Note from one of the author's: I apologize that this entry is late. This work is by myself and by CaptScarlett. I hope you enjoy this.
No matter the exhaustion that she felt during the day, she could not find rest when the darkness descended. For all of the times that she had been accused of having no imagination, it was currently very active. Perhaps it was the absence of everything that had once filled her life, perhaps it was only a natural reaction to what had happened in the last several months. But she was constantly plagued by dreams and nightmares that seemed more real than her current meager existence.
She had woken many times feeling as if someone had just been in the room with her, that the terrifying creatures that Mammy had warned her about as a child were merely hiding in the dark corners of the room or under the bed. But the truth was that her life had been filed with greater horrors than her childish mind could have ever envisioned.
When her eyes would finally slip shut, she would see Brent and Stuart dying side by side as their mother had reported to her, their red hair matted with blood and gore. And then they would rise and shamble towards her, unseeing and uncaring as their hands reached towards her until she could feel their clammy, blood soaked hands pulling at her and tugging at her. She always felt like they would soon tear her from limb to limb. And yet somehow she knew that it wasn't that they wanted to harm her, but both wanted to finally have her to his self. But regardless of whether their intentions were benign or not, the pain in her chest would grow as she would plead and beg with them, but how could they hear when they had no ears? She would cry and scream until one of their hands would tighten around her throat and she would wake gasping for breath. She knew that neither Brent nor Stuart would have ever harmed her, but it did not make the nightmares any less frightening. Their deaths had left a lasting impression on her heart.
But her dreams were not only of the twins, she was now constantly terrified to sleep. Some nights she dreamed of Carey Ashburn, his skin almost as pale as the exposed skull where the top of his head had been blown away. His eyes would open and he would beg her to help him, and yet she was rooted to the spot unable to move. She could do nothing other than stare in shock and horror at the destruction of someone that she had thought that she might grow to love. He had been a friend, and there had been the hope and possibility of more to come. Other nights she dreamed of men that she had watched die in the hospital, screaming in agony as a leg had been sawed from their body or writhing in pain as gangrene set in, of men reaching out for her as they had as she rushed through the mass of dying and injured men laid out in the August sun at the train station in Atlanta. And then other nights she dreamed of the Yankees, of the horror stories that had warned all southern young ladies to be leery. And then in her darkest nightmares she would relive the day that the Yankee had come into the house and she had killed him to save herself. She would wake more exhausted than she had when she had fallen upon the bed. Sleep was no longer an option.
And so finally she had given up. The lack of sleep combined with the lack of food had withered her like a fragile uprooted plant in the desert. The skin had become pinched and taut around her mouth and eyes. And instead of waiting in the darkness for the haunts and terrors of a child's mind she finally decided to venture down stairs, for at least then, she would be disturbing no one. Even if she could not rest, she had no desire to disturb any of the other inhabitant's from their own.
She crept slowly down the scarred stairs that had once gleamed with polish and care. They creaked in protest with each step that she took, and she could not help but notice the gaps where some of the balusters had been robbed. Her footfalls seemed like gunshots in the silence of the house; it seemed to magnify in her ears. But she knew that no one else could hear for Melanie, Suellen, Careen, and the babies and the darkies simply were too weak and too exhausted to be doing anything other than sleeping. They had to have the sleep in order to help her with the thankless tasks in keeping the plantation running.
The floor was cold, and she had no slippers. There was only one semi-decent pair of shoes between them all. Things like slippers and sometimes it seemed like food was too much of a luxury to be had these days. The weather had turned cold, it seemed in an instant. This was not the weather that she was accustomed to. At this time of year, the air was normally still warm, the sun still glinting brightly on the trees, and leaves slowly losing their hold on the branches. But nothing was normal this year. Earlier in the day the air had gently caressed her skin as Scarlett had worked outside. She had been thankful that the intense heat of September had gone, leaving the crisper air that followed into October. But now there was not enough wood to burn to keep everyone warm. There was not enough of anything.
She found a seat in the Parlor and snuggled into the threadbare cushions that sagged pathetically. Her weary mind drifted in a hazy fog until she glanced at the calendar on the wall. Was it really Halloween night, the night when Pa had told her that the veil between the world of living and the world of the dead was at its thinnest. He had regaled his daughters with tales of Banshees and hob goblins and other sorts of mischievous spirits that spilled into the regular world on this one night until Mammy or mother would try to intercede.
As a child she had been enthralled with her father's stories. Carreen had tried to bravely listen, clutching her little hands tightly to her chest as her eyes grew wide, while Suellen sniffled and peeked through her fingers until Mother sent them both to bed. But Gerald would take Scarlett onto his lap and praise his brave child as his tales grew more and more fantastic and elaborate. But those tales from her childhood had not been forgotten, and now the chill wind whipping around the house became ominous and frightening. She had faced so much, surely this shouldn't bother her, but it did.
She closed her eyes and hoped to block out the sounds and evade those fears that were pressing upon her. Oh, how she longed for a drink, for the soothing burn of alcohol to warm her limbs and calm her frayed nerves—anything that might dull this aching sting of what her life had become. Even Pa's dreadful corn whisky would have sufficed, but that, like everything else of any worth at Tara was now gone.
If she'd had the energy Scarlett might have cried at the desperateness of their situation as the long winter months loomed ahead. But there seemed little point in crying when it would accomplish nothing and all she'd get in return would be a headache and dry eyes. Instead she simply sat quietly drawing in long deep breaths and letting them out just as slowly.
A while later, how long she couldn't say, above the wind a different noise caught her attention, making her eyes snap open and her body tense. It was a faint and slow but rhythmic thudding that appeared to be coming from a room across the hall. She listened closely, every nerve-ending alert, palms sweating and breathing suspended as she strained her ears to identify the sound.