This will be a five part series of one-shots centered around Beth, and inspired by T.S. Eliot's poem The Hollow Men. There will be some Bethyl in some of the chapters, but it won't be the main focus of the story.
The Hollow Men belongs to T.S. Eliot and all excerpts of his poem are not mine. Warning: This chapter does depict attempted suicide.
I hope to hear from you guys!
I.
There was this old poem her mother used to like - a sad one. She couldn't remember the name, or the author, but she remembered that much - it was sad. Her father had always had faith, blind and smiling. Annette Greene, on the other hand, had always had a melancholy streak.
Now this wasn't to say she was morose, if anything she was the opposite. Beth had always associated her mother with floral sundresses, and summer services; sweet tea, and her favorite pink lemonade; Thanksgiving turkeys, and Easter hams. Still for all the happiness and sunshine in the world, Annette would still sit down on a sweltering Sunday afternoon, that glass of sweet tea at her side, and an unembellished black book in hand to read words that didn't feel quite so summery.
Her father had always asked why Annette would bother with it. Poetry like that was for tortured souls of long dead men - he never could understand why she needed it. But Beth did...or at least she thought she did now.
On an August night when she was twelve, and the house was lit with candles to ward off the dark left by the storm, her mother had done her best to explain it to her.
"You have to feed the soul, Beth," she had said, setting down her little black book, "and you can take in as much God, and prayer, and light as you like - but at the end of the day you're human. What you don't feed will starve, and pretty soon you'll be snapping at apples instead of words."
She didn't get it when she was twelve. As much of Annette as she had in her, sweet tea and easter hams; she had her father too. Faith: blind and smiling. That other side to her mother was just one she decided not to think about - a part of her mother's soul that Beth would have no part in feeding. The part that brought on vacant nods and tight chests on August nights.
But now she understood.
Now she wished she'd fed her soul. Because it wasn't just snapping at apples, it was snapping at her, and she'd never felt so useless in her life. Sunshine and faith could only get you so far when you had nowhere left to go. So with a vacant mind and sobs tearing from her chest she wandered into her parents' room, not for the first time since Annette had been locked in the barn, and let a bloodstained hand find a little black book.
She didn't open it until she was in her room, sitting crosslegged in her bed. Leafing over pages well worn by loving fingers, she tried not to spill tears onto Annette's words. She had never let her mother read these to her, had never let her share that part of her soul.
Beth would be damned if she let that slip away now.
There was one poem though, just that one she remembered her mother reading to no one in particular, on August nights that smelled of rain.
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
"Beth," the knock came once, twice, "Beth."
She folded over at the waist, cradling the words to her belly and pressing her face to the comforter, and emptying her head.
"Beth. Beth, please, open up." Maggie's voice came again, more insistent this time. Go away. Beth shook her head, eyes closed, ignoring the voice outside. There were words in her hands that were meant to be in her chest, and a soul to be fed if she didn't want to be swallowed whole.
"Beth!" Maggie snapped, so she did too.
"Go away!" She shrieked, throwing the only words she had - a thin black book - into the door. It hit with an echoing thud, and footsteps faded down the staircase. She let out a long, hollow wail into her pillow and cried.
Words were left forgotten where they had fallen. It was a summery August afternoon, a sundress hung in her closet, and there was a funeral to attend tomorrow.
She didn't understand why they all cared so much. She'd made herself perfectly clear - there was nothing left for a girl who was made of faith. Maggie was all concerned smiles, and warm touches that made Beth's skin feel cold; Lori was empty words, and warm touches that made Beth's skin crawl. Andrea though, was the cool, clear click of a door closing for the last time.
There was nothing left for girl made of faith. Who smiled as easily as the dead snarled, and sang meaningless tunes to a piano no one listened to anymore. She had spent seventeen years like her father - blind and smiling - and that hadn't gotten him anywhere other than blind drunk. Why should she think whispered words fed to a soft soul would make her any stronger?
Trying to ignore the hollow in her belly, she stood. There was nothing left for a girl made of faith.
With a strangled cry she raised her fist like Rick would, like Shane or Daryl would - and let it find a smooth jawline, gripping the shattered pieces in shaking hands. She wasn't strong, she wasn't like them. She wasn't like Maggie. She was sweet tea and pink lemonade, making ham in the kitchen with her mother on Easter. Her Mama had been strong, her Mama had fed her soul, and she was still dead in the ground.
Beth didn't expect to end up anywhere else. She wasn't strong like them, but she was strong enough to choose how she got a cross six feet over her head, and she chose this.
She didn't realize it was a mistake until she saw the blood, red like apples, welling on her wrist.
We are the hollow men
The stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dried grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, shape without motion;
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us - if at all - not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.