A/N: So I wrote this maybe two months ago and have been picking at it the last few weeks, and now I've finally finished it. I was feeling pretty low with the looming one year anniversary of my grandmother's death, so in a sense, this helped me cope with some of it. Quite a bit of angst here, and I should throw some trigger warnings in here too.
She's been dead for seven days.
One hundred sixty eight hours.
One hundred thousand, eighty minutes.
Six hundred four thousand, eight hundred seconds.
Eight hundred one.
Eight hundred two.
Eight hundred three.
"Elsie? Elsie are you okay love?"
She hears him but isn't listening, isn't going to answer. She's too busy counting.
Eight hundred four.
Eight hundred five.
Eight hundred six.
Counting is an important job, a life skill. It's organized, predictable, safe. That's why being an accountant is so popular. The job security is fantastic, there's always an incessant need for it. There's always another number and it never ends. There's no reason to think it will change because it doesn't. It's monotonous, easy, keeps your mind busy, which is exactly what Elsie needs.
Charles is in the bathroom now, letting himself in because he knew she wasn't going to answer. They had just come back from Becky's funeral and she insisted on taking a bath; the rainy day causing muddy banks at the cemetery. The rain poured at one point, coincidentally right when the casket was lowering into the ground. After a minute or two the rain ceased, leaving a shallow moat encircling the grave which Charles found oddly fitting-protection of her soul in the afterlife.
Elsie would disagree entirely, arguing with grief-induced madness about where that so called protection was when she was alive, how it's all her fault for being a selfish, wanting nothing to do with her ill sister.
"I've failed her. I should have been there to protect her. To fight with the doctors for a better diagnosis, a better treatment. I should never have sent her away to begin with. I should have lived a homeless lifestyle, just so I could take care of her myself."
He had assured her that she was wrong- absolutely, wretchedly wrong. That she could never have possibly managed to take care of her and herself; Becky would have died ages ago. "To put her in Lytham St. Anne's was the best possible decision you've ever done for her, and I know you know that. It is not your fault that she caught the flu-it progressed so quickly... There was nothing anyone could do, really. I know it's cliche but she really is in a better place...she can breathe now Elsie."
The days following her death and leading to the funeral had been worrisome for Charles. Elsie muttered a few words a day, if that. She was careless when walking, tripping or bumping into furniture and not even stopping to rub the injured body part. When she attempted to cut vegetables for dinner one night (Charles does not know how he convinced her), she nearly cut her finger off without giving a care in the world. Whenever she came home from finalizing another funeral arrangement, she would drag herself upstairs to the bedroom, dropping her bags and coat on the way and collapsing onto the bed, using whatever energy she could muster to curl herself into the fetal position. Sometimes she would sleep, but mostly she studied the dust floating through the air as the afternoon sun illuminated the room.
So he finds her sitting up in the bathtub, hugging her knees as if they were her favorite doll that her mum sewed for her. The smooth and luxurious skin that he had familiarized himself with is adorned with valleys of hills and mountains, shaped by the cold water and icy air of the room. She is shivering slightly- rippling waves disturb the calm bathwater. She is the epicenter of this earthquake, this shaking of her body, her world. The destruction of mentality and spirituality, gone, faster than he can say her name. It's building, the quivering is the most obvious indication
Eight hundred seven.
Eight hundred eight.
Eight hundred nine.
"Elsie. Let's get you out of there and warmed up."
She didn't move and he didn't expect her to. To be quite honest, he wasn't sure what exactly to expect when he walked in the bathroom. He was worried- no, terrified- that he would find her in the bathtub, submerged underwater with nothing but the hollow shell of her body as a reminder of the depression that had entranced her. He wanted to give her space, not to smother her in such trying times but he was scared, oh so scared, for her life that he himself started getting panic attacks. He would have nightmares (when he actually slept); chest pains and shortness of breath so horrid that he thought he was dying of a heart attack when really it was just fear squeezing his heart like the wicked cobra that it is. He knew she would never do it, but it was that fear...
He turned and opened the closet door, finding the pink, fluffy robe that he got her this past Christmas along with two other towels. Grabbing the smaller of the towels he knelt down behind her, right outside of the tub and wrung out her hair, being careful not to tangle and pull on her long locks; she was feeling enough pain already. He then twisted her hair until it was a sleek roll, holding it gently with his left hand as he reached over to the drawer with his right and grabbed a hair clip. It was so graceful, so natural, so utterly filled with love that Elsie had to sneak a peek for herself. He was the only one who knew how to chisel at her wall and create the masterpiece that is essentially her.
Charles unplugged the drain and studied her as she watched the tornado of bath water disappear into oblivion. Her gaze was firm, focused, determined; her lids were ever so droopy, the muscles in her eyes and face losing their battle against the mind. She was absolutely exhausted, so much so that it was showing in the physical sense, and Charles can clearly see that now. She was strong, the strongest woman-no, person- that he knows but this...this is so foreign to him. It's like there's a leak somewhere in her body and she's slowly losing her soul. A soul that is extravagant, wise, elegant, colorful.
Reality returns with the noisy gurgle from last of the water echoing in the bathroom. Despite his age and weakened bones, his muscles were still pronounced and it was somewhat easy for him to scoop her sitting form into his grasp and sit her upright on the counter. Using quick but gentle strokes, Charles dried every inch of her body, hoping that he could bring some warmth back. He made sure to get that supple spot behind her ear that she loves when he kisses, the valley of her clavicles where he loves to kiss her, in between her fingers and toes, behind her knees...
She examined him somehow turn compassion and diligence into tangible objects that she never thought she'd live to see. She never once doubted his love and adoration, and Lord knows he's shown it in many emotional and physical ways. But this sacred labor of love, this holy matrimony of redamancy and allegiance, is beginning to warm her, to calm the waves of anguish and sorrow, to encircle her with undoubted want- no need- for life, for living. The last of the water droplets racing one another down her leg and landing in a circle on his pristine white sock reminded her of this; the droplets her sadness, which he chased away and the circle, the way of life, of everything that will come back together in time.
He's saying something but only caught the words nightgown and arms, followed by the gentle grip of his hand on hers, guiding it through the openings. She figured out what he had said, and was able to put her arms through the robe sleeves herself when he presented it to her. He responded with a small and slight smile, strained with concern. She replied by closing her eyes and dropping her head to his chest. He took this as a sign that she's ready, ready to tear open her chest and let the demons that have been suffocating her heart run wild. In a movement so quick and efficient, laced with the gentleness of a dove, he carried her to their bed. Silent tears were painting her face as he laid her down, staining her pink cheeks with gloss.
Charles paused over her form, her face causing his breath to hitch. Glistening lakes were overflowing as her eyes closed, cheeks raising, neck muscles straining to carry the weight of her sobs as they finally gave voice. She gripped his shirt with such force, such strength, that he had to pull himself up to keep balanced. Her cries are the most that he's heard from her in a week and despite it being in the language of despair, he understood her completely. Not letting go of him, he crawled into bed, enveloping her with his immensity. He draped his right leg over hers, hoping, praying that by bringing her closer to him it would allow, somehow, her anguish to saturate into him, to relieve her of this heaviness. He held her, kissing her hair, whispering for her to continue, to keep crying as his own tears decorated the pillows.
She's lost count but hasn't noticed.