“This changes everything,” she whispered into her chin, seconds before drawing smoke from a well-packed Gitanes. The day she stumbled upon the home’s catalogue, she knew it was hers. She even added an A to that O with the blunt tip of an eyeliner pencil against the rough paper. Sealing the moment with a childish smirk, while smoke brushed her eyebrows.
Moving back to her hometown wasn’t a difficult decision. Salem runs in her family’s blood, after all. And when things go awry, you start from the beginning, where the seed has been planted.
She has outgrown the contemporary dancer profile; she overused it to hide. Just before Bob passed away, he gave her the key to a place that never opened any doors, and Watermill became a mausoleum, a shrine to his memory. Not to mention that Marina is everywhere. Everywhere she turns, there is an echo of Marina. And the Berlin scene has gone stale, a chorus singing the same old songs for the past ten years.
She has outgrown the contemporary dancer profile; she overused it to hide. Just before Bob passed away, he gave her the key to a place that never opened any doors, and Watermill became a mausoleum, a shrine to his memory. Not to mention that Marina is everywhere. Everywhere she turns, there is an echo of Marina. And the Berlin scene has gone stale, a chorus singing the same old songs for the past ten years.
Salem’s chorus is different. Here, the script is unwritten. Here, the same old songs are replaced by possibility. She can be herself, a Beckett - the last of Beckett’s. It all ends with her.
The thought amuses her.
What matters now is how she’ll spend all this time ahead
The thought amuses her.
What matters now is how she’ll spend all this time ahead
One thing is for sure: never closing the curtains. People are curious, and she misses having an audience. An offering for the week and lost. By Wednesday, Mrs Wardwell from across the street pauses mid-stride on the sidewalk, her gaze lingering a little too long through Temperance’s uncovered windows before she shuffles away, clutching a loaf to her chest. By evening, whispers have already started—someone saw Temperance dancing in the kitchen, another claims she caught her talking to herself as flour turned the air pale. The town’s theatrics slipping in with the sunset.
What is unknown to this town’s population is why she is back. Soon enough, they will find out. Soon, they will learn that not even she can name the reason, and she will work on it as she goes. As she walks home through shifting shadows and the echo of her footsteps along puddled cobbles, her unrest stirs the old houses awake. A chaos worthy of Temperance Beckett, The Last.
“With me, it ends. Until then, I’ll keep myself entertained”, she proclaimed while stroking the dogs sprawled across every daybed she owns.
Fire crackling in the fireplace and candles everywhere. A real temple to The Last, at last.
