Brigit's Flame week 1 October
Title: The Apple Thief
Author: Keppiehed
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: adult themes
Word Count: 1758
Prompt: “baptism by fire”
A/N: Written for week #1 of Brigits_flame. Places (and Betty) are real, but the rest is fiction. Also, this is for Elinor, who asked for a story with this title. I am not sure it all made a lot of sense, though!
On the banks of the River Raisin, past the swell and rush of the body proper and down where the violets run riot, is the last of the Hearthorn trees in the county. Sylvia and I are the only ones who know it's there; she offered to show me one night. “Sh,” she'd said. “It's a secret.”
Secret
I like to imagine how she had cradled her burden as she made her way down the long dark of Bethel Church Road, climbing into the wall of ivy and losing herself in the wilds until she came to the place that called to some part of her and made itself seem perfect. In my mind's eye, I can see her squatting in the dimness to scoop a hollow out of ground, the earth moist in her palm. She hadn't wanted to let go of the apple. It had warmed to her hand, and the night air held an edge. This was a part of him. She'd chosen his favorite kind. How could she leave it to moulder?
Knowing Sylvia, her indecision might have rooted her until dawn, but a rogue wavelet from the river splashed over her foot. The water was already near to freezing, even this early fall. The jolt took her breath away and she dropped the apple into the river where it bobbed into eddies and around swirls as if it did not realize its peril. Before Sylvia could throw herself after it-and I could see her preparing to leap; she was the dramatic sort-it was swept downstream in the quiet current and was lost to the night.
It is easy to imagine, because she told the story the same way every time. In my own head I see her disbelief, her empty hands stretching, like she does when she has dropped a stone beyond the gate as she is wont to do. But I do not know if she reached or stood there unmoving. I do know she didn't cry because she told me so. She said it with pride, and always asked me if that was okay. I tell her it was.
The other nurses shake their heads and tell me not to pity her; she is a criminal like all the rest and I would do well to stay sharp and mind my own business. Yet I find myself drawn to her as she cries in the night.
“Pshaw,” Betty says. “They all cry in the night. Guilty.”
Guilty
That may be true, but the rest are blank or vicious, at least as far as I can tell. This one is only sad to her bones. And there is never harm in listening.
Fall is the worst. Most of the patients are troubled around the holidays, but Sylvia gets restless in the autumn. The first year I started in the spring, and I was unprepared for the swing in store.
“See? I told you she was just like the others.” Betty says this with a smile unconcealed. She is righteous in her victory.
I keep my head bent, biting my lip. Sylvia's mercurial temperament is not my concern. Why should I care what happens to her more than the others? This is a rotation, nothing more.
But a year turns into two and after that there is no point in keeping track of time spent at Willowood. More people come and less leave, and all the while Sylvia cries at night and especially when the weather turns crisp around the edges. She never answers when you ask her why.
“Everyone knows anyway,” Betty whispers. “Haven't you ever checked her chart? She's your pet, after all. You should know something of her history. If you knew what she had done you wouldn't think she was such an angel.”
Secret
Guilty
Of course she is here for a reason, but I find the idea of reading her history a betrayal of sorts. She will tell me when she is ready. She has already begun to, in her own way.
The stones drop at the over and over, her arm stretching between the gates until her arm looks close to separating from the shoulder. Her body is pressed tight to the bars, but I allow it because she has no intent of escape. She holds a medium sized rock in her grasp and lets it fall, her eyes glassy and faraway as the stone rolls down the slope. She repeats the ritual the entire allotted free time in the yard, even though Dr. Bailey has tried to engage her interests elsewhere.
“It's there,” she says one time, turning from the bars so fast I feared she might do herself an injury. “It's there, I can show you. I meant to plant it, but it is better this way. Secret. But by now it will be tall enough to find. It will have apples. Have you ever been downstream?”
I shake my head.
“I used to live there, you know. Across the way.”
I stand very still.
Sylvia slides to the ground and plucks a strand of grass and tells me something I have never heard before. “We were going to get married. Me and Tommy. I knew it from the time we were little. We were always together, me and him. Only he didn't want to stay here. Said he was meant for more.” Sylvia frowns. “What do people mean when they say that, I wonder? I never did understand. More what? More sky? More earth? He had all the apples he could hold. What more could he want?” She looks at the blade of grass in her hand and seems surprised, as if she was expecting it to be something else. She throws it down.
“I think,” I say, “that people want to see the world. Maybe.”
“He had a fight,” she says. “His father wanted him to stay at the mill. But Tommy didn't want to. Said he wanted to leave and get out of this town.” She laughs, but it is not a happy sound. I have been here so long I have forgotten that laughter has ever been from joy.
I wait.
“His father was like that. Always telling Tommy what to do. Telling him to stay for family. To be a man. To stay for me.” Sylvia wraps her arms around herself. “Because of me?”
I press my lips together.
Sylvia's words are a stream that can't be stopped. “I was always hiding, in the loft, near the press. Oh, the way the cider smells when you are pressing … there's nothing like it. Tommy didn't love it like I did. But I could show him. If his father wouldn't help him, I would. If he wanted to go to the city, I could free him. I could save him, save it for later when he was ready for us. I picked his favorite one. It took me all day to find it. I had to climb to the top of the tree. Something hurt, I remember. It got worse and worse, but I climbed. I twisted it off just the right way and kept it in my apron pocket for safety. The hurt was bad but I kept going. And then when nighttime came, I went to the mill and set a spark to the straw there. It went up so fast. It didn't make a sound. I thought it would be loud, all that flame. But it wasn't even a whisper.”
I grit my teeth.
Sylvia stands and begins to drop her stones again. “I could see the flames from Bethel Church Road, that's how high the mill burned. I was glad; Tommy could leave. I didn't know they were in there. I didn't know. I didn't know. I did right by helping. I didn't cry, either. Not then and not later, when I lost the last apple. It fell. No one believes that, but I know it's out there, growing. It's waiting for me. I can show you where. I'll take you there. Sh. It's a secret.”
The siren sounds, and it is time to return. Sylvia skips inside, lighter now. She is unburdened. She is cleansed in the telling of her secret.
Guilty.
If there is a scale, I have become the weighted opposite. There is a part that nags, a sliver caught under nail that continues to wound. I try to snag the file without notice, but Betty's eyes are sharp as ever. Her eyes are laughing as she sees my burden.
“It was a matter of time,” she says. “Arsonist. Murderer. You feel foolish now, don't you? Who can feel pity for one that kills their own baby? Nutjob.”
My breath hitches. “Baby?”
“She has you snowed!” Betty delights in cruelty. “That apple she's always talking about? She can't face the fact that she drowned her own baby. Set fire to the Hearthorn mill, walked a mile into the woods and dropped the thing into the River Raisin, cool as you'd please. As if no one would notice. Triple homicide. She's never getting out of here. And I hear tell she's never been right in the head since. Although I don't know she was all there to begin with. Probably why Tom was going to leave her, that's what they said in court, anyway.”
There is a sort of sick in my gut that won't leave. It grows throughout the days as I watch Sylvia cradle her apple-her baby-and drop it over and over again, yearning to have it back. She acts it out every waking moment, and as I finally see her torment for what it is, I understand she will never be free. I cannot stay here any longer. I have done all I can, and it will never be enough.
On my last day, I walk past my replacement at the gate. I can tell it is her, because they rarely get new staff, and my reassignment will have left a hole. This girl looks too young and nervous to be effective.
“Any words of advice?” she asks as we pass. “I hear this assignment is a real baptism by fire.”
There is so much to say, too much, but in the end I just smile and wish her luck. I keep my eyes down and it is a long walk back to the car.
Author: Keppiehed
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: adult themes
Word Count: 1758
Prompt: “baptism by fire”
A/N: Written for week #1 of Brigits_flame. Places (and Betty) are real, but the rest is fiction. Also, this is for Elinor, who asked for a story with this title. I am not sure it all made a lot of sense, though!
On the banks of the River Raisin, past the swell and rush of the body proper and down where the violets run riot, is the last of the Hearthorn trees in the county. Sylvia and I are the only ones who know it's there; she offered to show me one night. “Sh,” she'd said. “It's a secret.”
Secret
I like to imagine how she had cradled her burden as she made her way down the long dark of Bethel Church Road, climbing into the wall of ivy and losing herself in the wilds until she came to the place that called to some part of her and made itself seem perfect. In my mind's eye, I can see her squatting in the dimness to scoop a hollow out of ground, the earth moist in her palm. She hadn't wanted to let go of the apple. It had warmed to her hand, and the night air held an edge. This was a part of him. She'd chosen his favorite kind. How could she leave it to moulder?
Knowing Sylvia, her indecision might have rooted her until dawn, but a rogue wavelet from the river splashed over her foot. The water was already near to freezing, even this early fall. The jolt took her breath away and she dropped the apple into the river where it bobbed into eddies and around swirls as if it did not realize its peril. Before Sylvia could throw herself after it-and I could see her preparing to leap; she was the dramatic sort-it was swept downstream in the quiet current and was lost to the night.
It is easy to imagine, because she told the story the same way every time. In my own head I see her disbelief, her empty hands stretching, like she does when she has dropped a stone beyond the gate as she is wont to do. But I do not know if she reached or stood there unmoving. I do know she didn't cry because she told me so. She said it with pride, and always asked me if that was okay. I tell her it was.
The other nurses shake their heads and tell me not to pity her; she is a criminal like all the rest and I would do well to stay sharp and mind my own business. Yet I find myself drawn to her as she cries in the night.
“Pshaw,” Betty says. “They all cry in the night. Guilty.”
Guilty
That may be true, but the rest are blank or vicious, at least as far as I can tell. This one is only sad to her bones. And there is never harm in listening.
Fall is the worst. Most of the patients are troubled around the holidays, but Sylvia gets restless in the autumn. The first year I started in the spring, and I was unprepared for the swing in store.
“See? I told you she was just like the others.” Betty says this with a smile unconcealed. She is righteous in her victory.
I keep my head bent, biting my lip. Sylvia's mercurial temperament is not my concern. Why should I care what happens to her more than the others? This is a rotation, nothing more.
But a year turns into two and after that there is no point in keeping track of time spent at Willowood. More people come and less leave, and all the while Sylvia cries at night and especially when the weather turns crisp around the edges. She never answers when you ask her why.
“Everyone knows anyway,” Betty whispers. “Haven't you ever checked her chart? She's your pet, after all. You should know something of her history. If you knew what she had done you wouldn't think she was such an angel.”
Secret
Guilty
Of course she is here for a reason, but I find the idea of reading her history a betrayal of sorts. She will tell me when she is ready. She has already begun to, in her own way.
The stones drop at the over and over, her arm stretching between the gates until her arm looks close to separating from the shoulder. Her body is pressed tight to the bars, but I allow it because she has no intent of escape. She holds a medium sized rock in her grasp and lets it fall, her eyes glassy and faraway as the stone rolls down the slope. She repeats the ritual the entire allotted free time in the yard, even though Dr. Bailey has tried to engage her interests elsewhere.
“It's there,” she says one time, turning from the bars so fast I feared she might do herself an injury. “It's there, I can show you. I meant to plant it, but it is better this way. Secret. But by now it will be tall enough to find. It will have apples. Have you ever been downstream?”
I shake my head.
“I used to live there, you know. Across the way.”
I stand very still.
Sylvia slides to the ground and plucks a strand of grass and tells me something I have never heard before. “We were going to get married. Me and Tommy. I knew it from the time we were little. We were always together, me and him. Only he didn't want to stay here. Said he was meant for more.” Sylvia frowns. “What do people mean when they say that, I wonder? I never did understand. More what? More sky? More earth? He had all the apples he could hold. What more could he want?” She looks at the blade of grass in her hand and seems surprised, as if she was expecting it to be something else. She throws it down.
“I think,” I say, “that people want to see the world. Maybe.”
“He had a fight,” she says. “His father wanted him to stay at the mill. But Tommy didn't want to. Said he wanted to leave and get out of this town.” She laughs, but it is not a happy sound. I have been here so long I have forgotten that laughter has ever been from joy.
I wait.
“His father was like that. Always telling Tommy what to do. Telling him to stay for family. To be a man. To stay for me.” Sylvia wraps her arms around herself. “Because of me?”
I press my lips together.
Sylvia's words are a stream that can't be stopped. “I was always hiding, in the loft, near the press. Oh, the way the cider smells when you are pressing … there's nothing like it. Tommy didn't love it like I did. But I could show him. If his father wouldn't help him, I would. If he wanted to go to the city, I could free him. I could save him, save it for later when he was ready for us. I picked his favorite one. It took me all day to find it. I had to climb to the top of the tree. Something hurt, I remember. It got worse and worse, but I climbed. I twisted it off just the right way and kept it in my apron pocket for safety. The hurt was bad but I kept going. And then when nighttime came, I went to the mill and set a spark to the straw there. It went up so fast. It didn't make a sound. I thought it would be loud, all that flame. But it wasn't even a whisper.”
I grit my teeth.
Sylvia stands and begins to drop her stones again. “I could see the flames from Bethel Church Road, that's how high the mill burned. I was glad; Tommy could leave. I didn't know they were in there. I didn't know. I didn't know. I did right by helping. I didn't cry, either. Not then and not later, when I lost the last apple. It fell. No one believes that, but I know it's out there, growing. It's waiting for me. I can show you where. I'll take you there. Sh. It's a secret.”
The siren sounds, and it is time to return. Sylvia skips inside, lighter now. She is unburdened. She is cleansed in the telling of her secret.
Guilty.
If there is a scale, I have become the weighted opposite. There is a part that nags, a sliver caught under nail that continues to wound. I try to snag the file without notice, but Betty's eyes are sharp as ever. Her eyes are laughing as she sees my burden.
“It was a matter of time,” she says. “Arsonist. Murderer. You feel foolish now, don't you? Who can feel pity for one that kills their own baby? Nutjob.”
My breath hitches. “Baby?”
“She has you snowed!” Betty delights in cruelty. “That apple she's always talking about? She can't face the fact that she drowned her own baby. Set fire to the Hearthorn mill, walked a mile into the woods and dropped the thing into the River Raisin, cool as you'd please. As if no one would notice. Triple homicide. She's never getting out of here. And I hear tell she's never been right in the head since. Although I don't know she was all there to begin with. Probably why Tom was going to leave her, that's what they said in court, anyway.”
There is a sort of sick in my gut that won't leave. It grows throughout the days as I watch Sylvia cradle her apple-her baby-and drop it over and over again, yearning to have it back. She acts it out every waking moment, and as I finally see her torment for what it is, I understand she will never be free. I cannot stay here any longer. I have done all I can, and it will never be enough.
On my last day, I walk past my replacement at the gate. I can tell it is her, because they rarely get new staff, and my reassignment will have left a hole. This girl looks too young and nervous to be effective.
“Any words of advice?” she asks as we pass. “I hear this assignment is a real baptism by fire.”
There is so much to say, too much, but in the end I just smile and wish her luck. I keep my eyes down and it is a long walk back to the car.