Agape
"Let him live."
For a moment, she's blind.
"Please."
And she doesn't want to be blind. She wants to see the glory of a yes from on high. Wants to, needs to, will. She doesn't ask, she gets.
Did.
Did get.
Got.
"He's not Bart," she snarls, as if this is all some great cosmic mistake. "You can't have him too. Take Jack, nobody needs Jack."
The blindness, the pain; all black and all white.
"Please. Take Jack. Take anybody. Please."
Or maybe…
"This is because of me, isn't it? Because I committed adultery, I – I'll do it." The ferocity can almost overwhelm the fear – almost. "I'll marry Louis, I'll be true to him. I'll be honest. I'll light candles and read to blind children and be a good princess. I will. I swear."
She wants to see the glory of a no from on high telling her she's wrong, she can have what her heart is beating so fast for, beating like it's two hearts bound in one, a crutch for each, a pair for each, a matching pulse for every contract and relax.
"Let him live even if I never see him again."
For a moment, she's blind.
"Let him live."
Fin.