[keeps moving]
i wrote post-deathly hallows fic. yes i know. i did it anyways. this is just the first one, but i can't post the other two as i sobbed so hard while writing them, they're going up later.
missed the sun (for orlanstamos)
YOUR BOY IS LIKE A MEMORY
WITH SOME SENSE OF TOUCH AND A MELODY
YOUR GIRL SHE'S A RENEGADE
A HURRICANE THAT KEEPS YOU THERE, SAFE
For hours, all she can do is just stand.
There’s not much moving, just her hands, folding them, and unfolding them, placing them on the flack counters, chipped and spotted, worn well, lived in, but she stays in the spot where she was standing when they told her. Frozen, she can’t move. There’s a reason to, she knows there is, there are things to do and to be done, and she has to keep moving, keep standing, but if she sits, stops standing at all, she’s not certain if she’ll ever stand again.
Her posture is rigid and it flows, a funny dance, as she thinks of the box under the stairs and the shed she can’t bear to go out to, no point, and she can’t cry. God, what sort of broken woman is she that she can’t cry for her own husband? The man who gave her a daughter? Who shared her life?
All she hears is ‘I’m so sorry’ in her head and she wants to forgive, but in the end she slams a fist on the counter and a teacup in its saucer rattles. She inhales, sharp and rigid, and reaches out both hands to needlessly straighten it.
When there’s nothing left to do, nothing left to stop her, all she can do is just carry on. Andromeda swallows, closes her eyes, inhaling through her nose and takes a step.
The world keeps moving. Dammit.
Nymphadora’s popped her head in, offered to make tea, to put a kettle on, but she won’t have her daughter doing something so foolish, so risky, when she can’t focus, can’t think straight should she burn herself. Make a mess, ruin things. Nymphadora knows not to press and her fool of a husband hasn’t come poking, which is for the best because she’s positive that the teacup would’ve wound up at his head.
She opens her eyes, and reaches out, hands shaking, pulling open the drawer to look down at the wooden box, all the cases ordering and keeping the silver separate yet equal. Such a stupid thing. She runs her fingers along the objects, tips to tops and from left to right, smoothing, straightening, making order where she can.
This is all she can do.
This is all she knows to do. Salad forks and soup spoons and steak knives and butter knives, all in their proper place, all by hand, no magic at all, tea spoons to the left and then she’s holding the sides of the drawer and shaking so hard everything might just break. A choking sound escapes her, from deep inside her chest, inside her where her heart or her soul might be and the tears roll hot and fast down her cheeks as she slides to the ground. Knees to the tile, hands white-knuckled as she gripes the side of the drawer and for a moment it looks like she’s praying.
There’s nothing to pray for, nothing that a thousand sorrys can fix, stupid, stupid man all noble and good and going down fighting and saving and not getting himself caught. She lets go of the drawer only to slam it.
She doesn’t even know how to use words any more, doesn’t know if she wants curse him or love him out loud or just say that she’s sorry. Nothing comes out anyways. Her hands just cover her face and her tears become silent ones.
Nothing moves, she can’t move, doesn’t dare.
Then with an inhale, unflattering and unglorious, she sniffs, brushing the tears and the blurred mascara off her cheeks with the backs off her hands. She stands, pushes the hair back from her face and puts the kettle on, smooth out her clothes.
“Would anyone care for some tea?” she asks taking one last look about the kitchen before walking from it.
When nothing else happens, she falls apart just to keep going on again.
missed the sun (for orlanstamos)
YOUR BOY IS LIKE A MEMORY
WITH SOME SENSE OF TOUCH AND A MELODY
YOUR GIRL SHE'S A RENEGADE
A HURRICANE THAT KEEPS YOU THERE, SAFE
For hours, all she can do is just stand.
There’s not much moving, just her hands, folding them, and unfolding them, placing them on the flack counters, chipped and spotted, worn well, lived in, but she stays in the spot where she was standing when they told her. Frozen, she can’t move. There’s a reason to, she knows there is, there are things to do and to be done, and she has to keep moving, keep standing, but if she sits, stops standing at all, she’s not certain if she’ll ever stand again.
Her posture is rigid and it flows, a funny dance, as she thinks of the box under the stairs and the shed she can’t bear to go out to, no point, and she can’t cry. God, what sort of broken woman is she that she can’t cry for her own husband? The man who gave her a daughter? Who shared her life?
All she hears is ‘I’m so sorry’ in her head and she wants to forgive, but in the end she slams a fist on the counter and a teacup in its saucer rattles. She inhales, sharp and rigid, and reaches out both hands to needlessly straighten it.
When there’s nothing left to do, nothing left to stop her, all she can do is just carry on. Andromeda swallows, closes her eyes, inhaling through her nose and takes a step.
The world keeps moving. Dammit.
Nymphadora’s popped her head in, offered to make tea, to put a kettle on, but she won’t have her daughter doing something so foolish, so risky, when she can’t focus, can’t think straight should she burn herself. Make a mess, ruin things. Nymphadora knows not to press and her fool of a husband hasn’t come poking, which is for the best because she’s positive that the teacup would’ve wound up at his head.
She opens her eyes, and reaches out, hands shaking, pulling open the drawer to look down at the wooden box, all the cases ordering and keeping the silver separate yet equal. Such a stupid thing. She runs her fingers along the objects, tips to tops and from left to right, smoothing, straightening, making order where she can.
This is all she can do.
This is all she knows to do. Salad forks and soup spoons and steak knives and butter knives, all in their proper place, all by hand, no magic at all, tea spoons to the left and then she’s holding the sides of the drawer and shaking so hard everything might just break. A choking sound escapes her, from deep inside her chest, inside her where her heart or her soul might be and the tears roll hot and fast down her cheeks as she slides to the ground. Knees to the tile, hands white-knuckled as she gripes the side of the drawer and for a moment it looks like she’s praying.
There’s nothing to pray for, nothing that a thousand sorrys can fix, stupid, stupid man all noble and good and going down fighting and saving and not getting himself caught. She lets go of the drawer only to slam it.
She doesn’t even know how to use words any more, doesn’t know if she wants curse him or love him out loud or just say that she’s sorry. Nothing comes out anyways. Her hands just cover her face and her tears become silent ones.
Nothing moves, she can’t move, doesn’t dare.
Then with an inhale, unflattering and unglorious, she sniffs, brushing the tears and the blurred mascara off her cheeks with the backs off her hands. She stands, pushes the hair back from her face and puts the kettle on, smooth out her clothes.
“Would anyone care for some tea?” she asks taking one last look about the kitchen before walking from it.
When nothing else happens, she falls apart just to keep going on again.