"Some say I fell from grace; they're being kind. I didn't fall. I dove."
-Sue Monk Kidd, The Mermaid Chair
There's nothing like the feel of crushing bones with your hands. No warmth that can top the sweltering stickiness of fresh blood. Over and over again, she pulls her fists back and sinks them home. The pain in her hands not registering pass the overwhelming numbness that's slowly overtaken her body. She no longer heard the sick squishing sound her fist makes upon contact with the angel's face. There's a high-pitched whirring in her mind that blocks out all other sounds, like the cold winter nights when she use to listen to Cal fight with the dial-up every time her mother had to make another society call or her father had business to take care of over the phone. A cold winter night much like this one.
Maybe it is this one. Maybe she'll awaken any moment on that god-awful floral couch that her mother swore was all the rage according to her collection of Better Homes and Gardens magazines, but that just reminded Piper of the old-folks home they had tried to stick her grandmother in after she'd spoken too frankly much too many times. That's the rule of the Chapman household, of course. You hide anything undesirable or real, lest you actually wanted to lose your country club membership and be blacklisted from all forms of high society.
Like what happened with Mr. and Mrs. Lewis after their daughter Valerie decided to forgo college in hopes of finding herself. In the words of Piper's mother, "finding herself" apparently included sleeping her way through the entire east coast and, queue the scandalous tone that always made Piper's skin crawl and the dip in volume to increase the tension, that also meant people of the fairer sex. Gasp. How disgraceful.
Now her mother and the rest of Connecticut's brigade of middle-aged debutantes who peaked in high school sit on their settees and drink their liquor laced iced tea while murmuring about "those poor Lewis's," spewing poison with all their "Deborah always was too lenient with that girl," while the botoxed lips of another would retaliate with "Well you know, she was too busy throwing back mojitos to notice what was going on in her own home," before the group would break out in sniggers behind their hands as another nasally voiced piped in with, "As if that would keep Jerry from sleeping around!" Malicious laughter always followed as if they didn't just disparage the entire character of someone who only a week beforehand use to bring those gross little cucumber sandwiches, that never failed to make Piper's nose wrinkle, to every one of these meetings.
After Mrs. Lewis receded from favor with the pompous hypocrites that use to make up her friends, Piper didn't think she made them anymore; she didn't think she made much of anything anymore. Every time Piper saw her, which was rare in itself, she was always coming from the liquor store with a long, thin bag clutched tightly in her white-knuckled grip as deep shadows were cast over the skeletal hollows of her cheeks. Until Piper stopped seeing her altogether. Until everyone stopped seeing her.
They claimed it was alcohol-poisoning, but Piper knows better. What happened to Mrs. Lewis was the slow-acting poison that eventually killed all those who fell from grace. The slow death that starts with sharp-tongued whispers and falsely sympathetic gazes that always seemed to be tinged with more than just an ounce of mockery and no small amount of relief that it wasn't them; not this time.
The feel of bruising hands wrapping so tightly around her arms is finally what slams her back into the present, back to the image of smashed-in bone and thick, mucky blood. She should feel something...
Shouldn't she? She did that. She extinguished a life with her delicate hands that had never even seen a callous in her life. What kind of person sees the blatant destruction they have caused and feels nothing? How can she beat someone to death and feel nothing? At the very least she should feel the pain in her hands from the continuous assault to the angel's face. But she doesn't. She doesn't feel anything. No regrets, no fear, no sadness or anger... Just nothing. She thinks that should bother her more.
But it doesn't.
Author's Note: I know there are many versions out there about the finale, so I really appreciate you taking the time to read this one. I have a basic idea of what I want for this story, although I have yet to decide if Chicago will happen or if I'm going to veer completely from the second season. I know how I will handle it either way, but I'm just not sure which is better yet. The next chapter (possibly the next two) will deal with Piper actually in the SHU and a bit of what is going on with Alex during that time. Also, the chapters from here on out will be a lot longer. Hopefully, at least; I write this on my phone so it always seems longer than it is when I put it on my laptop. Also, this is just a tentative title for now. Andddd, I guess that's it. Thank you for taking the time to actually read this! If you would like to leave a review, that'd be really nice of you, and I'd greatly appreciate it. However, I completely understand if you would not, that's cool too. :)
Disclaimer: No-no, sir. Not mine.