A/N: So, I was watching the movie for something like the twentieth time, when I realized that the motorist is wearing a wedding ring, and that spawned this little thing. Just trying to add a little more depth to a one dimensional character. I do not own anything you recognize from here.
The only things she had to remind herself of him was his wedding ring and a rusted old wrench. This was entirely by choice. She couldn't bear to be reminded of him, at least not every single day. Even the thought of going about her normal buisness, then coming up against something of his… she couldn't stand it. She needed to move on, for his sake, for their children's sake, and for her own sake. On the other hand, she couldn't rid herself entirely of everything that was his… she could move on, but not forget. Never forget.
So she kept them—the ring and the wrench. One, the ring, symbolizing the beginning of their life together. A happy life, all and all. Certainly not without its share of misfortune, but they had certainly been more blessed than many people. Happy with each other, living exclusively for the other and their children. The other, the wrench, symbolized the end of his life. A horrible, unexpected death. Sudden and meaningless.
Even so long after… that day, she still found it hard to believe. How could he have just gone out that night, whole and healthy, and come back, in a body bag, dead.
All because of that demned letter. 'Your prescence is requested at Hill house next Friday evening…' Demned letter. Hadn't the information he'd provided beed enough? Those people had stolen his self respect from him, in return for money that they had needed, then. It had seemed the only choice at the time, but now she wondered if there hadn't been any other way they could have managed to make ends meet… anything would have been better than that.
She knew, as he had, that the information he'd provided had been used for blackmail. She didn't know exactly what it was her husband had known, he had always refused to tell her. She could only imagine. She used to wonder, a lot, what he had known. Now she didn't so much care. There was no way anyone else could have suffered as much as he had for providing the information. That victim of the blackmail had some money stolen from him, perhaps a few hours of sleep, and that was all. Her husband had lost so much more—his life.
She could still hear his voice. That night, over the phone. Scared. He was never scared. Not even during the war, when he'd been constantly in danger, his letters to her had been calm and accepting. He'd known that if he died, he would have died for something worth dying for. She could still hear the awful silence when… it happened. She could still hear her own voice, calling his name. Quietly at first, so she wouldn't wake the children, then louder, desparately, still hoping for the voice she knew she would never hear again.