A/N: Before you chastise me for creating a Mary Sue, please understand that this story is about self-discovery. About learning that there is more to life than parties and being adored every minute of the day. About finding love in the most unexpected of places. It also deals with the effects of war in young men that come home from it destroyed, broken, soulless. Holding desperately to their sanity because it threatens to slip away from them.
She will grow as she begins to understand. Also, flashbacks will be included about how Eugene and this girl met in the future chapters to come. :)
When I was a little girl, days that were meant to be passed in child-like innocence, in sheer-eyed ignorance of the world and all of its inherent cruelties, were spent in preparation. For my future, mother always preached to me. Her long, painted finger waving in front of my face, as if to relate to me the gravity of my situation. I was to be instructed, to learn the intricate deposition of character expected of me, in order to attain ever elusive domestic bliss. All of this was carried out so that someday, in the very near future, I would be considered the epitome of the perfect bride.
Perhaps it is from this memory that my abhorrence for everything to do with marriage stems. I don't remember tea parties, discussing the weather and gossip that only little five year old girls would find interesting with my dolls, who I would have thought, in their stillness, were merely transfixed by my every word. Every droll turn of childish wit and humor that came across as brilliant in every way. Learning to cook replaced mud pies in the garden. Learning to sew replaced dresses with skirts which enticed me to twirl in them, to make the fabric dance around me like a halo of lace and frills. In place of friends, I had lessons in social graces and etiquette with girls I never related to in any way, as I viewed each and every one of them as little horrors with no exciting qualities to redeem them.
Of course, I was blind to my own defects in this undesirable trait. I, too, morphed into the same selfish model of deportment as the years wore on and adolescence imparted to me the courage to rebel against my mother's every desire for me to marry well. Her lessons were often thwarted by temper tantrums. Cups of tea which were ultimately upset by these fits of displeasure often stained mother's expensive doilies and table cloths. I burned perfectly good food just to spite her, stained dresses that she had wasted father's hard-earned money on to buy, and intentionally embarrassed her at parties as I grew old enough to attend them. Years of practice, which proved ultimately ineffective, on sewing also became a true instrument of sabotage. It was always my worst subject in lessons; my hands were unsteady, as was my nature to be restless, to crave freedom.
High regard in society was everything my mother wished for me.
And I dashed every one of those hopes to pieces as my reputation as a temperamental brat became more infamous while the years passed us by.
It has always been that, when I did not get my way, I would resort to days of silence. I prided myself upon the presence of mind to carry out such a difficult strike, to not to speak one word for the entire passage of a sun and a moon. Not a flicker of intent to converse, to remark, to answer questions. The inevitable pout of a little girl lodged in a grown woman's body, only altered to fit a certain air of dignity where sense was concerned.
So passed the first days of my imprisonment as his wife.
Imprisonment because I am miles away from any acquaintance, from any of my former admirers that had showered me with daily compliments and tokens of their adoration. This poor excuse for a man, who ghosts through the corridors of this house like some unhappy haunt, says nothing to me. Does not flatter me in even the simplest of forms, such as a favorable glance, an observation about how lovely I look in a dress or a certain color. Everything I ever learned in seducing a man has been wasted on this quiet, moping creature that I have been encumbered with.
Why, oh why did I ever accept him? I could have had any man of my choosing. Robbie Harding who loved to tangle his fingers in my hair when he'd pull me outside to steal a kiss from me in the pleasant darkness. Jacob Potter whose compliments ever sweetened my thoughts for him, ever sought and succeeded in earning my praises. And oh! Zachary Kirk. With the bluest eyes that put forget-me-nots to shame and a smile to die for if there was ever one.
And yet here I am. Sitting in the parlor, lounging in mind-numbing boredom with a tray of treacle tarts and sweetened tea that has only been glanced at once. In my muted rebellion, I have not looked on it since the housekeeper came in and left it on the coffee table. I simply remain in crossed-legged silence and watch the man outside through eyes that only seem to narrow even further as my surveillance of his activities draw on.
As the hour wears on, I come to the conclusion that what he seems to do every day, when he is not ambling aimlessly through the house as if he is searching for the lost half of his cognizance, is utterly useless. It is rather hard to explain, what perfectly good time he wastes, time that could have been spent more wisely on finding a job to support his wife and livelihood. I am not quite sure what it is that he does out there, even when he is in plain view of the windows and I can see for myself what sort of occupation he entertains.
But from my ignorant perspective, all the description I may afford to his goings-on is surface-value at best. When he has not disappeared from the garden or the back of the house, he is often drifting from place to place with a pencil behind his ear, that ridiculous pipe dangling from the side of his mouth, hands in his pockets to complete the look of uselessness that he emulates on a daily basis. He takes in the sight of every living thing that surrounds this house. The grass, the roses that I have no interest in pruning, the dirt and the bees and the butterflies like little shards of beauty embedded into the vibrant-colored blossoms. He carries with him a pocket-sized book of notes, into which I can only assume he stores the thoughts that are meant only for himself to read. They are certainly never shared with me; I know no more about what diction he might be keeping in that leather-bound notebook of his than the housekeeper, than the butterflies that carry on from flower to flower, glinting in the sunlight as if they are made entirely from glass.
After three days of watching him, and of course the better half of the day that I have squandered on trying understand this rubbish of his, I have had enough. I uncross my legs. This shall end today, tonight, as soon as I may bring about its demise. With renewed objective, I pass the treacle tarts, the sweet tea, the rows and rows of books that wait for me to open them. The housekeeper pauses on her way out the back door, carrying a wicker basket of washed bedclothes outside to be left on the line and dry in the breeze. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her shake her head, as if she understands him better than I do…and that I am nothing more but a damning influence on this house.
As if the ennui is not condemning enough in of itself.
Outside, the heat rushes forth to envelope me in its smothering cocoon the moment I step onto its territory. There is no escaping it; even inside the air is as hot and heady as breath against bare skin. It is the sort of weather that entices couples into their beds, inspired by the friction of the summer's day to do nothing more but tumble through the sheets and pay homage to the divinity of pulsating warmth. It is also weather that can turn even the most dedicated of optimistic women into simpering half-versions of themselves, sweethearts into ogres, and break those who have sworn silence so that they might speak again.
Today, he is staring up at a tree. His dark crimson hair intermittently brightens into something like rubies caught in the light as the mottled shade breaks into morsels of shedding sun and tree-bough shadows. The notebook tucked away into his palm remains idle, as does the pencil behind his ear. It is as if he is on the verge of capturing great thought, of stumbling into discovery. Of unlocking the path to unprecedented genius.
On the other hand, he could just be lost again in his own brooding. Matters of reasoning are unnecessary as they both lead to his standing there, eyes tilted up to the great, thick tree in his front yard as if it is something novel to behold. Something he's never seen before.
I cross my arms, standing behind him, waiting for him to heed my existence. At the very least, my presence. When it becomes certain that he will not move without stimulation on my part, I clear my throat and his head snaps toward me, eyes wide, like he's been wrenched out of the grasp of some terrible nightmare. He sees that it is only me standing there and the moment of vulnerability settles into equilibrium.
Undeterred, I advance on him, moving into the empty slot of grass and shade at his side. His gaze is fixed on that damned tree again and I can't help but begin to wonder if I've tied myself to a loon. "Might I ask what it is exactly that you do out here all day?"
His eyes are soft when they retreat from the hardness of the tree's structure and gloss over me, a tentative, testing glance. They remain on my face, undeterred by the intrusive manner in which I have come to him. The corners of his mouth quirk, as if the spell of laughter does not quite take root, not tempted enough to stay by the thought that flits too quickly through him. "Lookin' 'round is all," he replies, second nature, as easy as staring that tree. It requires no effort on his part, and yet there is a sadness that taints the simple words that I can't quite comprehend.
"Let me see that." I reach for the notebook curled into his palm before he can answer. Before he has any chance to try and stop me. The aggressive movement catches him off guard, and as I turn away from him, the resonance of a short breath and a step backwards is all I hear.
The leather is softened by the sweat that beaded down into it from his hands. Thumbprints and eraser shavings still cling to the burgundy-brown surface. I run my fingers over the covering for only a moment. What secrets hide behind these unassuming binds?
Before I can unearth them from even the first page, my efforts are thwarted by the hand that comes flying, razor-sharp quick, from somewhere beside me. I didn't even see him coming, didn't hear his footsteps, but there he is, standing at my side. A little too breathless and a little too disheveled. The look in his eyes is almost wild, but it's a gentle wilderness, the manifestation of fear in its mildest form.
"Please," he mutters, holding the notebook protectively against his chest, caged by his hands, his delicate wrists. "Don't…don't do that again. All right? These are very, very private. I don't want nobody but me lookin' at 'em. Is that clear?"
I feel my eyes constricting automatically. The reign of defiant silence seems to remember itself and returns full-force, if only for a moment.
"Charlotte," he is resorting to entreaty, a drawl that's both deep and musical. He doesn't look desperate, but there's something about the way his voice cracks and curls into itself, defensive, that betrays the impassive mask of his face. "Don't you go lookin' through this again, you hear me?"
He chides me gently. And it is the first time, since I met Eugene Sledge, that I feel something more than just indifference toward him.
I watch him stroll slowly away, a man buried in his own thought, and I entertain, all at once, a curiosity that rises up strong from within me.
Across the way, there is a lonely housewife, just as starved and desperate for human interaction as I am. Beyond Eugene's somber presence at the table or in the next room over, the housekeeper's knowing looks and suspicious prowling in the background, I have nothing else to entertain me but this poor creature, this victim of slave-driven matrimony.
Sylvia Lawrence is the typical woman that has been crushed my oppression, having nothing more to do throughout the day but wait for her husband to return from work. Her most exciting diversions include washing dishes in the kitchen and sitting down at breakfast after she is left to her own devices to read the newspaper. If anything, she is quite up to date on politics, but I tire so easily of the subject that it drops quickly whenever we have tea together or are in any way drawn to each other's company.
Today, it is sweet tea and honey biscuits, but I am altogether too moved by frustration with my own useless husband to try the bread. I stir my tea listlessly, sighing here and there to convey my disapproval, and the woman across the table from me smiles a little, disheartened perhaps at having to remedy her loneliness with such wretched society.
"What is it today then, Charlotte?"
"Nothing," I reply. "Absolutely nothing. The man is an utter bore. Perhaps if he were more handsome, I would be able to tolerate his lack of humor."
"You will get used to it, my dear," the older woman assures me, rearranging her doilies almost absently. A breeze laps at our skin, sighs against our ears, on its way through the quaint little porch."You must give yourself time."
"I don't want to give it time," I sigh and reach for my tea again, but do not drink from it. "I want to escape this dull place. You are the only person that rescues me from certain death of the tedium that I suffer, day by day. Morning, noon and night."
Again, another half-crescent smile. "Marriage is always a life-altering change for any young woman. It is quite tame compared to the life you have been used to living. Going from being showered with praise and compliments to not even a glance to be spared for you is certainly something you must learn to deal with. You are not exempt simply because you and your match are not on fire for one another, unlike other partners that are blinded by exquisitely burning love to see the forest for the trees. You have the advantage in your situation."
I scoff in reply. How absurd she can sometimes be. And to think she is the older, wiser one, having ten years over me, possessing the insight and experience which are supposed to enlighten her! "How is being ignored and avoided like the plague any sort of advantage?"
"You are privy to his both his flaws and virtues as a human being because you are not utterly and soulfully in love with him," she says. "And he, in turn, is aware of yours. You are both in a stage of careful observation, where each person is measuring the other and deciding whether or not there is any hope for affection in the near future."
"The only thing I love about him is the fact that his parents keep me out of poverty," I retort scathingly. "Do you know he will not even attempt to find work? He wanders the garden all morning, all afternoon, and does nothing else but write in that little notebook of his. Won't even let me look at the thing! The only reason we have a housekeeper is because his father insists on paying for one until we are settled in enough to pay our own expenses. I fear the old man will be paying for us for the rest of his life; his son is completely idle and useless."
At this, Sylvia cannot hide her ardent disapproval. Her expression hardens quickly, like fast-drying paint on a blank wall of emotions. "Charlotte, you should be ashamed of yourself," she speaks this in almost a whisper. As if it is forbidden, as if I have denied the existence of God and religion before her without care as to how such views would affect her opinion of me. Recklessly.
"Why? He has done nothing to prove his worth otherwise."
"But he has proved himself," Sylvia remarks gravely. "And he has had to sacrifice his innocence and his sanity to do so. The boy has almost lost his humanity, he hangs onto it by a thread, and I will not tolerate your selfish nature any longer if you are to insult him so thoughtlessly. I can understand your boredom, your frustration at being ignored, but Charlotte I will not simply sit back and allow you to think you have married a useless man."
"What on earth are you on about?"
"I am not supposed to breathe a word of this to you, but if you are too blinded by your own selfish nature to recognize that your husband is in pain, then it seems I must break my promise for your own sake. And especially his."
I wait for this stunning revelation as the woman steels herself inwardly, harboring to herself this detrimental information for only a moment longer as her eyes drag across the scenery, toward our home across the street. It seems quiet, nothing stirring within. Eugene is not on the front lawn. Everything is empty, almost adhering to the look of abandonment.
"Eugene fought in the war, dearest," she tells me, her eyes heavy with unshed tears, as if the task of having to verify this truth makes her heart break. "Doc Sledge says he's only just returned."
The war? I know nothing of the war; the meaning of this great unveiling has no effect on me as a result. But it seems that these words are rivaled by nothing more profound, nothing more haunting than what she has uttered to me, imparted to my knowledge for safe-keeping. When she stands, hand resting softly on the back of her chair, she does not even spare me a glance as she opens the screen door to her house and disappears inside.
There is only a renewed interest of this private sorrow that everyone but me seems to be experiencing. That everyone, except me, seems to comprehend in this directionless figure that I have come to call husband.
All I know now is that I must find that journal. A side effect for boredom that infects me with this curiosity, perhaps. I have never cared much before about the complexities of a man's nature. They are such simple creatures. They respond to beauty and bodies and stolen moments in the darkness. Eugene does not respond to any of these things. He is an unknown in the back of my head. I must strip the anonymous shadows from his identity in order to scourge this insufferable ignorance from me.
I have come to find that what was at first only indifference has transformed into an urgent need – I must know what he keeps so secret from me in those marked pages of his.
Tonight. I look across the street, squinting through the gold veil of sunlight.
Only the cover of darkness may enlighten me.
I don't own The Pacific, nor is this in any way intended to disrespect the memory of Eugene Sledge.