Story Post...
Dec. 3rd, 2004 09:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
athersgeoSometimes, my brain goes into hyperdrive. Most of the time, the end results are incoherent and not worth sharing. Sometimes they're even coherent enough to be posted as stories ("Scars" and "Brothers in Arms", anyone? ;)). Sometimes it's something in between. Like this.
For those who don't know, Annie is a creation of mine for the Identiverse saga. She basically only features in two stories, but for all that she's actually quite important.
For those who do know, the timing of this snippet-in-search-of-a-story is about eight-ten weeks after the events of "Mother's Boy".
Mommy
Annie lay sprawled across the bed. Her face throbbed from where Mac had hit her and she guessed her eye was swelling shut. She ought to go and find some ice, or something, for it, but that would require moving. She wasn't sure she could do that any time soon.
She heard footsteps outside the bedroom door. Hadn't Mac left already?
"Mommy?" The voice was high and childish. A moment later and its owner entered the room. "Mommy – got this." The voice's owner, a small, dark haired child with too serious an expression on his face, appeared in Annie's narrow field of vision, an ice pack clutched in his fist. He thrust the pack out. "For face."
In a distant corner of her mind, Annie was amused. The child was so steadfastly sticking to English, in memory of the promise he'd made, despite the fact that right here and now was clearly making him struggle to find the words.
He thrust the ice pack out again and, when she still didn't move, he gently applied it to her face. "Feel better?" he asked, tenderly stroking her hair with his free hand. "Mommy?"
This was wrong. Annie knew it. So wrong. And yet she couldn't stop it. It shouldn't be up to the child to care for her; it should be the other way round. She should be the one to care for him. Protect him.
But she couldn't.
Tears stung her good eye and her view of the child blurred.
"Don't cry." He petted her hair again and moved the ice pack, applying it to a different part of the bruising. "Don't cry."
Was it a trick of the light or was it her tears? The child seemed to be growing. Changing.
"Mom, please don't cry." Even the child's voice was different. It had lost the accent and had deepened.
Annie blinked. For a moment, the child she remembered hovered in her sight, then the dream dissipated and she found herself looking at the child, most definitely a child no longer.
"Mom?"
Oh how well she knew that tone. Fear and concern all rolled together and mixed with just a tiny fraction of disapproval and resignation. For a moment, Annie wondered if, perhaps, she was still asleep. Surely he'd long since lost that habit?
"Mom?"
God, but she hated when he did this. She wanted to tell him that, but she didn't seem to have the energy.
"It's gonna be OK, Mom," he said, maybe guessing she was watching him properly now. "You're gonna be OK."
He was changing again. Before her eyes. Shifting. Shrinking. Turning back into the bright-eyed child she remembered only hazily.
"Mommy sleep," the child said softly. "You feel better."
"If…if I sleep," Annie murmured, finding her voice at last, "who will take care of you?"
"I take care of you," the child responded. "You sleep." He petted her with childish care. "You don't worry."
"But…"
He placed a stubby finger against her lips. "You sleep. You don't worry." He smiled. "I be OK."
But how would he be OK? She was supposed to take care of him. She tried to refocus her gaze, trying to fight the sleep that was returning. This time she saw him older. Not yet a man, no longer a child.
"Mom, you're sick," he said. "You need to rest." He leant over her. "I'll be OK."
"Will you?" she whispered. "I'm scared you'll be hurt."
"I'll live." His smile was pained though. Uncertain. "You need to rest." Then he kissed her, lightly, on her forehead. "I'll still be here. Promise."
She blinked. The movement seemed achingly ponderous, as if her body was slowly ceasing to co-operate. As her vision finally cleared, she saw the child, the boy and the man all together. The man would take care of the child and the boy. He'd had so many years of practice, looking after her.
"Be OK, Mommy," the child said.
"It's gonna be OK, Mom," the boy said.
"You'll be OK," said the man, but the tears on his face put a sword to that lie.
It finally came to her: She was dying. She was in a hospice for the terminally ill. Was this it? Was this the day? Annie guessed, from his expression, that it was. She wanted to reassure him; that it was going to be better this way. But now, even as her eyes slowly slid shut once more, her voice failed her.
And she wasn't sure she had the energy left to fight it any more.
Though her eyes were closed now, it seemed to be getting lighter. Brighter. She felt as if she was drifting. Floating. Falling. There was a piercing sound. High-pitched and monotone. And then she was somewhere else, and suddenly, it didn't seem to matter any more.
For those who don't know, Annie is a creation of mine for the Identiverse saga. She basically only features in two stories, but for all that she's actually quite important.
For those who do know, the timing of this snippet-in-search-of-a-story is about eight-ten weeks after the events of "Mother's Boy".
Mommy
Annie lay sprawled across the bed. Her face throbbed from where Mac had hit her and she guessed her eye was swelling shut. She ought to go and find some ice, or something, for it, but that would require moving. She wasn't sure she could do that any time soon.
She heard footsteps outside the bedroom door. Hadn't Mac left already?
"Mommy?" The voice was high and childish. A moment later and its owner entered the room. "Mommy – got this." The voice's owner, a small, dark haired child with too serious an expression on his face, appeared in Annie's narrow field of vision, an ice pack clutched in his fist. He thrust the pack out. "For face."
In a distant corner of her mind, Annie was amused. The child was so steadfastly sticking to English, in memory of the promise he'd made, despite the fact that right here and now was clearly making him struggle to find the words.
He thrust the ice pack out again and, when she still didn't move, he gently applied it to her face. "Feel better?" he asked, tenderly stroking her hair with his free hand. "Mommy?"
This was wrong. Annie knew it. So wrong. And yet she couldn't stop it. It shouldn't be up to the child to care for her; it should be the other way round. She should be the one to care for him. Protect him.
But she couldn't.
Tears stung her good eye and her view of the child blurred.
"Don't cry." He petted her hair again and moved the ice pack, applying it to a different part of the bruising. "Don't cry."
Was it a trick of the light or was it her tears? The child seemed to be growing. Changing.
"Mom, please don't cry." Even the child's voice was different. It had lost the accent and had deepened.
Annie blinked. For a moment, the child she remembered hovered in her sight, then the dream dissipated and she found herself looking at the child, most definitely a child no longer.
"Mom?"
Oh how well she knew that tone. Fear and concern all rolled together and mixed with just a tiny fraction of disapproval and resignation. For a moment, Annie wondered if, perhaps, she was still asleep. Surely he'd long since lost that habit?
"Mom?"
God, but she hated when he did this. She wanted to tell him that, but she didn't seem to have the energy.
"It's gonna be OK, Mom," he said, maybe guessing she was watching him properly now. "You're gonna be OK."
He was changing again. Before her eyes. Shifting. Shrinking. Turning back into the bright-eyed child she remembered only hazily.
"Mommy sleep," the child said softly. "You feel better."
"If…if I sleep," Annie murmured, finding her voice at last, "who will take care of you?"
"I take care of you," the child responded. "You sleep." He petted her with childish care. "You don't worry."
"But…"
He placed a stubby finger against her lips. "You sleep. You don't worry." He smiled. "I be OK."
But how would he be OK? She was supposed to take care of him. She tried to refocus her gaze, trying to fight the sleep that was returning. This time she saw him older. Not yet a man, no longer a child.
"Mom, you're sick," he said. "You need to rest." He leant over her. "I'll be OK."
"Will you?" she whispered. "I'm scared you'll be hurt."
"I'll live." His smile was pained though. Uncertain. "You need to rest." Then he kissed her, lightly, on her forehead. "I'll still be here. Promise."
She blinked. The movement seemed achingly ponderous, as if her body was slowly ceasing to co-operate. As her vision finally cleared, she saw the child, the boy and the man all together. The man would take care of the child and the boy. He'd had so many years of practice, looking after her.
"Be OK, Mommy," the child said.
"It's gonna be OK, Mom," the boy said.
"You'll be OK," said the man, but the tears on his face put a sword to that lie.
It finally came to her: She was dying. She was in a hospice for the terminally ill. Was this it? Was this the day? Annie guessed, from his expression, that it was. She wanted to reassure him; that it was going to be better this way. But now, even as her eyes slowly slid shut once more, her voice failed her.
And she wasn't sure she had the energy left to fight it any more.
Though her eyes were closed now, it seemed to be getting lighter. Brighter. She felt as if she was drifting. Floating. Falling. There was a piercing sound. High-pitched and monotone. And then she was somewhere else, and suddenly, it didn't seem to matter any more.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-12-03 10:35 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-12-04 05:56 pm (UTC)