And take what you will tonight, I'll give it as fast And high as the flame will rise, Nucky, R (tw: two racial slurs, suicide references, and murder)
There are times you dream.
Not of the war memorial, or what came before that although when you wake your hand always hurts but you’re never sure if it’s from the fire poker or the gun shot that missed. Those things don’t enter your mind, like when June says Eli’s wrote and you never ask about what but simply cut the check, blot it and pass it along. Margaret seems to understand better than most and tugs Teddy and Emily, claiming a headache. You’re thankful for moments like that and can almost remember loving her.
And the nights you dream of her clutching your straight razor flee.
She would never. She doesn’t need you that much.
Emily still wakes up, crying. She mews like Jimmy did when the fever took him and Gillian of course wasn’t there because how could she risk losing him to the malaria. So it was you, sleeves rolled up humming something broken and tuneless because it wasn’t what you said that comforted James, it was that you said it. He thought you carried the world once.
His fingers used to toy with the carnation on your lapel like Emily does occasionally.
And he was choking when you left him until you finished it like a wounded stag, like he was some thoughtless beast...
Eventually, June stops telling you about the letters when they come and the children know better than to stumble into your office- full of laughter and sticky fingers.
Rothstein is a blessing in his manner, Chalky too- even when you ask after children boiled into matzoh soup or how dark is a coon’s age because you want to see how far you can push, how deep you can wound. They handle the details, but as chamberlains or king regents you worry but never for long.
There are times you dream of them like spiders, poisoned silk under your fingernails pulling and tugging until you scream, and scream and scream…
And you wake, mangy flower still clutching to your coat like a child hiding from a nightmare.
There are times you dream.
Not of the war memorial, or what came before that although when you wake your hand always hurts but you’re never sure if it’s from the fire poker or the gun shot that missed. Those things don’t enter your mind, like when June says Eli’s wrote and you never ask about what but simply cut the check, blot it and pass it along. Margaret seems to understand better than most and tugs Teddy and Emily, claiming a headache. You’re thankful for moments like that and can almost remember loving her.
And the nights you dream of her clutching your straight razor flee.
She would never. She doesn’t need you that much.
Emily still wakes up, crying. She mews like Jimmy did when the fever took him and Gillian of course wasn’t there because how could she risk losing him to the malaria. So it was you, sleeves rolled up humming something broken and tuneless because it wasn’t what you said that comforted James, it was that you said it. He thought you carried the world once.
His fingers used to toy with the carnation on your lapel like Emily does occasionally.
And he was choking when you left him until you finished it like a wounded stag, like he was some thoughtless beast...
Eventually, June stops telling you about the letters when they come and the children know better than to stumble into your office- full of laughter and sticky fingers.
Rothstein is a blessing in his manner, Chalky too- even when you ask after children boiled into matzoh soup or how dark is a coon’s age because you want to see how far you can push, how deep you can wound. They handle the details, but as chamberlains or king regents you worry but never for long.
There are times you dream of them like spiders, poisoned silk under your fingernails pulling and tugging until you scream, and scream and scream…
And you wake, mangy flower still clutching to your coat like a child hiding from a nightmare.
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