Countenance of Constance

Roland’s standards for a potential life partner were high. Some might even go so far as to say they were impossibly high, but he would beg to differ.

After all, he didn’t think it unreasonable, what he was looking for. All he really wanted was for someone like Constance, his most beloved character, and that didn’t seem like too much to ask, really.

He’d discovered the ‘Countenance of Constance’ when he was a preteen, freshly thrown into the perils of puberty, trying desperately to figure out which way was up to avoid drowning in the ever thrashing sea of hormones. Perhaps most boys his age weren’t busy reading a series about an Edwardian office clerk and her little adventures, but he found it was comforting, and helped immensely in shaping his view of the perfect companion.

And Constance was the epitome of a perfect companion. Quietly elegant, with a grace that was rare to see in this modern day and age. She was always described as a pale beauty, skin free of blemishes, and with long, chestnut brown curls that were always piled high atop her head in a neat bun.

The first time Roland read her description, he’d realized right then and there that he was well and truly done for. She was perfection. With her only failing being that she was nothing more than mere words on a page.

Such a revelation was very nearly soul destroying, but Roland was able to quickly recover. He might not have been able to be with Constance herself, but he could find a woman like Constance. After all, surly it wouldn’t be that difficult, right?

So his standards were set, each of them being perfectly reasonable in Roland’s opinion. But again and again, people continued to fall short. If their hair wasn’t too short, then their skin wasn’t pale enough, or it had freckles or moles or some other manner of blemishes. Their manner of dress would be something that would’ve made Constance faint away in alarm, showing all manner of skin in a way that wasn’t proper for an Edwardian lady. And modern day women were just... they were far too loud and boisterous, a perfect opposite to the demure, unobtrusive Constance.

So Roland would be left alone, with nary but his books and his imagination for company and solace. Which seemed perfectly agreeable to him in years past, but now... now that loneliness was beginning to creep in, beginning to ache in a way wholly unfamiliar to him, but rapidly becoming his new normal.

Reading and rereading the ‘Countenance of Constance’ series became his only comfort, his only real sense of connection to... anything.

But nothing could stop the nigh on constant ache that settled in his chest, sinking deep into his very marrow.

Were it anyone else, perhaps there would’ve been a sense of alarm. Would’ve made them scream with alarm and panic. But Roland wasn’t... normal in the most traditional of sense. Perhaps he’d never been normal, at least by modern standards.

After yet another failed attempt at finding the perfect companion, Roland was sat alone on the bus, completely dejected, with his heart aching for want of someone to share life with, when there came a voice in his head.

At least, that’s what it seemed like. In truth, Roland wasn’t entirely sure. All he knew was that he suddenly heard a quiet, soft-spoken voice in his head, a voice he’d never heard in person before, but could picture so very clearly in his heart.

'Tis a shame what has become of proper ladies, isn’t it?'

Roland didn’t exclaim in surprise, or even jump from being startled. His eyes only widened.

Constance? Surely this couldn’t be really.

'I am as real to you as the sky above your head, and the grass beneath your feet,' she said.

Usually, hearing a foreign voice in one’s head might’ve been a cause for concern, would prompt someone to seek medical attention out of concern for their mental well being. And perhaps, had Roland not suffered years on isolation and loneliness, he might’ve done the same. But the mind is a tricky place, one not fully understood, and he was loathed to think anything malicious could come from his beloved Constance.

It wasn’t often in the start. The occasional comment from Constance here and there. Typically about how modern women conducted themselves, which Roland readily agreed to. That woman’s skirt was far too short to be proper everyday attire, that one’s language was too vulgar even for sailors, that one showed far too much skin, bringing to mind women in a burlesque show. The list went on.

And every time, Roland found that he agreed with her. Every time, he drew away from any possible relationship with a living, breathing person because Constance was right. These were not proper ladies, and none of them would ever be like his ever beloved Constance.

But instead of the ever growing sense of loneliness that had burrowed so deeply into his heart, leaving him wallowing in a pit of despair, he found himself comforted by the growing familiar presence Constance gave, a constant voice in the back of his mind, soft, and sweet. Soothing the most tattered parts of his soul, parts he hadn’t realized needed soothing. Such a feeling was truly intoxicating.

He could clearly remember the day when he saw her for the first time, just out of the corner of his eye.

He was working away in his little kitchen, listening to music as he chopped up vegetables for his dinner. When, as he set the knife down on the counter, he saw... something. A small figure out of the corner of his eye. A pale beauty, with long, chestnut brown curls piled atop her head, her shirtwaist starched and tucked into the waistband of her skirt, with nary a wrinkle in sight, and not a single blemish to be found upon her countenance.

But when Roland turned to look at her properly, the vision that was his beautiful Constance was gone, flickering away, like wind in the night.

But it wasn’t the last time he saw her.

Far from it.

More and more, from the corner of his eye, he could see her. She always wore the same shirtwaist, the same skirt, her hair was always in a neat little bun, with nary a hair out of place. As perfect a woman as Roland could dream, primped and polished, always just out of his reach, but close enough for her to be a comfort.

Other’s found it... odd. More than once, when out with company, his eyes would flicker off to the side, as though something caught his attention for just a moment. And every time, he would smile, and often times a soft sigh would escape his lips and his face would gain a lovesick expression. And every time, when his company would turn to see who was making Roland melt, making him akin to a lovesick puppy. And every time, there was... no one. Every. Single. Time.

People started raising their concerns. His parents, his siblings, even what few friends he’d managed to hold onto over the years. Each of them growing concerned that the loneliness was starting to really get to him. That his mind had gone and concocted something in a desperate attempt to cope. But every time, Roland would shake his head and tell them that Constance was real. She was as real as the sky above his head and the grass beneath his feet. She was real. They just didn’t understand.

But still, they insisted, urging him to please, please see a doctor, even if only for their peace of mind. After all, what would it hurt? What harm would seeing a doctor do?

But every time there was an attempt to broach the topic, Roland shot it down, each time increasing in intensity.

“You just don’t understand,” he’d say. “I’ve finally found my perfect companion. Is that not the goal of every member of mankind? To find the one who makes you the most happy, the most content, the most loved?”

Over time, Roland really began to becoming less and less tolerant with their persistent attempts to get him to see reason, to see some semblance of logic to what he believed. Constance remained ever present, a thin hand upon his shoulder in support.

‘Surly they mean to separate us,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘Are they truly so jealous of our jubilance that they feel such need to sabotage it?’

Such an idea left Roland aghast, and one by one, he cut people off.

First to go were his parents. They’d been so worried for him, always concerned about his lack of companionship. More than once, his mother sat him down to discuss how maybe his standards were too high, and he was isolating himself from people who could be a genuine match. How, if he just loosened his standards a little and stepped outside such a rigid box, he might be able to find someone how made him happy and content.

When he mentioned seeing Constance, they doubled down, urging him to see someone, telling him that such a thing just wasn’t normal or healthy.

So he just... stopped responding to calls. Stopped visiting. Stopped everything to do with his parents.

His siblings tried to draw him back in, telling him how worried their parents were and how heartbroken they’d been when he seemingly just dropped off the face of the earth. But Constance was wary of them, wary of what they thought.

‘I’m unsure if you should trust the word of such people,’ she’d muse. ‘I don’t believe they understand what we have, what we feel. It is just as real as you or I. Have they not found it? That one perfect companion? Are they angered by their lack and our abundance?’

Any contact was ceased, leaving Roland just that little bit more isolated.

His few friends had decidedly less tact.

“Roland, this is insane. She’s a fictional character. She’s words on a piece of paper. She’s not real,” they said, desperate for him to listen to reason. “You can’t touch her, can’t see her. You need a real, living person, not some figment of your imagination!”

And every time, Roland would push back. She is real, and she loves him, just as he loves her.

But every doubt they expressed made both him and Constance grow more and more weary, driving a deeper and deeper wedge between them until there was nothing more than a gaping maw of a chasm.

Roland was truly and completely alone.

But he had his beloved Constance.

“I think I’ll make a stew today, Constance,” Roland said, preparing the necessary ingredients as he spoke. “Once I’ve got it in the crock pot, it can cook for the day and we’ll have a nice, hearty supper together. What do you say?”

'That sounds quite agreeable.' came Constance’s voice from just behind his shoulder, though Roland didn’t turn to look. Constance was just so shy.

“Then it’s settled,” he replied. “I’ll get that going, then I’m afraid I’m off to work.”

'As one must. But don’t you worry, I will never be far from you.'

Roland smiled.

“You never are.”