"From Darkness" is a 19th Century Gothic romance, set primarily in France. It should appeal to those who enjoy novels "The Phantom of the Opera," "The Count of Monte Cristo" and "Wuthering Heights."
Be forewarned: it has strong religious undertones. But I like to think it's more spiritual and sentimental than religious or preachy.
This is my first time posting here. I'm very nervous! I'm normally a screenwriter -- this is actually adapted from a completed screenplay of mine. It's often said that the best screenwriters make the worst novelists... and vice versa.
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PROLOGUE—BEFORE IT ALL
There is a wise book which begins its story with the birth of light. It need not be told; it is an ageless story. It is the eternal battle of good and evil, day and night, life and death. But before this divine separation was created—far before there was good or evil, day or night, life or death—there was a plague of darkness.
And from this darkness came light.
CHAPTER I: A BRIEF MOMENT IN TIME—1864
Dearest Elizabeth,
If this letter has found you, Richard and I have passed on to that better place. I am not fearful, nor unsure, nor pained; I haven’t a doubt in my mind that the light of G-d awaits my coming. War has confirmed my faith in humanity as well as the beyond. Surely, we are, indeed, created in the Son’s good image; I have seen more sacrifice, more bloodshed, than one could ever hope to bear. G-d, himself, didn’t inflict more pain to his own flesh and blood: the Son of all which is holy.
More than one man has died in the shelter and comfort of my arms, a sweet and knowing smile cast upon his lips.
Shed no tears on my behalf; death is a divine relief, and I welcome it with open arms and an open heart. I want no more than to bask in the warmth of Heaven’s light—my greatest happiness is finding peace here, on earth, and solace in the Above. Peace I have found; solace I seek. Like winter’s sting, and the unquenchable heat of summer, my quest here has come and gone with the changing seasons. G-d calls to me, and I humbly answer. At last, beneath the Tree of Knowledge I shall lay. But before my divine departure, I felt the compelling need to give you my thanks and love a final time.
Through your kindness & hospitality Aleksender has come to know you as a mother... G-d rest Miriam's poor soul. Each morning and night, I pray a prayer on your good grace; I thank you for loving my boy when I could not. I thank you for giving the much needed warmth within this cold when I was incapable.
It is those tender memories of us all as one... memories of I, Miriam, you, Jacques, little Aleksender and Rachel... the music of happy laughter that once filled our home and our hearts… which, at the day’s end, carry old Jacques and I through to the next...
I hope I have found you, and have found you well.
In parting from you now, please, give Aleksender my love. Please, give him light within this dark abyss...
And till we meet once more,
R. J. Hawes
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CHAPTER II: LOST TO THE DARKNESS—1878
It was a quiet and remarkably dignified flat, buried within the hustle and bustle of New York’s fine outskirts, somber in both shape and tone. No doubt, the city was at its immaculate height—shamelessly thriving. Its dwellers were rich in both name and status; yet, pitifully poor in heart and soul. The small abode was lost against a wilderness of stone and surrounding civilization, devoured completely by its lively atmosphere; cryptic in form, it held little competition to the elaborate streets of New York. And it took decadent satisfaction and pleasure in its rebellious nature, triumphing within the shadow of its dismal glory. It seemed to know a secret, harbor a certain tranquility, which most are eternally denied. The common devout was inferior to the flat; the flat had no need for the strangling ties of religion.
It had already been saved.
All of New York was thrown into pure awe and wonderment. Not a single person passed by without paying a second glance to the small and lonesome flat. Who would ever wish to live in such a bleak home? And…was it lived in? If so, its inhabitant was dangerously reclusive—neighbors of well over a decade were complete strangers. It was ghost home, indeed—dark and isolated within a cocoon of blackened mystery.
The home was chilling and powerful; a sense of tragedy radiated beyond the walls. Somehow, someway, New York knew its hermit was a prisoner to himself.
And what a tragedy it was! Its simplistic and mundane walls poorly represented the haunting creature which dwelt within. At first glance, the flat’s insides were as plain and ordinary as the outside.
Beyond the walls, blueprints and architectural sketches lined the cherry wood table tops in an organized mess. Oil paintings—which, potentially, might have been masterpieces—were sprawled about and merely half completed. A tall fortress of bookshelves lined two of the four walls; their bountiful shelves overflowed with novels of every genre and bibles of every religion. Most of the books’ pages were faded and tinted a musty yellow—proof of them being read and adored, throughout the decades, over and over again.
“Wuthering Heights” was prominent amongst the collection of literature. It was the most aged and adored of all. The words could not be made out throughout several chapters—severely dissolved into the rusted parchment, eaten away by time. A solitary white rose was tucked into the final chapters.
An exquisite grand piano—a piano, so immense in size and shape, it was likely too grand for the home—sulked in the drawing room’s darkest corner, a long time forgotten. The beautiful instrument was lonely, seemingly forced from its element. Original musical compositions were stacked upon its keys, blanketed by dust; the piano’s one companion. Although, a poor companion they were. Although true works of art—tragically, at this rate, it was apparent these librettos would forever be unheard. Up above—in the attic—dwelt a kingdom of memorabilia, aged photographs, and endless sentimental treasures. Though, the archways were curtained with cobwebs, eight legged widows infesting their silk.
This flat was the home of an uninspired genius.
It was a dark place. Shadows were cast throughout the flat, their rays thick and ominous. The one and only relief to the darkness was fire.
The dying fireplace crackled and sparked, final embers fighting for survival. It battled the shadows, lost to darkness. Shades of red and orange bled across the oak floorboards in long and luminous shafts; they were a devilish red, rather than soothing and translucent… surely fire of Hell.
The light brutally flashed over Aleksender Hawes’ face, mirroring an intense inner fire. And—like these unrelenting flames—Aleksender’s fire was destined to soon burn out.
Aleksender Hawes—age twenty-eight, going on fifty—remained still and unmoving, glaring into his chirping fireplace, posture far from natural. He sat upright in a motionless rocking chair, posture straight as an arrow. The fireplace seemed to mock him, chanting its incoherent and unholy curses. Yes: The flames spoke to him; its voice was low and ominous—as unmoving as Hell. Aleksender’s right hand fondly cradled his shallow glass of brandy. He outlined the glasses’ rim in a slow and tedious motion, not betraying his cryptic façade.
He sighed deeply. Aleksender fished a hand into his pocket, withdrawing a golden pocket watch. Roman numeral digits read shortly after midnight. He returned the watch to his suit, exhaling a shallow sigh, coming to his feet.
His height was intimidating, merely adding to his dark attraction. And Aleksender was darkness, itself; his very presence was all-powerful and all-consuming. Bottomless eyes bore into the soul. Raven hair fanned across them, sweeping over his forehead. Erratic hairpieces served as a sheer curtain—blanketing the windows of his soul; and if eyes are, in fact, windows to one’s soul, Aleksender’s soul was very dark, indeed. All of his movements were suave, composed and handsome—yet, bearing far from the pure of heart’ gentlemen’s grace. His voice was almost soothing and musical, rhythmic in its lullaby-tone.
It was a pity: Aleksender hadn't spoken for years.
Aleksender possessed the ability to sway even the most prudent of ladies’ affections. He could shamelessly inflict the kind of infatuation… the kind of dangerous and pretentious love which a maiden classically falls victim to, time and time again, all in spite of herself.
Yes; Aleksender could sway a young maiden like a snake charmer seduces his serpent. And, like the snake, venom swam through his veins.
But most interesting and notable of all was Aleksender Hawes’ attire. A formal, double-breasted suit hugged his body, doing perfect justice to its masculine form. A cravat was tightly fastened around his neck like a Punjab lasso, nearly strangling him. Polished and presentable boots were set wildly ablaze beneath the fireplace’s lapping tongue. Equally glossed hair was combed neatly back.
It was all rather morbid; why was this dangerous gentleman so finely dressed? Clearly, he was quite alone and quite isolated. Clearly, he hadn’t had a house guest for months—perhaps, years. Clearly, Aleksender was uninspired intellectually… socially… in almost all ways. His home was dry as the night is long!—and, so, why the need for keeping such a regal appearance? What was possibly his motive? Why not let himself go… surrender to whichever inner demons were battling for the possession of his soul… completely?
Who was Aleksender Hawes, and what was his tragic love story? Surely, like any memorable love story worthy of telling, his was a tale of star-crossed love.
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Thank you so much for your time!
