Disclaimer: Don't own Trigun.
A/N: Sometimes I want to scream on those crappy sort of days. Meryl has clearly reached her limit.
The water could have had more time to boil.
Wiping her forehead, Meryl throws together scanty vegetable soup with bread, tossing bowls and utensils to whoever can catch them. The laundry pile grows higher, if possible: a rising avalanche waiting to happen. Among the slurps and spoon clanging, an infant cries; Meryl swipes the baby up and cradles the small body. She does not even know its name. Its face crumples unexpectedly, the wails beginning anew, and she tiredly coos and murmurs for a few more minutes until it quiets down again.
A little girl drops her spoon and promptly begins to wail because she knows that it is so very difficult to replace anything nowadays. Meryl calmly sets the baby down in its highchair, picks the spoon off of the floor, and rubs it furiously with the hem of her blouse, but the spoon is now dirty. Forever and always. And God, she had just wiped everything clean the other day in an effort to retain whatever normalcy she has left of her life. Why is the damn spoon dirty again?
It is a game. Everyone—the children, the men, the women, him—wants to see how long they can keep pushing, keep wailing, keep fighting, keep goddamn hoping until. She. Cracks.
Meryl, did you collect enough food for tomorrow? Meryl, is it your turn to patrol with Jake tonight? Meryl, one of the kids lost her blanket; she wants to know if you can give her yours? Meryl, you look exhausted; did you get enough sleep this week? Meryl. Meryl. Meryl.
Air. She needs to be outside right now. And then Meryl is outside, breathing hard through her nose; the parched air stings her nostrils, and something. Just. Gives. Oh, how it is a relief that no one is watching her harsh sobs and curling hands; the release comes without warning. She is drowning in salt, not tears, because the only thing that can come forth from her dry, dusty eyes and this dry, dusty world is what is left behind when saltwater evaporates instantly, when this insufferable heat sucks up any soothing feeling produced.
And yet it is a beautiful, breathless feeling.
As the gates break open, a million questions flood her consciousness, threatening to overwhelm her emotional equilibrium. What if the children can't eat? What if we run out of supplies? What if he kills us all? Or worse, what if I give up? I hate this, so much.
Look at what you've done.
And then it is over. Meryl opens her eyes again; they are red and puffy, but dry nonetheless. There is no point in crying about it. She must move on.
And she wipes her face and returns to the kitchen wearing a tired smile, like nothing has ever happened. Milly happens to catch Meryl at the doorway, but the petite woman shakes her head—I'm fine.
She has moved on.
Review, dammit.
