Ficlet: "Numb", Nathaniel Essex, gen with a touch of angst/dark.
Title: Numb
Author: Sionnain
Character: Nathaniel Essex (Mr. Sinister), references canon pairing.
Prompt: For the Party Prompt at Theatrical_Muse, and also, the song Every Body's Numb from my Ficalbum claim of Harpo's Ghost.
Rating: T for themes.
Summary: Sometimes a moment of madness leads to a moment of perfect clarity. This was one such moment for Nathaniel Essex, the man who would become Sinister.
Word Count: 797
AN: I'm always fascinated by Nathaniel Essex before he became Sinister. Not a good man, exactly, but not exactly a monster--yet. I like looking at how personal tragedy made him do such great and terrible things.
Numb
She has set the table with the good tea-set, the one we only are to use in case the Queen comes calling. Delicate cups of jade green, complete with petit fours arranged artfully on little saucers. Rebecca is dressed in a gown of pale blue, festooned with ribbons. There is a great red bow tied around one of the chairs at the table, with a new stuffed bear reposing on the seat. Place-cards adorn the table, in Rebecca's elegant script. Adam, reads the one in front of the bear. Father, reads the next.
"Nathaniel," she says, sounding rather vexed, "You are not dressed for a party. They shall be here, any moment now. Do go and change." She approaches me, and puts her hands on my lapels, smoothing at my jacket. Rebecca has barely looked at me, it seems, in several weeks. Perhaps it is more correct to say she does not see me. Her hands, as I look down, are small. Trembling, slightly. Her body understands what her mind does not.
"I do not think we are expecting guests, Rebecca," I say. One has to be careful; the littlest thing can cause her to be most dreadfully overset.
"Of course we are, Nathaniel," she trills, laughing. There is something a bit off about her laughter. "The birthday party. It's Adam's birthday. We are to have a party. You did promise," she says, pouting. I recall that expression from when we were young, and courting. It used to make me smile that she would affect such wiles with me, a most sensible man. Because such wiles, they work, darling, she would say, and kiss me.
Rebecca has not called me darling for many months. This is the first time in weeks I recall her addressing me by name.
There are presents on the table. I do not know from whence they have come. "Of course, we shall have a party. If you wish it." I go upstairs to change. I stare at myself in the mirror for a long time. My eyes are tired, with shadows beneath. I do not want to go downstairs. This is the first time, in weeks, I have heard my wife's laughter. There is a sudden scream, and a sound of something breaking. Footfalls fast and furious, and the door to the room beside mine closes with a vengeance.
When I come back down, Rebecca is gone. I see that the china cups are shattered, on the table, in a great mass of broken porcelain. The windows are open, and the light spills into the room. Molly, the house girl, is standing in the center of the room looking perplexed.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Essex," the girl says, her eyes wide. "I--I just wanted to open the windows. Let a little light in, for Mrs. Essex. Since she...seemed to be doing so well today...I am sorry, sir," the girl says, her face wreathed in worry. She is the third such house girl we have employed in months. They do not know how to deal with Rebecca. They do things like this.
There are dust motes dancing in the light. Outside, I can see the circle of the mourning wreath, hung with black, against the pane of the window. Adam has been dead for six months. It is not his birthday. Molly is sniffling, picking up the porcelain pieces, shaking her head. Upstairs, my wife will have taken to her bed, likely not to arise for weeks. I help Molly clean the mess, much to her disdain, and I slice my finger open on one of the shards. That night, when I bring Rebecca tea laced with laudanum so she shall sleep, she twines her fingers in my hair and sobs against my mouth. Her body is so brittle beneath my hands, I am afraid she shall break. I do not think she wants this. I do not want this. In my mind she is someone else. In her mind, she is faraway, at a child's birthday party.
When Rebecca tells me with trembling joy, two months later, that she is to bear my child--I think of that ill-fated party, and the blood on my fingers. I think of blood; hers and mine. An idea begins to grow, terrible and great, even as my child grows within my wife. Never again will I allow my wife to go slowly mad. Never again will I hang mourning wreaths on my windows. The next night, I go outside to look at the moon. It was recently new, and there is only a sliver breaking the darkened sky. I shall need to wait for it to full again. I shall need the light.
Author: Sionnain
Character: Nathaniel Essex (Mr. Sinister), references canon pairing.
Prompt: For the Party Prompt at Theatrical_Muse, and also, the song Every Body's Numb from my Ficalbum claim of Harpo's Ghost.
Rating: T for themes.
Summary: Sometimes a moment of madness leads to a moment of perfect clarity. This was one such moment for Nathaniel Essex, the man who would become Sinister.
Word Count: 797
AN: I'm always fascinated by Nathaniel Essex before he became Sinister. Not a good man, exactly, but not exactly a monster--yet. I like looking at how personal tragedy made him do such great and terrible things.
Numb
She has set the table with the good tea-set, the one we only are to use in case the Queen comes calling. Delicate cups of jade green, complete with petit fours arranged artfully on little saucers. Rebecca is dressed in a gown of pale blue, festooned with ribbons. There is a great red bow tied around one of the chairs at the table, with a new stuffed bear reposing on the seat. Place-cards adorn the table, in Rebecca's elegant script. Adam, reads the one in front of the bear. Father, reads the next.
"Nathaniel," she says, sounding rather vexed, "You are not dressed for a party. They shall be here, any moment now. Do go and change." She approaches me, and puts her hands on my lapels, smoothing at my jacket. Rebecca has barely looked at me, it seems, in several weeks. Perhaps it is more correct to say she does not see me. Her hands, as I look down, are small. Trembling, slightly. Her body understands what her mind does not.
"I do not think we are expecting guests, Rebecca," I say. One has to be careful; the littlest thing can cause her to be most dreadfully overset.
"Of course we are, Nathaniel," she trills, laughing. There is something a bit off about her laughter. "The birthday party. It's Adam's birthday. We are to have a party. You did promise," she says, pouting. I recall that expression from when we were young, and courting. It used to make me smile that she would affect such wiles with me, a most sensible man. Because such wiles, they work, darling, she would say, and kiss me.
Rebecca has not called me darling for many months. This is the first time in weeks I recall her addressing me by name.
There are presents on the table. I do not know from whence they have come. "Of course, we shall have a party. If you wish it." I go upstairs to change. I stare at myself in the mirror for a long time. My eyes are tired, with shadows beneath. I do not want to go downstairs. This is the first time, in weeks, I have heard my wife's laughter. There is a sudden scream, and a sound of something breaking. Footfalls fast and furious, and the door to the room beside mine closes with a vengeance.
When I come back down, Rebecca is gone. I see that the china cups are shattered, on the table, in a great mass of broken porcelain. The windows are open, and the light spills into the room. Molly, the house girl, is standing in the center of the room looking perplexed.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Essex," the girl says, her eyes wide. "I--I just wanted to open the windows. Let a little light in, for Mrs. Essex. Since she...seemed to be doing so well today...I am sorry, sir," the girl says, her face wreathed in worry. She is the third such house girl we have employed in months. They do not know how to deal with Rebecca. They do things like this.
There are dust motes dancing in the light. Outside, I can see the circle of the mourning wreath, hung with black, against the pane of the window. Adam has been dead for six months. It is not his birthday. Molly is sniffling, picking up the porcelain pieces, shaking her head. Upstairs, my wife will have taken to her bed, likely not to arise for weeks. I help Molly clean the mess, much to her disdain, and I slice my finger open on one of the shards. That night, when I bring Rebecca tea laced with laudanum so she shall sleep, she twines her fingers in my hair and sobs against my mouth. Her body is so brittle beneath my hands, I am afraid she shall break. I do not think she wants this. I do not want this. In my mind she is someone else. In her mind, she is faraway, at a child's birthday party.
When Rebecca tells me with trembling joy, two months later, that she is to bear my child--I think of that ill-fated party, and the blood on my fingers. I think of blood; hers and mine. An idea begins to grow, terrible and great, even as my child grows within my wife. Never again will I allow my wife to go slowly mad. Never again will I hang mourning wreaths on my windows. The next night, I go outside to look at the moon. It was recently new, and there is only a sliver breaking the darkened sky. I shall need to wait for it to full again. I shall need the light.