The Tale of a Madman
Amy Luo

When I arrived in Brighthelmeston, I heard him muttering about the angels’ jealousy as I walked passed the graveyard. The townsfolk said to ignore him; he was crazy. Benedict Ramsey milled around the town by day and slept in the graveyard every night.
I asked a barmaid at the Red Dragon what his story was, but she said he had been like that for as long as anyone could remember. She told me that some people thought he slept in the graveyard because he liked the smell of death. Another barmaid who introduced herself as Martha told me her aunt mentioned that Benedict went crazy after his fiance died years ago; that was all she ever said. Brighthelmeston was as far as I could walk that day, so I got a room and stayed the night.
The next morning Martha suggested that I see the beaches before I left, as they were the most beautiful in all of England. After breakfast I left to see the beaches. As I walked down Middle Street, I heard muttering behind me and turned to see Benedict walking behind me. When I stopped he looked at me with the loneliest eyes I had ever seen in my entire life.
“Good day, sir,” he said to me. “Would you like to hear a story?”
In my surprise, I found I couldn’t find my voice. We both stood there as the silence sank in. After recovering my speech, I replied that I would, in fact, like to hear his story. He asked me my destination, and we walked to the beach together. I can’t say clearly what the beaches of Brighthelmeston look like, but I do remember Benedict Ramsey’s story.

When I was a young lad, I fell so deeply in love with a beautiful girl that it made my heart ache. Her name was Annabel Lee, and she loved me as madly as I loved her. We were inseparable, but people remarked that we were just children. They told us we were too young to know what true love was and that we couldn’t understand. But I and my Annabel Lee, we loved like no one had ever loved before and it was they who didn’t understand true love. We were just children; nevertheless, our souls were inextricable. Nothing would ever-- nothing can ever-- tear our souls apart.
It was on a cold September day when I learned that the pastor’s son, Simon, had proposed to her. My love came to me on the beach where we met and laughingly related the story to me. He had been infatuated with her for months and assumed, despite our clear attachment, that she would accept him immediately. His pride in assuming my Annabel Lee would ever accept him was absolutely reprehensible! His audacity angered me like nothing had ever done before. I stormed and raged and jealousy overwhelmed me. My love’s reassurances slowly brought me back to sanity. I remained irritable, but I listened to her soothing words and let the her voice calm me. We spent the rest of the morning together, talking about what young lovers talk about. If I had known that it would be our last day together, I would have endeavored to remember her every word. There is nothing I regret more than not being able to recall what we talked about that day.
The next day I went to the beach where we normally met. I remember that day was chillier than the last, and I paced as I waited for my love, who was later than usual. I paced and I paced and I wondered where she could possibly be. The thought that she could be with that dreadful Simon struck me with such a force that, for a few moments, I could hardly breathe. I passed the entire morning repeating Annabel Lee’s words to myself.
“Don’t worry, love,” she told me. “This proposal doesn’t mean anything. I still love you, my dear. Nothing will ever change that.”
I didn’t know what to believe. I thought to myself: it couldn’t be a coincidence that the day after she told me of Simon’s marriage proposal, she didn’t show up at our beach. The longer I waited, the more I panicked. Did she still love me? What if telling me about Simon’s proposal was her way of saying goodbye to me? The anxiety nearly tore me apart when I saw my Annabel Lee running toward me. She ran to me barefooted with tears in her eyes, her face filled with anguish, and collapsed at my feet.
“I-I-I’m sorry, B-benedict. I love you. D-don’t ever forget--” she stuttered before she lost her voice to a sob.
I instantly understood. Her words struck me like a bullet. I fell to my knees and we cried. I and my Annabel Lee cried in silence until we could cry no more. Our tears dried and we held each other. For how long we went on like this I don’t know. It could have been half an hour; it could have been half a day. I wouldn’t have known the difference. The sound of footsteps woke us from our torpor, and I looked to see who approached us. There was Annabel Lee’s father, the pastor, and that dreadful Simon looking down at us. They seethed with anger.
“You filthy scum! What gives you the right to hold my daughter like that?” her father bellowed. “My daughter is a respectable young lady who is to marry the pastor’s son and make our family an honorable one! Who do you think you are to stop that? Do you think you’re better than a pastor’s son? I don’t think so.”
And with that, my Annabel Lee was taken from me. That was the last time I saw my beautiful Annabel Lee’s face. Her cheeks were tear-stained and her eyes red, but she was still my beautiful Annabel Lee. As she was dragged away, I could see her mouth the words, “I love you.” I tried to argue, I tried to protest, I tried to fight, but to no avail. The pastor and his son were too strong for me, and I watched as my true love, my only love, disappeared from me.
For the next week I didn’t sleep. I barely drank. I only ate what was forced down my throat. Every day, I tried to visit my Annabel Lee, and every day I was denied. She was sick, they told me. “She’s too sick to leave her bed. She can’t see anyone, especially you.” I couldn’t believe them. I wouldn’t.
After ten days, I heard word going around that my Annabel Lee was gone. They said she caught a chill and had been bedridden since. The people in the market lamented the that she was so young and that she was to be married so soon, only to die.
I refused to accept this as true. My already cracking heart shattered at the thought of not only losing her to Simon, but to the angels. When I gathered enough of my wits to make a decision, I ran like a madman-- but then again, I am a madman, aren’t I-- to my Annabel Lee’s home. Before anyone could stop me, I ran to her bed, and there she was. She was so, so pale, like a porcelain doll. Carefully, I touched her cheek as if she would break when I touched her. My Annabel Lee’s face was cold.

When Benedict finished his story, I looked at his face for the first time. I had seen his face before, but now I truly looked at it, and I saw not a madman, but a heartbroken man who had never recovered from his loss. The hair on his face was gray with old age and sadness. I could only imagine how long and how terribly he must have suffered all these long years. I found myself wishing for his suffering to end soon, and I knew he wouldn’t find an end in this life.
I hadn’t even realized I had slipped into a trance until Benedict interrupted me to excuse himself, as it was growing dark out. The last thing Benedict Ramsey said to me was: “Thank you, son, for listening. To share my story was all I needed before leaving to join my Annabel Lee.”
The next morning I left Brighthelmeston, and I passed the graveyard, I saw that Benedict had left our world join his Annabel Lee.