Chapter 1: Peter Cupelli, 1753
Tragedy Befalls Hollow Bay: Artist Jane Windsor Perishes
'Tis with heavy hearts that we report the untimely demise of the young and promising artist, Miss Jane Windsor. On Sunday evening, the tempestuous storms that ravaged our coast claimed her life, a grievous loss to her family and the entire community. Her exquisite works, which grace the walls of the Cupelli Gallery, now stand as a poignant memorial to her talent and spirit. A somber gathering to mark this sad occasion will be held at the Cupelli Gallery this Friday at sundown. All are welcome to join Miss Windsor's family in offering comfort and paying their respects.
Jane Windsor
July 22nd, 1728 - April 15th, 1750
She was everywhere.
In the paintings that hung on the walls. In the ocean beyond the cliffs. She was in the worn reading chair she'd been so fond of. Too, was she in the bitter spring air that tore through the trees.
She was in every breath he breathed.
Peter had carried the pain of his loss like a coffin on his shoulder. For three years, it had dug its merciless claws into him, finding him at all hours of the night and early in the morning. Much like currently, as sleep escaped him, he sat on the edge of his bed. It seemed peace would elude him once more.
His eyes fell onto the hardwood floor beneath his feet. His feet... they felt like that of a stranger's. Every movement he made, he felt he watched from the outside. As though his body weren't his own anymore. Peter was tired.
He was worn, stretched thin, and brushed aside by his family.
The house creaked around him. Each bellow of wind seemed to call out her name.
Jane... the reason for his torment. Why had life turned out this way? How had this love of his died so in vain, in secrecy? He wished she'd taken him with her when she'd gone.
Wind ripped through the home again, threatening to tear it to the ground, rattling every tall window and brick. It was much like that night, Peter thought. It was a storm which had torn shingles from roofs, trees from their roots, and flooded the nearby towns, save for Cupelli Estate on Hollow Cliff.
Lightning flashed across the walls of Peter's bedroom. He remembered that night so clearly; the night that had taken everything from him. The skies had turned a deep shade of purple-black. They'd tried to find Jane for hours before the storm hit, knowing that she'd gone out to paint that afternoon. However, unable to find her or any of her painting supplies, they'd been forced to retire home and wait out the storm. All they could do was hope that Jane had found shelter somewhere.
First, they'd found a canvas washed up on a rock near the shore; one painting having been started by Jane, but never finished. Jane herself would follow in the days to come, an outcome most feared by her parents and the Cupellis, her face swollen past recognition. They'd paced themselves sick over the course of her absence, and their fears had come to fruition. Those first few months after losing Jane had been so agonizing that Peter had done his best to forget about them. At such, he was a failure as well.
But there were a few things that he could not forget. It was the wailing he could make out from his sister, Mariana's, room at night; a suffering that ventured out from the depths of her soul.
The ache in Peter's entire body was so intense, all he could do was sleep for months. And when he awoke, he could feel it in his ears, his toes, and every other part it could reach.
There, also, was how silent the house had been for that period of time. It seemed no one talked to anyone anymore. The silence she'd left in her passing was so palpable.
Jane.
Peter thought yet again. It seemed she was the only place his thoughts could ever wander. How had he become so cursed?
With Jane gone, Peter lost his enthusiasm for life, as well as his inspiration to paint. It was something his father never understood and had never been fond of, as he worried for the future of Cupelli Gallery. His father hadn't taken too kindly to Peter, his most productive prodigy, "renouncing his talents", or so it had been declared by him.
On the bed, Peter buried his face in his hands, feeling as dejected as the day Jane had died. His mind overrun by her, he looked out to Hollow Cliff, as he had done that same night; out to chaos-but to him, it seemed so serene. For a moment, he wished he'd gone the same way, on the same night.
He would never get any closer to it than tonight's storm.
Peter turned his eye to the door. For the first time since she'd been buried, Peter felt the longing to visit Jane's gravesite. He hadn't been able to face up to it, as though if he ignored it enough, he would forget about it. As though the stone would crumble and be swallowed whole into the ground.
It had only done him worse.
Without thinking much more, Peter got from his bed and slid into a pair of shoes and a jacket, and slipped out the front door without so much as a peep. Outside, mother nature was furious. The rain could've left welts and the skies howled. The early spring air nipped Peter's cheeks bright red as it resisted him. Frigid like every spring had been since Jane's death.
Perhaps nature sensed her absence, as well.
Nothing about the weather deterred Peter on his way to the old graveyard. The wind whipped him around and the downpour soaked him to the bone within minutes. Fallen branches already littered the streets nearest the forest edge. Regardless, in the black of night, unable to see more than ten feet in front of him, Peter made it to the graveyard.
Jane's grave, on the farthest end of the cemetery, called like a beacon, tall and menacing.
Peter stumbled through the rows of graves of old aristocrats and children that had passed of scarlet fever, slipping on the grass, sloshing through puddles of mud.
He stood before the grave that called him, that had haunted him nearly every day of his adult life. Looming over him, Jane's name etched into the stone, he fell to his knees, feeling the full weight of this loss.
Why hadn't he ever told her how enamored he was with her? Why had he allowed her to slip from his grasp? Why, by God, could he simply never be brave?
Taking a deep breath, Peter came to and noticed a flower growing from the base of Jane's tombstone. It was a dark red, close to black.
A black dahlia.
Peter recognized. It was a flower that didn't grow around here, and certainly not at this time of year. He plucked it from its spot, twirling it between his fingers. This delicate flower had survived through storms and frost. It had persevered through thick and thin, determined to have life.
Yet, here Peter was, ready to give his own willingly. He felt undeserving of this pathetic life he led. Stuck in place, rooted to the past, unable to find solace.
He was ready.
Ready to leave it all behind.
The black dahlia still in his hand, Peter stood and began his trek back to Hollow Cliff, where he resolved to jump. The flower reminded him so greatly of Jane that he couldn't bear to part with even that. This one last piece of her would follow him to a watery grave.
The storm only seemed to pick up from there, the sky lighting up every few steps he took. He dared it to strike him down, cut his expedition short. Unluckily, he would make the walk unscathed.
Peter wandered up the incline of Hollow Hill, water squishing between his toes, his fingertips wrinkled. For one last time, he peered back to the house. His parents and siblings asleep inside would never even know. Knowing that this would hurt them, but that it would hurt him more to continue in this state, Peter wished his family would have peaceful slumbers, that they would dream happy dreams. He hoped they would have this one last peaceful night to themselves before they found him missing in the morning.
Before searches and chaos could ensue.
Before they could blame themselves for his death.
Just one more blissfully unaware moment.
Peter reached the drop-off at the top of the cliff at last, swiping tendrils of hair out of his face. Once more, he crumpled to the ground. The more he hated himself for this, for being so weak.
Dangling his legs over the side of the cliff, Peter glanced below. In the distance, lighting struck over the sea, illuminating the drop and the angry waves, ending in a thunder clap. The water was high, and it was as black as the night's sky.
Remembering that he still had the dahlia with him, Peter brought it in front of him, spinning it in his fingers yet again. It had wilted and lost a few petals in the journey. Peter balled his fist and closed his eyes as a sweep of pain rolled over him. Even the flower, no matter how resilient, couldn't survive once plucked from its source of enrichment.
Peter was no different.
He released the flower from his grasp to fall into the sea. It fluttered out of sight and was gone to the black of the water.
Peter took a deep breath and tried to still his thoughts. The silence was deafening, despite the roar of the weather around him. He felt more alone than he ever had before.
Leaning over the edge to examine the drop, he felt his skin prick, but not from the chill against the shirt stuck to his back. That feeling of being watched could not be mistaken for anything else. Turning back towards the estate, he saw no one. He heard no one. He glanced up at all the windows, searching for a face and finding none.
He squinted out beyond him, into the woods. Yet, not a soul was to be found. Feeling rather foolish, Peter turned back out to face the sea, and his certain grave. Just as a shove from behind sent him over the side of the cliff.
Right over Hollow Cliff, and gone.
...
All Peter could see when he opened his eyes was that it was still night out.
How long had it been? It seemed the sea had swallowed and spat him back out right on time. He wished the sea had taken him. However, Peter found himself, instead, choking on sand and coughing up water. The water rolled in over him in a tide, receding as he got on his hands and knees and began to climb closer to the shore.
Peter coughed once more, his vision clearing as he could make out stars in the distance, which were fading into a morning sky. The black of night had transitioned into a deep blue with the passing of the storm.
Somehow, Peter felt strange. As though something had changed. What, though? He had almost died, for one. But was that it?
Was I pushed?
He wondered, remembering a fall, not a jump.
No.
Peter resounded. He'd been alone in the middle of a storm with no lantern. He'd slipped, he told himself. That was all.
Peter took his eyes off the horizon and turned to the present, where he was soaking wet and frozen to the bone. He pushed his hair out of his face and got to his feet, his joints stiff.
That was when he noticed it.
Further back on the shore from where Peter had come, the water jumped up in a spray as it hit something pale. He froze, trying to see from where he stood.
And from every angle that he looked, he could not deny that it was a person. A body.
Peter fell chill inside. Adrenaline hit and he unstuck his feet from the ground, unable to feel how frigid the water was through his panic. It nipped his toes numb.
He could only just make them out, the closer he got. Their hair was black and slick as oil, covering their face, like...
Jane.
Peter thought, and brushed it off.
Reaching this person, Peter took in how small they were. They were nude, and slim.
A woman.
Peter noticed as he reached her.
He grabbed her by the arms and started dragging her towards dry land, her skin cold to the touch. Through the jagged waves, Peter slipped and fell into the water again as he pulled. The temperature shocked him awake once more. They would make it to the shore after he could find his footing again.
He laid her down on the sand and pebbles, and listened to her chest. Nothing but the hollow sound of the ocean waves. His heart sinking, he swiped the hair out of her face and drew a breath.
"Jane..." Peter said and stared for a moment, blank-faced for how his thoughts swirled. Was he hallucinating?
Jane had been buried years prior, though he could not have mistaken her for anyone else.
"Jane." He said, more firmly this time. Jane's eyes shot open. They were grey, and clouded.
They focused directly on him.
A/N: hi all! All of the illustrations were hand-drawn by me in ink pen. If you have any questions, please message or comment. This is a complete work that I will be posting once or twice weekly.
