5 May 2018
Creative Writing
It took not so long for Dimmesdale to stop in the forest beside his house. With his deep inhalation of the humid air, he cannot fully distinguish the pain of his lungs and the pain of his heart.
“No! Not to thee! Of course with no doubt, not to thee! Not for any reason!” Dimmesdale shouted heavily, but no sound came from his throat. He breathed harshly, like a horse that was just escaped from the prey. He was paralyzed. He could think not of the sins that he had committed; he could think not of the wise words of Chillingworth; he could imagine not of the plants that will strive to survive on his grave in the distant, or perhaps near, future––could the sin be hidden after the years, or will the sin be scarred on his grave, by those God-sent plants?–– nor could he think of what to think now. He smelled the blood in his throat that was caused by his violent rush. Why, at any rate, can he feel the approach of an invisible phantom that is haunting him!
“Chillingworth this leech …” the minister muttered to himself, “why would he want to argue with me, digging into my soul?” He paused and pondered of any possibility that of the message that the God is sending him, reimagining the scene in his anxious mind, seeking for any hint that the God intended to send to him through any minor movement of the leech––even if it was a twitch from the muscle of his loose ugly face. He couldn’t find a thing. He didn’t know what to do, so he sat on the stump of the tree that was struck by the lightening, cogitate.
The scene is inserted between “ … in the hot passion of his heart.” and “It proved not difficult to reëstablish the intimacy of the two companions …” in chapter ten, in which Dimmesdale rushed out the room to calm down.