"Madame, all stories, if continued far enough, end in death, and he is no true-story teller who would keep that from you." - Ernest Hemingway, Death in the Afternoon
Time, she thought with a barely concealed sneer, was a cruel mistress. It was awful, it was dastardly. It incensed her that everything revolved around the ticking and tocking of the god-forsaken clocks around her apartment. The small alarm clock on her bedside stand told her it was nearly three in the afternoon, but she was sure the one in her kitchen would tell her that it was much closer to quarter after three in the afternoon. Better yet, the cuckoo clock her roommate insisted on picking up in a dodgy little second-hand store on their outing to America, hanging illustriously above their radio in the living room, would be chiming any second now to remind her that it wasn't wound properly and, until it was, it would keep chiming at least an hour and a half past the correct time.
Whatever time it was, it was twenty one hours, thirty four minutes, and 13 seconds after the world had ended.
Susan Pevensie woke the previous morning with an odd chill in her bones. Wasn't it her luck to be getting sick on her first day back from across the pond? She cursed herself all the way to her steaming cup of coffee , but discovered she couldn't be too mad. After all, it was all just a product of her adventures in America. Probably a souvenir from the dashing gas station attendant they had run into somewhere just outside of New York. Winnie, her roommate, thought it was positively bold to pay for a full tank with a steamy kiss, but Susan had promptly reminded her that the few crowns in their coin purses wouldn't have done what her lips did. She smirked over her white porcelain mug at the memory of the boy's shocked expression when she had hinted at other methods of payment.
At that moment, Winnie marched into the kitchen, clad in the fuzziest white bathrobe. Her hair was swirled up into a towel of a matching color. She pointed meaningfully at a note attached to their refrigerator.
"Have you phoned your parents yet?" Susan took another sip of her coffee while squinting at the note. In lovely script, it said that she was to call her family as soon as she knew her plans for the weekend as they were making a trip up from Finchley and would be in the area. She rolled her eyes.
"No, I haven't. Besides, they'll be on the train by now." Winnie gave an exasperated sigh and plopped herself at their small table, tapping her long nails impatiently on the smooth wood. Her blue eyes narrowed as she took in Susan's disheveled appearance.
The two girls were like polar opposites. It was amazing how well they had gotten along. Susan was dark and slender, the more outgoing of the pair, and while she was also the messiest indoors, she'd never leave the house without looking completely done-up. Winnie, on the other hand, was all milk and honey, and just as sweet. The girl was quiet but capable of keeping up with Susan's antics. She was also perfectly fine with wearing a headscarf outside to the grocer's. It was, in fact, the only snag in their swimmingly good relationship. They had talked a little in boarding school but the friendship didn't begin to progress until Susan had found out from the school gossip that Winnie had been seen wandering the grounds with her handsome eldest brother.
"What about your siblings? Can't you phone St. Finbar's and let Lucy know? They're picking her up aren't they?"
"What are you so worried about? I'll meet them at the station, it'll be a big surprise!" Susan lied. In truth, she was in no hurry to be reunited with her parents, nor her siblings, as Winnie always called them. Her last luncheon with Peter, who was still at university, had ended badly and she had not seen any of her family since. That was at least two or three weeks before their scheduled trip. Finally, her mother had called and left a message with Winnie about their planned visit to see Edmund and Lucy and take them up to see Peter in all his scholarly glory. They wanted Susan to come along, or to at least stop in and see how she was holding up all by herself in the big city. Susan, still fuming from her argument with Peter, vowed to ignore them for as long as possible. If she had anything to say about it, they would not step foot into the building.
"What if you miss them?" Winnie pressed further. She followed Susan into the hallway leading to their bedrooms, cutting off her escape by plastering herself in her doorframe. Susan had to hold herself back from splashing her coffee all over Winnie's pristine white robe.
"I won't! I know what time they arrive, I'll go early. And if there is some sort of twist of fate, you'll be here, right?" She patted Winnie on the shoulder. The blonde shook her head.
"No, I'm working, and then...I have a date." She sniffed and averted her gaze from Susan's, who was grinning devilishly.
"Why, you harlot, you! Wait, let me guess, the big tipper?" Winnie danced away from Susan's doorway and into the bathroom, an amused twinkle in her eye. She worked at the same cafe Susan had, just down the block a bit from their small abode. It was a lovely little place with a loyal following of successful businessmen who like the luncheon deals. Winnie struck up quite a banter every morning with a very cute executive clerk named Edward. One day Winnie had rushed in the back where Susan was grabbing a few omelets and showed her a crisp pile of pound notes. Every day after that, Edward had come in and paid her the same amount. She took Susan out dress shopping for her birthday with just his generosity.
"Possibly. I won't tell you unless you do what you were supposed to do and let your family know you're alive and well!" She slammed the bathroom door in Susan's face. Susan growled low in her throat and retreated to her room, finishing up her coffee and gently shutting the door behind her. It would be another forty minutes or so before Winnie relinquished her hold on the vanity and its numerous toiletries. She sat heavily down on her small bed, still mussed from her night's sleep, and set her mug on her nightstand beside her silver alarm clock. Her eyes fell upon the handsome school picture of Peter her mother had given her when she first moved into the apartment. Helen Pevensie had insisted that she receive each of her brother's and sister's school portraits, to remain close and in touch with them despite the distance. Now Susan wished the exact opposite. She sneered at the picture of her eldest brother and quickly flipped it over on its face.
Susan wouldn't call.
She wouldn't show up to the train station either.
Besides, it wasn't like they didn't know where she lived. For all of her procrastinating, they would probably all show up on her doorstep later in the evening anyway, cold and hungry, expecting dinner and entertainment. Her mother had tried to press upon her the importance of being a good hostess and being a proper cook. All young women her age were proper cooks. The thought made her groan.
"Have you called them yet?" Winnie's voice asked on the other side of her door. Susan threw a shoe in response. The large bang was followed by a small, surprise yelp and then a flurry of curses. Susan smiled and settled back into bed.
Just yesterday, she knew her family had been walking, talking, and breathing. They were irritating her, yelling at her, asking things of her. And now...Now they were dead.
The word was so final and so hard to swallow. In fact, she thought she might be choking on it. It was suddenly so hard to breathe. Winnie's words piled on top of her, smothering her. Call Lucy. Let her know. Your siblings. Call your siblings. There was no one to call anymore, except far away relatives.
Winnie knocked on her door, so softly Susan almost didn't hear it. The blonde peeked her head through the crack in the door. She opened her mouth to say something, more than likely ask if her presence was alright, but when she met eyes with Susan, she stepped quickly to the bed and caught her in a tight embrace.
"I'm so sorry Susan."
"You were right." She replied. "Winnie, you were right. I should have called." It was the statement said aloud that opened the floodgates. She latched onto her friend and sobbed and sobbed until she felt bile begin to rise in her throat. Winnie helped shuffled her to the bathroom where she retched a few times into their salmon pink toilet. Her mistakes kept ringing her ears, like a loud, clanging bell. The tidal wave was so close to drowning her. She wasn't sure she had the will or strength to survive it.
Somewhere, in between worlds and states of being, an old woman shakily raised her head. The moth-eaten fabric of her threadbare cloak hung loosely over the top of her nearly bald, white head. She sniffed the air experimentally, claws gripping the frosted length of her wooden stick. It had been so long since she had felt the rolling waves of sorrow. Stuck here she had been cut off from everything that had given her strength. But now...
She breathed in deeply the scent of tears. It brought a toothy grin to her wrinkled face. The folds of skin, once so taut and smooth, sagged now about her deflated lips. The loss of her beauty and power had pained her. She lamented them constantly. Now a new pang was filling her belly. Malice, hopelessness, fear...Oh the scent of it was enough to make her stand, her bones creaking, and do a teetering twirl that nearly landed her on her rump.
Her time had come! Who would have guessed it would be the daughter, and not the sons, whose resolve would crumble so easily?
A/N: Alright, I don't know if its something about summer or what, but I've sudden got a wild ambition to restart this plot bunny and subdue it. I've been kicking around how I would do it forever, hating my ideas, starting new ones, only to come back to the old ideas, and so on and so forth. So I just started and I'm just going to plow ahead with this as best I know how, so please, let me know how its going and whether or not I've gotten off on the wrong foot. Mostly though, enjoy!