So I'm a little depressed, and depressing + active creative muse = this.
Anyway. This may just be a one-shot, but I was thinking about doing a second part. Please tell me if I should do another part/sequel, and if yes, what would you like to see? More of Marion's POV, or switch to Indy's?
The lyrics are from James Blunt's 'Goodbye My Lover'.
You touched my heart you touched my soul.
You changed my life and all my goals.
And love is blind and that I knew when,
My heart was blinded by you...
It's been 56 hours.
56 hours since Abner had shaken her awake in the early hours of the morning, and told her to get in the car. From there, it had been Cairo, plane to London, plane to Chicago. And now, home.
The house is empty, silent. Marion doesn't even see or hear any of the staff. Outside, the sun is obscured by thick, dark clouds.
Each step Marion takes is silent, like everything else. All she sees is him, her Indy, everywhere she looks. The closet they'd kissed in on Christmas, the parlor doorway that they'd first laid eyes on each other. Marion reached the top of the stairs, the partially opened door to his room sending a wave of queasiness through her.
She can't go there now.
Instead, she averts her eyes, taking quick steps to reach her room, and flinging open the door. It hits the wall with a loud bang, shattering the silence.
Inside, it's still. Grey. Her bed is perfectly made, the closet doors shut. Marion dumps her suitcase onto the floor, and catches sight of her worn copy of Persuasion sitting on the bedside table. She runs a hand over it, taking in the familiar worn leather binding.
Downstairs, a door opens and closes. Abner's study. She can hear his voice, talking jovially to someone, presumably on the phone. Bastard.
Suddenly, she's angry. Marion's furious, and instead of the grey, all she sees is red, angry, hot red, and then it's gone, over. Something inside of her snaps, and she feels her legs give way, and then she's falling, falling onto soft fluffy duvet, curling herself into a ball and clenching her hands so tightly that the fingernails draw blood.
Marion is an optimistic person. Or she tries to be, she always has. But she has never, ever felt as hopeless and small and dead inside as she does right now.
Her stomach is churning, and icy chills run down her spine, making her teeth clank together and sending shudders down her entire frame.
The front of her shirt is damp, the fabric beneath her cheek is soaked. Marion hears heavy breathing, harsh, wracking sobs, and she realizes that she's never actually cried this hard in her entire life.
She clutches at the duvet, hands scrabbling for purchase, for something to ground her as she spirals through wave after wave of utter despair; waves of pure, unadulterated misery that threaten to overpower her.
This cannot be happening.
Maybe it's a dream. Maybe I'll wake up soon. Please, let me wake up, Marion thinks, eyes squeezed shut. Please, if there's anyone listening, just make this stop.
Marion didn't used to believe in love - true love. Her father was just as distant when Marion's mother was alive as he was now, and she thinks that their marriage probably had some impact on the way she viewed love.
And then she met Indiana Jones.
And she loves Indiana Jones. With every single atom of her being, she adores him - and maybe it's irrational or naive but Marion does not care. The past nine months have been the happiest of her life.
And now...it's all gone. Ripped away. She didn't even get to say goodbye.
Marion falls asleep with a hand loosely clutching the duvet, curled in a protective fetal position, face damp. She quite literally cries herself to sleep; tears pouring down until she slips into unconsciousness, the feeling of hopelessness eating away at her insides.
I've kissed your lips and held your hand.
Shared your dreams and shared your bed.
I know you well, I know your smell.
I've been addicted to you.