Nevermind the scenery, it's only bleeding
May. 13th, 2011 10:44 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
consumptivewife.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
bait_backup*Her world is a mess of tubes and anchors. Curving highways of vital fluid woven together like the grid of a small city, careening past the stable masses of photo albums and letters that dot her bed like breadcrumbs. They pin her there, under blankets and inside flesh, feeding her weight and dimension and a deep-seated nostalgia which fires up from under her ribs like the heat of a furnace. It would be wrong to say it’s peaceful, that’s usually what comes after - the imposed, permanent conclusion to a thoroughly unpleasant but matter-of-fact affair. And she does feel matter-of-fact. A faint half-amusement emerging at her analogy holding true right to the end.
It had been her private joke; Winky had never really understood it. But in a way, meeting with the Fudges was in fact quite a lot like dying. In that, with plenty of notice, dread and meticulous planning, she would arrive - precisely on time and well dressed. There is no elegance of surprise to illness, no luxury of ignorance or denial. Bernadette has known this morning was coming ten years ago the same as she had known last night. She'd known when Barty was only just learning to talk, when he'd still invaded this very bed out of fear of loneliness (it had never been monsters with her son). She had known every time she and her husband shared a silent, meaningful exchange. She had known when they had picked the music and the dress and the flowers. She'd known when they had decided on the grain and polish of the casket. But the knowledge is fraying, coming unwound as it approaches punctuality. She's right on time to be late, and for the first time it’s Crouch, Sr. who will miss an engagement.
It's better though not to wake him. She knows he'd think too much. He’s thinking too much even now, the most powerful man in wizarding Britain giving the odd, inexplicable twitch of shallow slumber. There had been a time when he had vowed he’d never miss a day of work, but he had declared he wouldn’t fall asleep either and yet here he is, draped across a bedside chair, looking less a politician and more a Halloween ornament. She almost laughs at the thought, half-faded painkillers causing her mind to fold in strange, unexpected ways, like her once fruitless attempt at origami. Her hand is empty now, both of colourful squares of parchment and familiar, comforting fingers. Crouch, Sr.’s hand had slipped from the bed - she can't reach it again.
Other things are slipping too, so much has slipped.
The vague mementos and sentimentalities around her are next, fading from her peripheral until she can no longer pinpoint their presence. It feels distinctly ugly, a squelching, visceral and mucous-y exit. Or perhaps it's HER that’s squelching away, her body coughing her up like rain boots being pulled from a mire. And just like that Bernadete stops blinking, lids caught beyond the curve of glazed eyes.
The morning is like something rubbed raw, hazy and damp and pink. *
It had been her private joke; Winky had never really understood it. But in a way, meeting with the Fudges was in fact quite a lot like dying. In that, with plenty of notice, dread and meticulous planning, she would arrive - precisely on time and well dressed. There is no elegance of surprise to illness, no luxury of ignorance or denial. Bernadette has known this morning was coming ten years ago the same as she had known last night. She'd known when Barty was only just learning to talk, when he'd still invaded this very bed out of fear of loneliness (it had never been monsters with her son). She had known every time she and her husband shared a silent, meaningful exchange. She had known when they had picked the music and the dress and the flowers. She'd known when they had decided on the grain and polish of the casket. But the knowledge is fraying, coming unwound as it approaches punctuality. She's right on time to be late, and for the first time it’s Crouch, Sr. who will miss an engagement.
It's better though not to wake him. She knows he'd think too much. He’s thinking too much even now, the most powerful man in wizarding Britain giving the odd, inexplicable twitch of shallow slumber. There had been a time when he had vowed he’d never miss a day of work, but he had declared he wouldn’t fall asleep either and yet here he is, draped across a bedside chair, looking less a politician and more a Halloween ornament. She almost laughs at the thought, half-faded painkillers causing her mind to fold in strange, unexpected ways, like her once fruitless attempt at origami. Her hand is empty now, both of colourful squares of parchment and familiar, comforting fingers. Crouch, Sr.’s hand had slipped from the bed - she can't reach it again.
Other things are slipping too, so much has slipped.
The vague mementos and sentimentalities around her are next, fading from her peripheral until she can no longer pinpoint their presence. It feels distinctly ugly, a squelching, visceral and mucous-y exit. Or perhaps it's HER that’s squelching away, her body coughing her up like rain boots being pulled from a mire. And just like that Bernadete stops blinking, lids caught beyond the curve of glazed eyes.
The morning is like something rubbed raw, hazy and damp and pink. *
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}