Vigil
Disclaimer: Whistle Down the Wind belongs to Andrew Lloyd Webber, Jim Stienman, Mary Haley Bell, and RUG. Hopefully that's everybody (and everybody sits around wondering "who the heck is Mary Haley Bell"... She wrote the novel that the musical is based on).
Notes: This is from the pint of view of Swallow's father, Boone. Also, please don't flame me for some of the more negative things said about The Man. This is supposed to reflect Boone's opinion, not mine.
She's so like her mother. Swallow has the same flowing brown hair, the same facial features, the same everything as the only woman I have ever, and will ever love. Her mother was a bird, light, and free, and beautiful. Swallow is a bird also, but one who's wings have been clipped by sorrow. Her mother was an angel, a gift from heaven. When I looked into her mothers smiling eyes, it was like looking into an eternity. My eternity. The eternity we would spend together. Swallow has her mother's eyes, but swallow's eyes are sad. Even when she was dieing, her mother's eyes were never sad. My wife always found something to be happy about. Like a bird, she always found something to sing about, even when she had nothing.
Sometimes I can't bare to watch Swallow. Like tonight, I can hardly even look at her. She's sitting in front of the window, the sunset casting a shadow of it's brilliant pinkish light on her solemn face. She looks out, scanning the horizon, searching, and never finding anything. She's always out at this time of night, trying to see something that's not there. I know who she's waiting for. She's waiting for the devil to come take her into his grasp again. The devil who she believes is Jesus. No matter what everybody else tells her, she won't give up her belief that he's Jesus, and she won't stop waiting for him.
During the day, she acts at least somewhat normally. She takes care of Brat and Poor Baby. She goes to school, and does well. She gently fends off Amos's constant advances. It's only at night that she seems to enter this wistful, watchful vigil. It's worst when it's stormy out. Often I can't keep her in the house. She'll go outside, standing out in the rain for hours, before retreating, still soaking wet into the barn.
She isn't looking at me. She doesn't know I watch her every night. She doesn't know I can't stand to watch her do this to herself every night. She's becoming distant. I fear I'm losing her. I lost her mother. I can't loose her. I need her to be my bird. I need her to fly again. I need her to be my Angel. I need her eyes to smile. Most of all, I need her to be my daughter again, not a ghost living in the memory of a savoir that never was.
Disclaimer: Whistle Down the Wind belongs to Andrew Lloyd Webber, Jim Stienman, Mary Haley Bell, and RUG. Hopefully that's everybody (and everybody sits around wondering "who the heck is Mary Haley Bell"... She wrote the novel that the musical is based on).
Notes: This is from the pint of view of Swallow's father, Boone. Also, please don't flame me for some of the more negative things said about The Man. This is supposed to reflect Boone's opinion, not mine.
She's so like her mother. Swallow has the same flowing brown hair, the same facial features, the same everything as the only woman I have ever, and will ever love. Her mother was a bird, light, and free, and beautiful. Swallow is a bird also, but one who's wings have been clipped by sorrow. Her mother was an angel, a gift from heaven. When I looked into her mothers smiling eyes, it was like looking into an eternity. My eternity. The eternity we would spend together. Swallow has her mother's eyes, but swallow's eyes are sad. Even when she was dieing, her mother's eyes were never sad. My wife always found something to be happy about. Like a bird, she always found something to sing about, even when she had nothing.
Sometimes I can't bare to watch Swallow. Like tonight, I can hardly even look at her. She's sitting in front of the window, the sunset casting a shadow of it's brilliant pinkish light on her solemn face. She looks out, scanning the horizon, searching, and never finding anything. She's always out at this time of night, trying to see something that's not there. I know who she's waiting for. She's waiting for the devil to come take her into his grasp again. The devil who she believes is Jesus. No matter what everybody else tells her, she won't give up her belief that he's Jesus, and she won't stop waiting for him.
During the day, she acts at least somewhat normally. She takes care of Brat and Poor Baby. She goes to school, and does well. She gently fends off Amos's constant advances. It's only at night that she seems to enter this wistful, watchful vigil. It's worst when it's stormy out. Often I can't keep her in the house. She'll go outside, standing out in the rain for hours, before retreating, still soaking wet into the barn.
She isn't looking at me. She doesn't know I watch her every night. She doesn't know I can't stand to watch her do this to herself every night. She's becoming distant. I fear I'm losing her. I lost her mother. I can't loose her. I need her to be my bird. I need her to fly again. I need her to be my Angel. I need her eyes to smile. Most of all, I need her to be my daughter again, not a ghost living in the memory of a savoir that never was.