Amalia
The bed shifts; the body moves. Amalia is aware of it; she feels it acutely in her skin, every nerve tingling as he draws near, yet her mind remains adrift. This is not her: it cannot be, for who is she to be here, alive, deserving of his presence, his forgiveness, his friendship, his life? She who nearly lost it all, she who still feels Ludo's touch. The antler is her only anchor, red as blood, red as life. White knuckles that are not hers grasp the thing. It feels real in her palms.
She does not move when he draws near. She has forgotten how to, it seems.
The silence that surrounds them stretches on, a beat, another, into eternity. It pushes like cotton into her throat, dry and stifling, freezing her in place. It is worse, somehow, than the silence of death: at least there she knew what was coming, could see the warmth at the end of the chasm and felt a merciful freedom from fear. Now she is too exhausted for terror. Wrapped in a cocoon of weary guilt, her memories still slow fits and spurts, she is not afraid of Rory's rejection. It is inevitable, she knows, as much as he may delay it. She has caused this. It is her fault.
Her mother is not here. Her grandmother is dead. And in her effort to find them, she nearly brought him along.
Finally, he speaks, and the thing he says is a slap on the back, a blow which deflates the wind from her sails. What is she apologizing for...? "Everything," she whispers back, eyes never leaving the antler in her hand. As though by focusing on that she can disappear into it, shrink down and bleed into bone and light, shattered by the turmoil inside her chest until there is nothing, nothing nothing left to break.
The lightest of touches; an arm on her back. A shuddering sob ripples through the room. She is surprised to realize it comes from her.
She is not sure how long she cries. Like everything else, it is distant, removed, an experience that is happening to her rather than being had. The honey hair which frames her face hides the tears from view, but her body ripples and rolls as she cries, and the snot which leaves her is not subtle.
Seconds - minutes - hours later, Amalia takes a breath. "I died," the broken girl whispers, her deep voice void of inflection. It is empty, just like her. "I died, and I saw them... and I wanted to stay. I wanted to run away from what I had done."
Anger flashes across her face, and her hands bite deeper into the antler. Her body is shaking, though not from fear. There is fire in here now, but it does not burn hot. "I'm a coward."
She does not move when he draws near. She has forgotten how to, it seems.
The silence that surrounds them stretches on, a beat, another, into eternity. It pushes like cotton into her throat, dry and stifling, freezing her in place. It is worse, somehow, than the silence of death: at least there she knew what was coming, could see the warmth at the end of the chasm and felt a merciful freedom from fear. Now she is too exhausted for terror. Wrapped in a cocoon of weary guilt, her memories still slow fits and spurts, she is not afraid of Rory's rejection. It is inevitable, she knows, as much as he may delay it. She has caused this. It is her fault.
Her mother is not here. Her grandmother is dead. And in her effort to find them, she nearly brought him along.
Finally, he speaks, and the thing he says is a slap on the back, a blow which deflates the wind from her sails. What is she apologizing for...? "Everything," she whispers back, eyes never leaving the antler in her hand. As though by focusing on that she can disappear into it, shrink down and bleed into bone and light, shattered by the turmoil inside her chest until there is nothing, nothing nothing left to break.
The lightest of touches; an arm on her back. A shuddering sob ripples through the room. She is surprised to realize it comes from her.
She is not sure how long she cries. Like everything else, it is distant, removed, an experience that is happening to her rather than being had. The honey hair which frames her face hides the tears from view, but her body ripples and rolls as she cries, and the snot which leaves her is not subtle.
Seconds - minutes - hours later, Amalia takes a breath. "I died," the broken girl whispers, her deep voice void of inflection. It is empty, just like her. "I died, and I saw them... and I wanted to stay. I wanted to run away from what I had done."
Anger flashes across her face, and her hands bite deeper into the antler. Her body is shaking, though not from fear. There is fire in here now, but it does not burn hot. "I'm a coward."
