Ravens Deep (one)

Prologue

There are those amongst us who seek unconditional love, an objective that could either be construed as wise or foolhardy. But regardless of individual perspective, many of us search for a like-minded being, someone to return our affection,
capture our heart or comfort and encourage when all others may criticize or condemn.

A few relationships are to be considered unusual or diverse, but although cultural differences and personal preference may be argued, our unions typically onform to the rules and moral values that we make.

After all, most strange deviations in love can be explained.  .  . ordinarily.

Chapter One - The Invitation

             
Time had simply vanished, and it was almost midnight when I looked up at the clock. The constant drone of city life had long since diminished, and only an occasional car stereo or siren in the distance disturbed this warm summer’s night.

             
I rose from the table and moved across the room, leaning against the window frame, I stared out into the darkness. It felt as though I had a need to commit to memory as much detail as possible.  The customary sight of the undulating rooftops and historic buildings were reassuring, and reminded me that I really did belong to this place.

             
London was a beautiful city with its hundreds of lights glistening in the darkness, it was hard to believe that in only a few hours from now this darkened multitude of shapes and figures would again become a seething mass of people rushing through their daily routines of business and pleasure in this urban playground.  From the lure of the West End high life, to the charming, traditional markets and culture of the East End, it was easy to suppose that this city had something to entice everyone.

             
At its very core there is a persistent part of London, whether it is the fundamental structure or the Londoners themselves, which attaches itself and after a while that unfathomable something refuses to let go, it becomes a permanent imprint on the hearts of those that it has touched.  I was one such person and perhaps that was why I was experiencing a sudden reluctance to leave, to simply turn my back and walk away.

             
I was caught up in the nostalgia of the moment and closed my eyes, but my feelings of uncertainly were not eased.  I could imagine too vividly, even feel the pulsating beat in the exotic night clubs and fashionable bars, or someone playing a piano in a traditional East End pub.  This culture was like no other, more importantly it was my life.

             
Tomorrow I would leave this city with all its noise and commotion far behind and I thought back to earlier in the day. I was still so unprepared as I thought about the empty suitcase and clothes strewn around the bedroom.  I glanced back to the table and to my research notes spread out in a chaotic mess. Deep down it was more than the packing and clutter that troubled me, I still had to resolve the emotional conflict inside my head.

             
All evening I had tried to forget my earlier conversation with Charlie, but now alone in the semi darkness and stillness of the night I was forced to think again. I thought back to the few simple words he had spoken, words that had disturbed my insular world.

             
This afternoon had begun like any other, when Charlie arranged to meet me after work, and we had gone out to an early dinner.  We chatted casually about the events of our respective days, but as the evening wore on and a few glasses of wine drunk, his conversation took on a more serious nature.

             
In hindsight, I should have known what he had been leading up to, but caught up in my thoughts, his question not only took me by surprise but it shook me completely. 

             
“Will you marry me?” he asked.

             
I had paused at first and then that hesitation had developed into an awkward silence. Charlie expected a favourable response, but I sat motionless, trying to shake myself free from the inexplicable panic I felt.

             
I finally did respond, not knowing the right words to say, I tried to be tactful and wished I was anywhere, but sitting in that particular restaurant with him. My reply came out hasty and dismissive. I told him I wasn’t ready and then side-tracked as I fought to find a better excuse.  I told him that it was too soon in our relationship to think about marriage, but we both knew that this explanation was weak and not believable.

              I saw obvious disappointment and he wore such a hurt expression, despite my reassurances that I just needed more time, but it was in that moment that I realized that I meant more to him than I imagined.

             
That knowledge abruptly shook me from a comfort level I had grown accustomed to. I had never assumed he would ask me that question and if the truth be told, the subject had not even crossed my mind.  I assumed that like me, Charlie was happy
the way things were, we had what I would describe as a casual relationship, it had lasted nearly two years, but there was nothing abnormal about that.  I was too independent to be tied down. I did not want to commit to a serious involvement because I liked living alone, but more importantly marriage was not something I saw for myself.  I needed freedom and during the previous two years I had not allowed our relationship to develop into more than I was ready for, carefully constructed my own safety zone, not allowing anyone to get too close, but now it seemed as though Charlie was trying to break down this barrier and I was struggling with the concept of that.

             
Why did he have to say anything? Today of all days.

             
It was not as if I was having second thoughts, but if I was honest with myself, I felt guilty at the way I had reacted.  Charlie hadn’t deserved my bluntness or the lack of sensitivity to his proposal. In most people’s opinion he was a great catch, he was reliable and sincere with a secure future in store.  He had worked in his father’s publishing company since leaving school and there was no doubt that he would take over the business entirely in a few years from now. 

             
But, for me life with Charlie would be too reliable, too predictable. There was no

fire in him, no intensity, there was safety and security, and I know most people spend a life time searching for a partner with those qualities, but I yearned for a passionate belief in either something or someone to make me feel alive, to make me feel invincible and I
didn’t feel passion when I thought of Charlie. In his world, by his side it felt as though I   would be a bystander, even worse, I would be suffocating and screaming in silence, my own identity lost in a life I didn’t want. But despite these disturbing feelings I was now being forced to face an obvious question.

             
Was it really Charlie that I was reluctant to leave?

             
Yesterday I had been so certain of my direction. So why did a marriage proposal make

me
question my feelings, and force me to reconsider the consequences of my answer.  I shook

my head in despair at my confusion. I was normally decisive and logical, but I didn’t feel

that way right now.  The voice in my head told me that it was no coincidence that Charlie

had
picked this day, the eve of my departure, to make his intention known. It occurred to

me
that this was his way of keeping me in London.  If that really was the reason behind his

proposal
then I had clearly made the right decision.

             
I had to exist on my own terms and refused to allow any other influences to change my mind.  Besides that, I would only bring Charlie unhappiness and I refused be a witness to somebody else’s heartbreak, for I knew all too well what it was like to pay that ultimate price. 

             
I had first-hand experience of the rise and fall of my own parents’ tragic lives.  I still had memories of my mother, an accomplished artist, painting away hour after hour in the spare bedroom she had used as her studio, and during those final years she had watched my father’s once profitable and successful business decline deeper into debt. Always resourceful she had paid off many of the undesirable sources from whom my father had borrowed money.  She had kept the bailiffs from our door with the proceeds from, so I believed at the time, all of her most prized paintings and possessions.

             
Unfortunately even she could do nothing when the various bankers called in their debts and my father was finally forced into bankruptcy.  Our family home was sold at auction, for a fraction of its market value and we found ourselves living in a two bed-roomed flat. It was then that my father’s downward spiral accelerated, dragging my mother with him. She by this time was too exhausted to paint, instead she could only watch helplessly as my father turned away from her and to a bottle for comfort.

             
Two years later, my father died from liver failure brought about by alcohol poisoning and my mother, seemingly unable to cope with the loss, lost interest in everything she had once loved, including life itself, almost a year later she died of unknown causes. 

             
For me, the memories of finding her lifeless body lying peacefully on the bed were still vivid and only I knew that she had died of a broken heart, as I believed such things could happen. I had experienced initial horror and sadness, but that had turned quickly into anger.  I failed to understand how she could have acted so selfishly, and her action only seemed to convey that I was not an important enough reason for her to remain living.               Charlie had been my emotional strength and had given me the much needed comfort.  He reminded me that I was important to him at least, and he helped me deal with the effects of such a tragic loss.  It was because of that episode in our relationship that I did feel somewhat indebted to him and after today’s events I was suffering from a self induced guilt trip.

             
After my mother’s death, I discovered a cache of paintings in the attic of their rented flat. I could never be sure if these paintings had been concealed on purpose for me, as there was no other will or provisions made and it was quite by chance when I finally found the courage to return to that flat that I had even bothered to search the attic. 

             
That had been nine months ago, since then I had used the proceeds from the sale of some of the paintings to buy the fashionable London flat in which I now lived.                Several others of my mother’s paintings still adorned the walls, they were all I had left to remind me of her.  Every time I looked at them, I still could not quite believe how valuable they

were
, their worth having increased substantially with her death.

             
Because of these very paintings and the others that had sold, I didn’t need to rely on another’s good fortune as I now had my own means, which also meant that I wasn’t about to settle for anything or anyone other than a perfect match.  My soul mate would be someone to intrigue me and capture my imagination, he would have passion and be someone who would inspire me to attain my dreams, but I also realized that person was not Charlie.

             
It was my good fortune that I had inherited some artistic talent, not with a brush, but a pen.  My father could write and I had seen beautiful letters from him written to my mother before they were married and I also possessed the capability to transport a reader to another time and place.               

              Charlie was always second to my writing, he had called it a hobby, but to me that was an insult. It felt as though he simply didn’t’t understand me at all.  I wondered again why I hesitated, tonight would have been the right time to break off the relationship.

             
I should have told him.

             
Resolutely I started packing up the papers laid out on the table, trying to dismiss the continuing thought that reminded me of my lack of courage.  I reasoned that he would have been upset, even angry and although I had hurt him deeply, the thought of him hating me completely did not make me feel good about myself. Instead I had chosen the easy option and postponed that particular disclosure. When I got back I would tell him, I sighed.