She's always thought there were two ways to die, slowly and quickly. It's an odd thought, perhaps, for a nine-year-old to have, but an honest thought all the same. Logan has always prided herself on her honesty, but as she watches her father writhe in his favorite arm chair, his jaw missing and blood bubbling from the wound of a misplaced bullet, she wonders if she has been lying to herself. Maybe there is only one way to die, and that's slowly. Because she knows he's been dying for months now, spiraling into a cycle of drinking and holding his only gun to his head. Sometimes he would hold the gun to her head too, with empty eyes only seeing her long nose and thin lips, her red hair so similar to her mother's. The metal would be cold, heavy against her temple, and she'd stand there wondering Will I die slowly? Or quickly?
He pulled the trigger this time, and Logan stands there with red freckles dripping down her cheeks and clear tracks through the mud beneath her eyes. Eyes that shine like sea glass, wavering and unblinking at the sight of her father, her stupid father who missed. All she can think is how he didn't even have the decency to die quickly, only the cruelty to miss the shot and quake through the flood of sticky red. Choking and shaking, in so much pain, but all Logan really sees that night is the peace in his gaze. No regret, just peace. And that's when her perspective on dying changes.
We all die slowly. We're dying slowly right now. As she steps forward, slipping the weapon from his unsteady fingers, she thinks about her mother. Logan wraps her small fingers around his palm, and remembers how her mother shriveled. How it took a year for her to die. Her cheeks had hallowed and her hair lost its shine, stringy and limp. Her breathing always sounded so painful, her heart never beat right. Logan thinks about when she held her mother's hand, bony and weak compared to the shaking, sweaty grip of her father's hand now, and she hears the echo of her mother's last breath. Logan hums her father's favorite song, a song her mother used to sing before her tongue swelled and her voice faded to dust.
Grayson's eyes shine as he listens to his daughter hum, small and broken and beautiful. It's Elizabeth's song, and he wants to weep. He wishes he could feel her hand in his, that his body hadn't gone numb. Not yet. But he sees the acceptance, the forgiveness in his little Logan's sea glass eyes, like his own. They shimmer with her tears; tears he knows she doesn't notice. She's always been a silent crier, always so quiet. He closes his eyes, knows this is the end he wanted, needed, and that he was never a good father. Grayson fades away to his dead wife's melody hummed through his daughter's shaking breaths, and he knows he's going to hell for abandoning this life. He wishes he still had a jaw to smile.
Logan knows he's gone when his eyes close, when his hand stops shaking. But the red still flows, down and down. It's staining his shirt, dripping onto his favorite chair. She thinks about how he doesn't need that chair anymore. The chair where she learned to read, where her mother would sing to her, and her father would smoke his cigarettes. Logan jumps when she feels something splash on her hand, looks down in confusion at the small, clear, salty puddle in the hallow between her thumb and forefinger. She's done it again. Why does she never notice her own tears?
Letting his hand fall, a heavy thud that echoes in the otherwise silent room, Logan takes a step back. And another. And another, until she's pressed against the opposite wall. Her hands are shaking, her whole body is shaking, and she knows what's coming. She can still hear the gunshot, loud and ripping through her mind, unwelcome. She covers her ears to block the sound, it doesn't work. Her fingers dig into her scalp, and she tries to breathe. Logan tries to take a breath but it's like there's something lodged in her throat. She gasps, sucking air in and in and in and never letting it out. And then she's screaming, a sound so agonizing she doesn't recognize it as her own. She's detached, looking down at herself. A little girl, lost, alone, and screaming, huddled in the corner for some kind of protection, of comfort.
She remembers what her mother used to tell her.
"Five for touch, four for sight, three for sound, two for smell, and one for taste," she would whisper, calm and soft in Logan's ear. One, the ground, solid and hard beneath her heels. Two, the peeling paint on the walls, poking into the skin stretched over her shoulder blades. Three, her nightie, scratchy against her calves and collarbone. Four, her hair between her fingers, soft and tangled. Five, the blood drying on her cheeks, making her skin itch. She stopped screaming, breathing deeply. In through the nose, hold, out through the mouth. Opening her eyes was a struggle, but immediately her gaze latches onto her knees, refusing to look up. One, the flower pattern sewn into her nightie, little bundles of daisies. Two, her socks, knitted by her mother. There's a hole in the right toe. Three, the candles flickering in the room, shadows dancing across the walls. Four, her father's teeth scattered across the ground, his blood spattered along the picture frames.
One, the creek of the floorboards as she stands up. Two, the vibration in the hallow center of her violin, now clutched to her chest, a small comfort. The only photo of her family, small and crinkled, rests between the strings. Three, the door slamming behind her as she steps outside. She wonders if the neighbors heard the gunshot. How much time has passed? It feels like an eternity, maybe she'll wither away. Old Mrs. Higgins from down the road will find her bones scattered on the stoop when she comes to deliver some fresh eggs for the broken family, her father decaying in his favorite chair. One, it rained that morning, the smell clinging to the gravel. Two, the smoke from her father's cigarettes that stains her clothes, suffocating. Logan sits on the lowest step, hugging her legs close to her chest and resting her chin on her knees. It's cold. She shivers, clouds of her breath puffing between her lips.
One, the saltiness of her tears on her chapped lips. Why haven't they stopped?
A/N: This is the first time I've actually decided to publish something I've written. My plan is to update once a week, every Friday. I'll do my best to stick to that schedule, but between school and work it may be difficult. I also plan to add this story to ArchiveOfOurOwn, if you'd prefer to read it there.
Peaky Blinders is one of my favorite shows right now, and I had a little idea while I was watching. This fic will take place mostly before, during, and immediately after the war. There's two years between WWI and the start of the show. And then I'll probably finish this fic off with some major changes in season 1. I won't be going through the entire show. Please review! I have a plan for the story, but if there's anything specific I should include, let me know!