A/N: A story I wrote for a competition a few months ago, which, since I didn't win, I'm posting now :) Only Downton because of my imagination; you could read this perfectly well if you know nothing about Downton. But certain M/M references etc. Set somewhere in series 2, after Mary reveals her 'past' to Sir Richard. First 6 words are lyrics from the song 'I've Got Your Number' by Elbow. They are also the original inspiration (along with the title 'The Shout') for this one-shot.
Disclaimer: Downton Abbey belongs to Julian Fellowes, not me. No money is being made from this, no copyright infringement intended. (Wow, that was almost like a proper disclaimer!)
Enjoy, and please let me know what you think! :-)
The Shout
"I know
what
you
have
done."
The Shout. That shout, each word separated, so much more threatening, so much more menacing than the rush of anger. Cold. Calculating.
What have I done?
But of course, you know. You pretend you don't, you pretend you are an innocent. But if you are, why do his words affect you so? Infect you, in fact, like a parasite, worming its way through your brain. Everyone has their dirty little secret, and you re no exception.
It's not even a shout, when you think about it. Not even a bellow, or a cry. Not a growl. More a kind of…chant. Yes, that's it. A chant, but chanted by one person….but in your head, it sounds like a crowd. In your head, it sounds like a shout. The shout.
Ringing in your ears, through your mind, as he had once roiled through it, up and down, a sailor on a rowing boat, in the midst of a churning sea…and the storm was rolling in. The storm was always rolling in, with you, and him.
He's still there, actually. He always will be. But now he's just a figurehead on a magnificent, but soulless ship. That's the problem with women on ships, you suppose, with a sigh. They bring bad luck to everyone on board. Especially when you don't have a soul. Especially when you don't have a heart.
That's what you tell yourself, even as it starts pumping, hard, in your chest, so intense that you have to sit down on a bench, the bench, your bench. That just causes you to breathe faster, causes your heart to pound even louder, refusing to let you deny its existence, as the blood rushes in your ears. Your throat seems to seize up, your mouth dries and you fight a prickling, stabbing sensation in your eyes.
You don't realise you're crying until you feel the wet on your face, and look up to see if it's started to rain.
It hasn't. As the tears stream down your face, as tributaries from a mighty river, you keep trying to persuade yourself you have no heart. You are only crying, you tell yourself, because you are selfish, you know the world will look down on you when they know, which they undoubtedly will. But then, why, when you heard that chant, that shout, did your thoughts immediately turn to him to what he would think of you? Still selfish, then, but not heartless. No, not heartless at all, though you wish you could be. Not tributaries, then, but tributes. To him.
But not him. Not the other him, the one you don't want to think about, but can't help yourself. The shouting him, the one who knows, and the the one who should know, but doesn't. You could never bear to tell him, you dithered and procrastinated over it, and then it was too late. The storm broke.
Along with your heart. And now you sit here, with your broken heart, your broken life, your broken world, just waiting. Waiting for the shout to emerge on all sides, for them to know, to feel the burden of the shame you carry on your shoulders as acutely as you did when you first bore it. It's not the shouting you can't stand though, not really. You can bear the shouts of the world; their derision will be as looking in a mirror. The shouts of your family, too; you can take them, you know that with certainty, although it will hurt, be utterly painful to see the hurt, the lack of understanding in your father's eyes. It is the silence you will not be able to bear. His silence, so much worse than the taunts and jeers of society, or even the disappointment of your family. His silence will make you feel like you are drowning, and you cannot surface for air, not ever. So that's how it is then. Silence is, silence will be, so much louder than any shout. It will scream, and it will yell. It will shriek and growl and cry. It will twist and it will break, along with the remnants of your spirit, of your soul. And you will pray for a shout, you will beg some noise, to tear you from your noiseless explosion. But it will not come.