Celie, Avery and Threnody - The Non-Cam Girls
She wasn’t behaving the way she should.
Five months, and no thought to a name, no bets on gender or inviting John to lay a hand on her stomach, no thought really at all to the child growing inside her. Not growing - gestating. She could try to convince herself it was the chaos of life around her; she could say, over and over, that it was because there were more important things to worry about than a fetus. She could even offer the excuse that she was just a bad mother and didn’t have a maternal instinct at all.
They would all be lies.
She was afraid.
It was a lesson all farm-girls learned early with the livestock - don’t love something, don’t name something that’s only going to be taken away from you in the end. And that was, she was convinced, exactly what was going to happen to her. Just like in the hospital, they’d come and they’d take it away. And if she could stay distant, that’s all it would be when the time came - an ‘it’.
She grieved because it was a terrible thing to do to Ben. His ghost whispered in her ear to love this child, let John love it, to love it for Ben because Ben was dead and couldn’t be there to love it himself.
But Ben was dead. She’d loved Ben, too, as much as if he were her brother, her blood kin. And he’d been taken from her as well.
Hearing Moody talk about the Omega Group terrified her. She was powerless against them if they wanted to take this baby from her. If the CIA and the FBI en masse couldn’t even learn who they were, she certainly had no hope of standing against them.
Keep it at a distance, then. And close your eyes when it’s time to say good-bye.
~*~
It was a very simple, rather clean Hell. The same scenario, over and over. Over and Over.
A corridor that split off in two directions. They asked her which way. She thought, chose, and said ‘right’. They went right. She watched them walk down the hall, standing there at the crossroads. The corridor exploded. She saw them blown into pieces.
They were there with her again. They asked her which way. She thought, chose, and said ‘left’ this time. They went left. She watched them walk down the hall, standing there at the crossroad. The corridor exploded. She saw them blown into pieces.
This was her Hell. Always making the wrong decision. Always sending her crew to their deaths. No matter what she chose. No matter what.
~*~
How can I sleep, now? When he tells me Tom might not have been dead. That I may have knocked him unconscious and put him in that coffin and let him be buried. I may have buried my husband alive.
Or, if not, then the other possibility is that my husband returned from the dead and tried to murder me.
Either way, the thought keeps me rather distracted from commenting on the weather at Longchamps when Emilia asks me.
How do I tell her my concern with the climate lies solely in wondering if it will rain the night we go to dig up my spouse?
If he wants to do it the night of Countess de Rothes’ recital, how will I make excuse?
Five months, and no thought to a name, no bets on gender or inviting John to lay a hand on her stomach, no thought really at all to the child growing inside her. Not growing - gestating. She could try to convince herself it was the chaos of life around her; she could say, over and over, that it was because there were more important things to worry about than a fetus. She could even offer the excuse that she was just a bad mother and didn’t have a maternal instinct at all.
They would all be lies.
She was afraid.
It was a lesson all farm-girls learned early with the livestock - don’t love something, don’t name something that’s only going to be taken away from you in the end. And that was, she was convinced, exactly what was going to happen to her. Just like in the hospital, they’d come and they’d take it away. And if she could stay distant, that’s all it would be when the time came - an ‘it’.
She grieved because it was a terrible thing to do to Ben. His ghost whispered in her ear to love this child, let John love it, to love it for Ben because Ben was dead and couldn’t be there to love it himself.
But Ben was dead. She’d loved Ben, too, as much as if he were her brother, her blood kin. And he’d been taken from her as well.
Hearing Moody talk about the Omega Group terrified her. She was powerless against them if they wanted to take this baby from her. If the CIA and the FBI en masse couldn’t even learn who they were, she certainly had no hope of standing against them.
Keep it at a distance, then. And close your eyes when it’s time to say good-bye.
~*~
It was a very simple, rather clean Hell. The same scenario, over and over. Over and Over.
A corridor that split off in two directions. They asked her which way. She thought, chose, and said ‘right’. They went right. She watched them walk down the hall, standing there at the crossroads. The corridor exploded. She saw them blown into pieces.
They were there with her again. They asked her which way. She thought, chose, and said ‘left’ this time. They went left. She watched them walk down the hall, standing there at the crossroad. The corridor exploded. She saw them blown into pieces.
This was her Hell. Always making the wrong decision. Always sending her crew to their deaths. No matter what she chose. No matter what.
~*~
How can I sleep, now? When he tells me Tom might not have been dead. That I may have knocked him unconscious and put him in that coffin and let him be buried. I may have buried my husband alive.
Or, if not, then the other possibility is that my husband returned from the dead and tried to murder me.
Either way, the thought keeps me rather distracted from commenting on the weather at Longchamps when Emilia asks me.
How do I tell her my concern with the climate lies solely in wondering if it will rain the night we go to dig up my spouse?
If he wants to do it the night of Countess de Rothes’ recital, how will I make excuse?