Rhett
It's full of irony, you know. Scarlett- I loved her so, for so long, but now… I'm numb. I've frozen over, and my heart's safely incased behind thorny vines and bars of iron- yet Scarlett picks, for whatever reason, this time to bestow upon me her undying affections. Once, I would have given it all to hear her say those words. But now, they just make me laugh at the quirks of the universe. Irony at its best.
Still, a small part of me responds out of habit- as Scarlett says she has loved Ashley, all these years. A small part of me wants to crave her, to cuddle her close, to protect her. And so I try to explain, explain so that Scarlett can leave, can get on with her life, not stay and stubbornly try to split the ice surrounding my heart.
I talk to her seriously; little though there is of me that continues to care for Scarlett, my need for banter and flirting and mockery is even less. I tell her of my love for her, something I have concealed since I first realized my heart had been taken, and tell her of my persistence and foolish beliefs that I could alter her heart in any way. Her pale green eyes simply stare at me, confused and bewildered. I continue to speak, explaining that deep though that love had been, it had died with her child, into whom I had channeled all of my love and tenderness. And, finally, I have said all I can think of to say on the subject, and I try to convey some of my feelings on another matter to her, to the child she had once been. She just continues to watch me, and her face is an open book as she scrabbles to convince me. Futile gestures are often made by Scarlett, I have noticed-but she still, always, manages to get her way. But this time, she can't, because I'm dead inside and her triumph would be a faint one. Maybe she really loves me, now, or maybe its simply her way of getting back at Ashley, or her constant desire to have what she cannot… who's to say what goes on in that oddly complex, blunt mind of hers?
Vaguely, I realize she's still talking, and so, with a sigh, I listen again. Does she not realize that it's over? I tire of it, and I interrupt her passionate tirade.
"My dear," I say softly, with finality sharp as an axe cut, as she realizes that I have been telling her the truth, "I don't give a damn."
And her large eyes, starred by those bristly lashes, now wet with dewdrops of tears, and she makes a soft, hurt noise of protest. A cornered animal crying out. But there's no love-smitten man to gallop up to her rescue, and her years of cloying coyness have passed, and there's nothing she can do but sit there and stare.
I leave the room, an old man now, and turn my back on her hurt face; she's killed the suave heartless young man and beaten his heart down to shards of shattered glass, but she still doesn't understand. It might take her years, or maybe only minutes… but she will realize it, eventually. She played a game with stakes too high, and now she's paying the price.