#vipat

THANK YOU!

This is the sequel to “Addicted to Love”.  There is an unfinished prequel as well, “The Absinthe on My Lips” (which I also need to work on as well as my other incomplete works...geez).

Alright, guys, I wanna start up the mini-writes again.  However, tonight I’m feeling super uninspired to write even the minimum word count.  So - any drabble or ficlet or scene you think you might like for one of my ships or faves, please send a message with some sort of prompt.  I don’t guarantee I’ll write it, but I’ll try.

Okay, so I’m flaking on following some of your prompts about Violet (sorry!) but I wrote this little thing, and I thought you guys might enjoy it.  It might be slightly spoiler-ish....

At night, after his valet had been and left again, after he’d shuffled beneath the bedclothes and turned down the lamp, before he put his head to the pillows, and before he shut his eyes to woo slumber, Patrick took up a small packet, carefully tied with lilac ribbon, and opened it.  Every night, his fingers danced over her handwriting, his lips forming certain words and phrases, silently.  He left to last a daguerreotype of her.  Although dimmed by the gray hues, Patrick’s imagination filled in every color of Violet’s face – the ivory and pink of her skin, the blue of her eyes, the rose of her lips, the fire of her hair.  In the portrait, her mouth curled up slightly, as if she had a secret.

And she had.  They both had.  Now all was ruined.

Always with a profound sigh, Patrick stacked the letters and picture together and gingerly tied them with ribbon into their packet again.  Placing them on the bedside table, he picked up his pocket watch, flipping open the hidden compartment.  There he’d concealed a lock of her hair.  Touching it with the tip of his forefinger, he whispered “Violet.”  The watch closed with a click, coming to repose next to the beribboned packet.

As Patrick turned on his side, screwing his eyes shut and bringing to his thoughts the vision of the woman he loved above all others, he willed himself to dream of her.  Some nights he envisioned her so clearly and focused upon her so fiercely that she’d come to him in dreams.  He saw it as a blessing – as well as a form of torture.  For as sweet and wonderful as having her with him in slumber was, he felt even more terrible and empty when he woke to recognize that it wasn’t real.  Perhaps I deserve it, he would think.