Narnia belongs to Lewis. Song belongs to Carrie Underwood. OCs are mine. Tundon and Sturman are, as far as I know, not real cities in Ohio.
I suspect this will eventually be a sort of Susanfic. Bookverse only, no Darkness here. Marginally a songfic, being more inspired by rather than based on, and so the song lyrics have large gaps between them.
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She was driving last Friday on her way to Cincinnati
On a snow white Christmas Eve
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Susan Benson hated Christmas. Not because of the Santas at department stores, not because of the emphasis on gifts, not even because she had to go back to work the next day.
No. It was more than that.
The entire season of Christmas was based around children. It began with the Christ child. Children were the ones who sat on Santa's knee and wrote letters to him. Children were the ones who put out milk and cookies in the hope that they might catch him in the act of delivering their presents.
Susan had lost hope long ago. She could remember being excited for St. Nicholas Day and Christmas, for her birthday and Easter. Times she knew would always be filled with her family.
Susan had no family. They were dead. Her husband, parents, sister, brothers, aunt and uncle, cousin and adopted uncle. They were all gone. Well, all but one.
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Going home to see her momma and her daddy
With the baby in the back seat
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Susan looked down at the seat next to her. I'd expected to never get pregnant, she thought. "Hello, little man," she said quietly, unwrapping her son from his basket and lifting him into her arms. He looked up at her, his thumb in his mouth. He was a good baby. He almost never cried.
"You have your mother's eyes," Susan cooed to the baby. "Don't you, Leo? Big blue eyes just like your mommy. Blond hair just like your daddy."
Little Leo pulled his thumb out of his mouth and gurgled. Susan let out a pained sigh as she remembered the boy's father.
David. Her David.
They'd gone out for two and a half years. He was always been kind to her, and Susan had fallen completely in love with him after their second meeting. Luckily he followed suit soon after. Still, it had been a slow start, both of them afraid to step out too far, afraid of going too fast. David had comforted her when her family was killed in the train wreck. When he proposed to her at last, Susan thought she could burst from the pure joy.
Their wedding had been small—David's parents and his few relatives, Susan's aunt and uncle, a few friends. The priest was a friend of both families. They had been happy for almost a year when Susan found out she was pregnant.
It was her twenty-fourth birthday, and the third anniversary of her family's death.
That was the day David was hit by a train.
For the second time in three years Susan had lost the ones she loved. When they heard of their son's death, Martha and Herbert Benson had gone cold toward Susan and refused to communicate with her.
Three months later, Susan's uncle Harold and aunt Alberta were killed in a automobile accident.
Three months after that, Leo Daniel Benson was born.
Susan was traveling to Cincinnati on the train. She hoped that her son might soften her in-laws toward her. She had no one else left. If not for Leo...the baby was her only reason for existence, her only reason to live.
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Fifty miles to go and she was running low
On faith and gasoline
It'd been a long hard year
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"Sturman, seven miles; Tundon, thirty-two miles; Cincinnati, fifty miles," the ticketmaster said as he reached Susan's seat. "Where is your destination, miss?" There was something strangely familiar about him.
"Mrs.," Susan corrected automatically.
"Oh, I apologize. Does your husband have your tickets?"
Susan smiled sadly. "I'm afraid not. I am a widow."
The ticketmaster's eyes widened slightly. "So young? And with a little one?"
"Yes," Susan sighed, looking down at Leo. He was sleeping now, his thumb back in his mouth. "David died the day I found out. I'm going to Cincinnati," she said, fumbling for her ticket. "Here."
The man punched her ticket and handed it back. "Have a good trip, miss—Mrs..."
"Benson," Susan supplied.
The ticketmaster nodded. "A good trip, Mrs. Benson." After giving her a strange look she could not interpret, he moved to the next car.
"Well, my little lion, we are off at last," Susan whispered to her sleeping son as the train began to move.
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She had a lot on her mind
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The names of all the people she had lost ran through Susan's mind. Putting Leo back into his basket, gently so as not to wake him, she reached into her purse. Pulling out a journal and a pen, she began to write.
To my darling Lucy:
You were always there, little sister. Always so young, so innocent. Your golden hair was only a reflection of your sunny disposition. I can hardly call to mind a time when I heard you say something unkind, even when someone deserved it. Such a bright view of life. Rarely did you cry. And when you did, I am rightly ashamed to admit that it was nearly always because of me. We used to have so much fun together, before I grew up and you refused to admit the truth about our games.
Susan paused and shook her head. That last sentence was utterly wrong. Why was she still writing as she had trained herself to speak when her family was alive? That would certainly stop now. She crossed the sentence out with a bold stroke of the pen and rewrote it.
We used to have so much fun together, before I "grew up" as I so foolishly called it. You refused, and I can see now that you were right to do so. All I ever did was act older than I was, or at least try to do so. As I have realized, I failed. I only came across to you as an uncaring teenager, preoccupied with my social life. And I left you behind, my sweet little sister, when you would not follow. You used to follow me without question. But you were right to break away—you could see where my path led, to destruction and an empty life. It is far too late for apologies, but nonetheless...I am sorry for doubting you, Lucy. Please forgive me.
Susan carefully tore out the sheet of paper and folded it neatly, placing it in her purse. Then she settled into a comfortable position to write the rest of her letters.