(no subject)
The Island, strange as it is, is good to Daisy Adair, she firmly believes.
It's three days away until a moment in her life that she can't get over, even sixty-plus years later and she feels like she could burn up and die all over again and again and the heat only makes that even more of a possibility. She likes to think that maybe, just maybe, the way it snows is a gift to herself, a way of saying 'We know life's been a piece of crap, Miss Adair, so have this consolation prize'. Her boots crunch in the snow as she walks through the paths and doesn't mind the cold so much (she hasn't since those days in France and Belgium and Holland and those brave boys with their beliefs and their war).
She's early this year. She's early by three days and so maybe it's only the Tenth of December and not the thirteenth, but it's not as if she has a gravestone to honor. The only person who knows the meaning of the thirteen of December 1938 is her and her alone because Rube isn't there and neither is dear Georgia and certainly not Mason or Roxy.
So there she is in that little urn and there she is clutching it to her fur-covered chest and she adjusts it, brushing the snow off and smiling nostalgically.
"And here you thought that man just wanted a good grope of your behind," she remarks with a rueful shake of her head. She'd been a silly girl, as a mortal. Flighty, the sort that didn't learn the weight of life until death had taken it from her. "At least you figured out real quick that's the best way to pop a soul," she brightly adds, even if there's no audience to be had.
A good actress knows to always be on.
"Here's to our sixty-fourth anniversary," she murmurs and rubs at the side of the urn to try and give it a real spit-polish before it goes back to where it belongs. "I was hoping we wouldn't have this many, but if those plague boys are still around, who knows." As if somehow murder would go out of style. But you never ever knew.
Daisy, mindful of the invisible eyes, is discreet as she sets the urn down on the stage long enough to wipe at the tears on her cheeks and she knows better than to call attention to it. All she knows is this one thing. Your last thought repeats itself over and over again, when it really matters. It doesn't disappear like the feelings you can repress. It stays. It lingers. It haunts.
Why has no one ever loved me?
It's three days away until a moment in her life that she can't get over, even sixty-plus years later and she feels like she could burn up and die all over again and again and the heat only makes that even more of a possibility. She likes to think that maybe, just maybe, the way it snows is a gift to herself, a way of saying 'We know life's been a piece of crap, Miss Adair, so have this consolation prize'. Her boots crunch in the snow as she walks through the paths and doesn't mind the cold so much (she hasn't since those days in France and Belgium and Holland and those brave boys with their beliefs and their war).
She's early this year. She's early by three days and so maybe it's only the Tenth of December and not the thirteenth, but it's not as if she has a gravestone to honor. The only person who knows the meaning of the thirteen of December 1938 is her and her alone because Rube isn't there and neither is dear Georgia and certainly not Mason or Roxy.
So there she is in that little urn and there she is clutching it to her fur-covered chest and she adjusts it, brushing the snow off and smiling nostalgically.
"And here you thought that man just wanted a good grope of your behind," she remarks with a rueful shake of her head. She'd been a silly girl, as a mortal. Flighty, the sort that didn't learn the weight of life until death had taken it from her. "At least you figured out real quick that's the best way to pop a soul," she brightly adds, even if there's no audience to be had.
A good actress knows to always be on.
"Here's to our sixty-fourth anniversary," she murmurs and rubs at the side of the urn to try and give it a real spit-polish before it goes back to where it belongs. "I was hoping we wouldn't have this many, but if those plague boys are still around, who knows." As if somehow murder would go out of style. But you never ever knew.
Daisy, mindful of the invisible eyes, is discreet as she sets the urn down on the stage long enough to wipe at the tears on her cheeks and she knows better than to call attention to it. All she knows is this one thing. Your last thought repeats itself over and over again, when it really matters. It doesn't disappear like the feelings you can repress. It stays. It lingers. It haunts.
Why has no one ever loved me?