears, I couldn’t see anything at all. I knelt on the floor, my hands clutching my sides, and I’m not sure how long I stayed that way. I might still be that way if not for Ezra.
“Peter, it’s alright,” Ezra said, and he wrapped his arms around me.
I fought him, though I’m not sure why. I hit and kicked at him, but he wouldn’t let me go. He held me tightly to him, without saying a word, until my wailing and fighting had stopped.
Eventually, after a great while, my body simply gave up. I lay limply against him, unable to move or think or cry. A numbness had settled over my body and my brain, and for that I was grateful, but I wished it had reached my heart.
My heart had been torn to shreds. Nothing even compared to the pain I felt, to the pain I still feel. It’s a gaping wound inside my soul, a horrible burning torture that never ceases.