Disclaimer: Desperate Housewives absolutely isn't mine. I'm just having fun in their world.
A/n: I'm back for season seven and very excited to be doing this again. Like last year I'm also blogging recaps (link under homepage on my profile), so feel free to check them out. As always, I appreciate any and all feedback! Thanks for reading!
Story Summary: A series of post-episode vignettes for season seven.
Chapter Summary: "The past just sucks you in and makes you that person that you just aren't anymore…" A post-ep for "Remember Paul."
Coda: Season Seven
A story by Ryeloza
One: Remember
The past just sucks you in and makes you that person that you just aren't anymore…
Disappointment. It's like the word is tattooed across her heart—private and so close that she can feel it with every beat—and only visible to those who know how to look through the chinks in her armor. Your life is nothing but a disappointment. It is not—is!—true. Once upon the time the world was at her fingertips…
Lynette remembers being twenty-two and leaving college for a whole wide world that was so much bigger than her little house with her little family; so much bigger than her tiny dorm room with her acid-tongued friends; so much bigger than everything she was or ever could be. A place that could swallow her whole if she let it, but she wouldn't because she knew, even at twenty-two, that there was nothing too big for her to survive. Push away the pain—push it deep, deep down inside where no one can see it ever because it's invisible to the naked eye and just keep going like nothing is wrong. She's been doing it since she was a little girl; she knows how to take on the world. That's why everyone always said she would.
Keep it all locked away, deep, deep inside, little girl, and never let it out, never let it show, never let it be. It stays in your heart just blistering and hurting and thump, thump, thump—never lets her forget. It makes her hard. Inhuman. Like a super hero. Vulnerability masked in the most elaborate of disguises—can't quite find her weakness. It makes people mad and they poke and prod and push until finally something seeps through
Disappointment. Your life is nothing but a disappointment.
It took thirty years for someone to notice, but she remembers that moment when Tom saw her—really, truly saw her—and stood staring at her like she was the most beautiful vision in the world because he could see every scar, every blemish, every tiny pain that was ever pushed deep inside. Like she was exquisite because of all that weakness underneath the strength. Don't stare too hard into the sun or you'll get burned. She burned him, burned him so, so badly, and he just pulled her closer and begged her to let him take the pain away.
That's what she thinks soul mates are. The people who bear that horribleness because it's worse not to. She's taken on her fair share too. Risk, risk, such a risk, but she took it and she doesn't regret it. They gave each other everything and what is the rest of the world compared to that? Probably so much more, but she made her choice.
Disappointment. Just add another scar. It's not like anyone is going to notice.
…Or someone you want to believe you're not…
Better than that.
Better than laughing after Sarah Jacobs was pushed in the mud but everyone was staring and glaring and their eyes all growled, Why aren't you laughing, Susie Bremmer? So she laughed even though it wasn't funny.
Better than stealing Jessica Lowell's bra in seventh grade because she had boobs when Susan didn't and oh wouldn't it be funny just this once…
Better than knowing her husband was cheating on her but being too afraid to be alone to ever do anything more than confront him and accept his cheap lies. A façade for something right before her eyes. And she knew. Everyone knew. But she didn't do anything. He finally left.
Better than sleeping with a guy while her comatose boyfriend lay in the hospital with his heart beating don't leave, don't leave, don't leave but she did because it was easier and lighter and what she wanted.
Better than killing an innocent girl and her mother and then pretending she wasn't responsible so she wouldn't get in trouble and she just kept pushing, pushing, pushing, couldn't let it go, couldn't pretend—not with him—until he finally left.
Better than being disappointed in her daughter for lying and cheating and stealing away whatever hope Susan had left that the world wasn't all darkness and sin.
Better than degrading herself just to make some money to keep her family in tact just for once, please, just for once let it work…
She's not better than that.
…And how long can you keep pretending that everything is okay…
Love is ferocious. People want to believe that it's really in the little things—smiles and laughter and tears and hugs and sweet, sweet words—but Carlos knows the truth. Love is a horrible, violent, overwhelming, clawing, never-ending battle. Do whatever it takes to protect it. He does, daily. He is constantly, constantly fighting for Gaby and his girls because they're the only people in the world who matter.
The only unconditional love is that of a parent. Mother to son. Son to daughter. He knows this. It's why so many marriages fail. Love you until you do this and then… He's lived it. He knows. And he knows that even now when Gaby stands by him and looks at him adoringly and tells him again and again that she loves him that there's every chance that one day he'll cross the line and that will be it. She's told him a million times that it's not true, but that's a lie. It's okay. At least she's trying.
But the love of a parent…
His mother used to soothe his wounds and kiss him goodnight and love him no matter what, and Carlos never would, could, did understand until the moment Juanita was born. The doctor handed him that little girl and the entire universe bloomed inside his heart reaching out farther than the eye could see, expanding and twisting and absorbing every bad thing in the world. She was everything. She is everything. And that love has nothing to do with anything but some primal, horrible, possessive, wonderful, hopeful wisdom that she is his. Every part of him that is good and bad; every bit of potential he ever had and wasted; every hope; every dream; every failing—and yet she can never be disappointing because no matter what she will always, always be his.
Except now she might not be.
He thinks it doesn't matter.
He will still fight to the death for that love.
…When it's obvious that nothing is right anymore.
Bree isn't a wife or a businesswoman or even really a mother anymore and that scares her because what else is there but a desolate nothingness that just stretches out before her like an endless black sea? What is she?
She is a homeowner with the power to rip and destroy and ruin her home. Hers, hers, hers and no one can tell her what to do or why or when. She can just go and tear through the place and never look back. But she can't repair the damage.
She is a fool. Can't see what is right in front of her face, never has, never will because she's too busy being blind and pretending that nothing is ever wrong when everything is and isn't that the classic definition of a fool?
She is someone trying to be honest and failing yet again.
She is a thousand goodbyes written in the sand a hundred years ago and washed away. Don't know they're coming but they've always existed; inevitably rushing toward her like the ocean tide. Nothing ever stays because she's is the sorrow of adieu, the whisper of arrivederci, the hopelessness of goodbye. Farewell to the world that knew me once because now I am nothing but a memory…
She is someone trying to be more than nothing.