you can see right through me.
This was in the notebook I used for the meeting last night. Cleaned up some, 'cause it was originally a timed free write, which equals unnecessarily repeated words and fuzzy logic.
when you knew:
The doctor stepped back and you knew. He looked at you, standing in the door like you were late for an appointment, and you knew it was all over, over, over even before the lines went flat and the alarm sounded.
You breathed in as your father breathed out, breathed his last breath for him, every breath he'd never have again. Breathed the last of him into you. You remembered and understood the family in Torrance who had eaten their father's body for a year after his death. Taken him in and kept him, made him a part of their family again.
You'll never tell Sam you thought of cannibalism when your father died. You'll never tell Sam the truth again.
Sam let his breath out, a loud exhale, and settled firmly on his feet. He'd been leaning forward, against your bruised and aching back. The place where his shoulder pressed felt cold as he went away. He shuddered behind you. His arm brushed your shoulder as he put his hands over his face. You couldn't look away from your father's body. Still, pale, bright blood, dead.
He punched the wall beside you and you swallowed, jerked. Sam. Will never be the same.
You have learned how to be detached and sufficient and you have learned how to let things go before they make you let them go. You're so good at it--maybe it's not all learning.
You exhale. You let go his last breath, all that's left of him, all he left behind.
You know Sam didn't breathe him in at all. You know that Sam will never let him go.
---
Recorded for posterity and also, I want to write the case!fic of that family in Torrance someday.
In other news, things are strange right now. Changing. The meeting last night went well, but in retrospect I have a few concerns. E-mails forthcoming (going?). Also, I fucked up with the bf and so (things will be okay. THEY WILL. I am capable of doing three simple things consistently. Christ on a cracker). I didn't get a lot of sleep. It's probably showing. Okay.
Bye.
when you knew:
The doctor stepped back and you knew. He looked at you, standing in the door like you were late for an appointment, and you knew it was all over, over, over even before the lines went flat and the alarm sounded.
You breathed in as your father breathed out, breathed his last breath for him, every breath he'd never have again. Breathed the last of him into you. You remembered and understood the family in Torrance who had eaten their father's body for a year after his death. Taken him in and kept him, made him a part of their family again.
You'll never tell Sam you thought of cannibalism when your father died. You'll never tell Sam the truth again.
Sam let his breath out, a loud exhale, and settled firmly on his feet. He'd been leaning forward, against your bruised and aching back. The place where his shoulder pressed felt cold as he went away. He shuddered behind you. His arm brushed your shoulder as he put his hands over his face. You couldn't look away from your father's body. Still, pale, bright blood, dead.
He punched the wall beside you and you swallowed, jerked. Sam. Will never be the same.
You have learned how to be detached and sufficient and you have learned how to let things go before they make you let them go. You're so good at it--maybe it's not all learning.
You exhale. You let go his last breath, all that's left of him, all he left behind.
You know Sam didn't breathe him in at all. You know that Sam will never let him go.
---
Recorded for posterity and also, I want to write the case!fic of that family in Torrance someday.
In other news, things are strange right now. Changing. The meeting last night went well, but in retrospect I have a few concerns. E-mails forthcoming (going?). Also, I fucked up with the bf and so (things will be okay. THEY WILL. I am capable of doing three simple things consistently. Christ on a cracker). I didn't get a lot of sleep. It's probably showing. Okay.
Bye.