fic (mm): all the girls that you'll never see
Here's the final product! For those of you at mary_mcawesome, you've most of these drabbles, but I finally finished the little project. In honor of Mary's birthday I wrote 100 words for 11 of my favorite characters of hers, like I did a couple of years ago for Sarah Clarke. Mary's played a lot of incredible women so I didn't get to touch on them all, but hopefully you'll enjoy those that I did. A big thank you to those that have commented already! Title is taken from "Be Careful", by Patty Griffin.
Rose Darko, Donnie Darko.
She smokes too much these days, but she likes the burn of it in her chest, the shapes she can make when she purses her lips just right. Sometimes she inhales and holds it, watching the ember flare at the tip of the cigarette.
When she holds her breath like this her bones grow heavier and her head, lighter. Smoke curls inside her lungs and settles like another weight pinning her down. The sun is setting; reds and oranges dance before her tired, unfocused eyes.
She thinks this must be how he felt when he died. It must have been peaceful.
Dora Overton, Evidence of Blood.
Kinley tells her everything, just like he said, but doesn’t look at her while he talks. His hands are cold so Dora touches them, traces his long fingers and remembers what words they’ve put to paper, how warm they felt drawing patterns on her skin. Ellie Dinker’s still dead, and so is her daddy, and maybe what Kinley’s saying would have mattered more back when she was climbing in wells and looking for the bodies of little girls. Now just knowing is enough.
“Let’s go inside,” she says when he’s done. She doesn’t like making promises but kissing him feels like one.
Althea Brockett, Mumford.
Althea spends several weeks sorting through her collection, eyes shining with the same reverence with which she built it. Each wooden carving of a different farm animal, every musty hatbox decorated with faded plastic flowers, the stacks and stacks of fabric (satin gowns and cotton towels, designer jeans that not even her daughter fits into) - she smoothes her hand over each piece of her past, wiping away dust and creases with care.
Organizing, assigning prices, card tables in her yard and signs around the neighborhood - it’s a different type of liberation, but she thinks she likes it just the same.
Diane, You Can Thank Me Later.
The umbrella was an afterthought; she was halfway across the street when she remembered it in the trunk of her car. She’s grateful now, as the wind slaps wet leaves against the pavement and Eli appears with their son and his family, half-drenched under what flimsy protection his jacket offers.
She’s always been about the big gestures. Eloping with an aspiring writer, and sleeping with his brother on the floor of the nursery when the house grew quiet. Slit wrists and ten minutes in a bathroom stall once a week. Now, she squeezes Eli’s fingers and hopes that it says enough.
Stands With A Fist, Dances With Wolves.
Stands With A Fist has lost three families, and each one leaves a different mark.
Her long forgotten white family gave her the white words. She tried to forget them.
Her husband gave her a son, who died before he lived. She tried for another.
Kicking Bird gave her a name. She tried to live up to it.
She’s tired of trying, and the marks of winter are perhaps the heaviest she can bear right now.
“You can’t leave,” she says one day. “I can’t lose you too.”
“Where would I go?” asks Dances With Wolves. “My place is with you.”
Dott Em
erson, High Society.
Ellie arrived as Brendan was leaving, a rose in his hand, and didn’t bother to hide her disgust. “This is what, their fifth date?” she asked mournfully as Dott closed the door.
“Fourth,” she corrected, patting Ellie’s shoulder and grimacing as she imagined what her friend might get up to on a fourth date. “But darling, remember, they’re from a different generation - not like us. Last time they went to the opera.”
Ellie shook her head disbelievingly. “The opera? Seriously?” She snorted. “Oh, Dott, where did we go wrong?”
Dott laughed, taking a sip of her wine. “I think we did just fine.”
May Alice Culhane, Passion Fish.
It’s been a long time since she’s been out on the water, but she remembers. Trailing her hand in the water, May-Alice stares, mesmerized, at the reflection of the torch in the warm black of the bayou.
“Look,” Rennie whispers, gently touching her shoulder. “You see that gator over there? She’s gotta be at least 8 feet long.”
Chantelle twitches, startled. “Where?”
It’s dark, but May-Alice finds the tell-tale lights easily enough - they glow at this time of night. “See those red dots?” She points. “Those are the eyes.”
She can feel Rennie’s on the back of her neck, and shivers.
Marilyn Whitmore, Independence Day.
Her husband holds her for a long time - she’ll die here, she knows, so it might as well be forever. She memorizes every hitch of his breath, twirling his wedding ring around his finger; she kisses his eyelids and counts the shades of green in his gaze, sees their daughter in every reflection.
She can still feel the fine strands of Patricia’s hair between her fingers and aches for the familiar warmth of her. Thomas gathers her closer, his cheek wet against her forehead.
It would be easy to die, if only she didn’t have so much to live for.
Laura Brown, For All Time.
Charles holds her with the same desperation she felt in him last time, and again their clothes are damp, this time from the rain they make no effort to shield themselves from. Her hand grips the fabric covering his shoulder; she rests her forehead next to it when their lips finally part, feels the race of his heart and the heaviness of his breath. It makes her shiver.
“I’m staying this time,” he says hoarsely. “Here, with you, and Mary.”
“I don’t recall giving you a choice in the matter, Mr. Lattimer,” Laura replies primly, and kisses the smile from his face.
Eleanor Carter, ER.
She’s lost one son, and the other looks at her like he never knows what to say. Brushing a strand of hair from Mickey’s clammy forehead, she wonders if she’ll ruin this boy, too.
“Get some sleep, sweetheart,” she says quietly, patting his leg as she stands. His sleepy eyes follow her as she makes her way to the door, and the gratitude in them is almost too much for her.
A month later, she clings to John and weeps as the little boy is lowered into the ground. This time she was careful not to make any promises.
Laura Roslin, Battlestar Galactica.
Each time Laura subtracts a number, she pictures the face of someone she used to know. It’s not mourning, because she doesn’t have the energy for that anymore; just a quiet moment to remember someone who no one else does. Her first boss. The doorman at her apartment complex. She remembers her students by class - the second-graders who built an ant city out of leaves and sticks, the sixth-grade girls who gave her a makeover one recess.
The faces are blurry, have been for awhile, but she closes her eyes until she can picture each detail like another weight on her shoulders.
Rose Darko, Donnie Darko.
She smokes too much these days, but she likes the burn of it in her chest, the shapes she can make when she purses her lips just right. Sometimes she inhales and holds it, watching the ember flare at the tip of the cigarette.
When she holds her breath like this her bones grow heavier and her head, lighter. Smoke curls inside her lungs and settles like another weight pinning her down. The sun is setting; reds and oranges dance before her tired, unfocused eyes.
She thinks this must be how he felt when he died. It must have been peaceful.
Dora Overton, Evidence of Blood.
Kinley tells her everything, just like he said, but doesn’t look at her while he talks. His hands are cold so Dora touches them, traces his long fingers and remembers what words they’ve put to paper, how warm they felt drawing patterns on her skin. Ellie Dinker’s still dead, and so is her daddy, and maybe what Kinley’s saying would have mattered more back when she was climbing in wells and looking for the bodies of little girls. Now just knowing is enough.
“Let’s go inside,” she says when he’s done. She doesn’t like making promises but kissing him feels like one.
Althea Brockett, Mumford.
Althea spends several weeks sorting through her collection, eyes shining with the same reverence with which she built it. Each wooden carving of a different farm animal, every musty hatbox decorated with faded plastic flowers, the stacks and stacks of fabric (satin gowns and cotton towels, designer jeans that not even her daughter fits into) - she smoothes her hand over each piece of her past, wiping away dust and creases with care.
Organizing, assigning prices, card tables in her yard and signs around the neighborhood - it’s a different type of liberation, but she thinks she likes it just the same.
Diane, You Can Thank Me Later.
The umbrella was an afterthought; she was halfway across the street when she remembered it in the trunk of her car. She’s grateful now, as the wind slaps wet leaves against the pavement and Eli appears with their son and his family, half-drenched under what flimsy protection his jacket offers.
She’s always been about the big gestures. Eloping with an aspiring writer, and sleeping with his brother on the floor of the nursery when the house grew quiet. Slit wrists and ten minutes in a bathroom stall once a week. Now, she squeezes Eli’s fingers and hopes that it says enough.
Stands With A Fist, Dances With Wolves.
Stands With A Fist has lost three families, and each one leaves a different mark.
Her long forgotten white family gave her the white words. She tried to forget them.
Her husband gave her a son, who died before he lived. She tried for another.
Kicking Bird gave her a name. She tried to live up to it.
She’s tired of trying, and the marks of winter are perhaps the heaviest she can bear right now.
“You can’t leave,” she says one day. “I can’t lose you too.”
“Where would I go?” asks Dances With Wolves. “My place is with you.”
Dott Em
erson, High Society.
Ellie arrived as Brendan was leaving, a rose in his hand, and didn’t bother to hide her disgust. “This is what, their fifth date?” she asked mournfully as Dott closed the door.
“Fourth,” she corrected, patting Ellie’s shoulder and grimacing as she imagined what her friend might get up to on a fourth date. “But darling, remember, they’re from a different generation - not like us. Last time they went to the opera.”
Ellie shook her head disbelievingly. “The opera? Seriously?” She snorted. “Oh, Dott, where did we go wrong?”
Dott laughed, taking a sip of her wine. “I think we did just fine.”
May Alice Culhane, Passion Fish.
It’s been a long time since she’s been out on the water, but she remembers. Trailing her hand in the water, May-Alice stares, mesmerized, at the reflection of the torch in the warm black of the bayou.
“Look,” Rennie whispers, gently touching her shoulder. “You see that gator over there? She’s gotta be at least 8 feet long.”
Chantelle twitches, startled. “Where?”
It’s dark, but May-Alice finds the tell-tale lights easily enough - they glow at this time of night. “See those red dots?” She points. “Those are the eyes.”
She can feel Rennie’s on the back of her neck, and shivers.
Marilyn Whitmore, Independence Day.
Her husband holds her for a long time - she’ll die here, she knows, so it might as well be forever. She memorizes every hitch of his breath, twirling his wedding ring around his finger; she kisses his eyelids and counts the shades of green in his gaze, sees their daughter in every reflection.
She can still feel the fine strands of Patricia’s hair between her fingers and aches for the familiar warmth of her. Thomas gathers her closer, his cheek wet against her forehead.
It would be easy to die, if only she didn’t have so much to live for.
Laura Brown, For All Time.
Charles holds her with the same desperation she felt in him last time, and again their clothes are damp, this time from the rain they make no effort to shield themselves from. Her hand grips the fabric covering his shoulder; she rests her forehead next to it when their lips finally part, feels the race of his heart and the heaviness of his breath. It makes her shiver.
“I’m staying this time,” he says hoarsely. “Here, with you, and Mary.”
“I don’t recall giving you a choice in the matter, Mr. Lattimer,” Laura replies primly, and kisses the smile from his face.
Eleanor Carter, ER.
She’s lost one son, and the other looks at her like he never knows what to say. Brushing a strand of hair from Mickey’s clammy forehead, she wonders if she’ll ruin this boy, too.
“Get some sleep, sweetheart,” she says quietly, patting his leg as she stands. His sleepy eyes follow her as she makes her way to the door, and the gratitude in them is almost too much for her.
A month later, she clings to John and weeps as the little boy is lowered into the ground. This time she was careful not to make any promises.
Laura Roslin, Battlestar Galactica.
Each time Laura subtracts a number, she pictures the face of someone she used to know. It’s not mourning, because she doesn’t have the energy for that anymore; just a quiet moment to remember someone who no one else does. Her first boss. The doorman at her apartment complex. She remembers her students by class - the second-graders who built an ant city out of leaves and sticks, the sixth-grade girls who gave her a makeover one recess.
The faces are blurry, have been for awhile, but she closes her eyes until she can picture each detail like another weight on her shoulders.