1927, Philadelphia
It's impossible to say the first night is the worse. Or the week following.
Carlisle had all but literally shut down when the door closed, that first night.
Then he'd demolished the piano bench on the second day, when she hadn't been sure he'd move at all. She hadn't been in the room, but she'd come back to him staring at the mess on the floor and in his hands. The only words he'd spoken that whole day, being a retort 'Did you want to sit there?' when she commented on it.
Whatever she'd said after that was lost on deaf ears, but she'd cleaned it up and sat by him.
Day three and four and five were remarkably alike. She didn't leave the house because there was nowhere else she would go while he wasn't leaving. He let himself be led, but didn't do anything specifically. Even when he'd rise as though with intention it seemed to get lost before anything ever made it.
She spent much of her time on those day reading to him from a book. Any book nearby that she hadn't seen Edward reading recently or heard them talk about (and how rare that was). Never once saying she felt like her mistake had helped lead to this, not giving voice to her own inner world of emotions that rocked both the leaving and the left. The house, even full of her voice, was not the expression of her sorrow or anger, both of which turned over each other daily.
When Monday came and she found him again in that chair looking out the window, blank of any receptive thought toward it, she'd bit her lip and walked in quietly. A hand curved gently around the crook of his neck and shoulder when she kissed his temple, saying softly, "It's a lovely sunrise."
Carlisle had all but literally shut down when the door closed, that first night.
Then he'd demolished the piano bench on the second day, when she hadn't been sure he'd move at all. She hadn't been in the room, but she'd come back to him staring at the mess on the floor and in his hands. The only words he'd spoken that whole day, being a retort 'Did you want to sit there?' when she commented on it.
Whatever she'd said after that was lost on deaf ears, but she'd cleaned it up and sat by him.
Day three and four and five were remarkably alike. She didn't leave the house because there was nowhere else she would go while he wasn't leaving. He let himself be led, but didn't do anything specifically. Even when he'd rise as though with intention it seemed to get lost before anything ever made it.
She spent much of her time on those day reading to him from a book. Any book nearby that she hadn't seen Edward reading recently or heard them talk about (and how rare that was). Never once saying she felt like her mistake had helped lead to this, not giving voice to her own inner world of emotions that rocked both the leaving and the left. The house, even full of her voice, was not the expression of her sorrow or anger, both of which turned over each other daily.
When Monday came and she found him again in that chair looking out the window, blank of any receptive thought toward it, she'd bit her lip and walked in quietly. A hand curved gently around the crook of his neck and shoulder when she kissed his temple, saying softly, "It's a lovely sunrise."