6 | Weep With Those Who Weep (Part 2 of 4)

Margaret swore loudly and blinked, slapping her hand over her mouth as the foul word exploded from her mouth. The rest of her class turned to stare at her, eyes wide in disbelief.

"Margaret Hale," her teacher, a sweet old nun with gold rimmed spectacles on a thin red chain, seemed to turn to stone. "Explain."

"Sorry, Sister Therese," Margaret's eyes stung, and she almost choked on the words as a wave of wild rage and crushing sadness swept over her. She swore again, louder this time, and almost fell out of her desk.

No. Not this.

She scrambled towards the door, the rest of the class tittering and throwing wads of paper after her. Her face burned with shame, and her stomach rolled. The moment she reached the washroom, she vomited into the sink, a sick despairing dread ripping through her. It was like when his father died—but worse somehow.

So much worse.

This time it was laced with a guilt so intense she felt like someone was tearing her from the inside out. She didn't hear the other girls' whispers or see their awkward stares.

No. No—

Margaret whimpered. Her breath came in gasps and her stomach kept heaving. She clutched the washstand and tried to calm the storm raging through her chest. Over the years the raw place inside her had grown quiet, and some days Margaret almost forgot about it, almost as if a wall had been built between her and her soulmate's pain. But now the wall was crumbling to pieces.

God, help me.

Tears poured down her face as she vomited again. Her own fear mixed with his until she thought she was drowning. Margaret knew he wouldn't cry—and somehow that meant she would. Her whole body trembled and her knees buckled under her.

"What's wrong with the new kid?"

"She just fell out of her seat and was swearing like a sailor—"

"Give her space—"

Fanny.

"Margaret Hale," slender Sister Catherine laid a gentle hand on her arm. "Can you walk?"

"It's alright—I'm fine, sister," Margaret frowned, swallowing hard. Speaking was difficult.

"Let's sit where it's comfortable and I'll fetch you some cocoa."

"Please—" Margaret wished they'd all leave her be. She couldn't really do anything except just be here until whatever awful thing that was ripping at his soul passed. "I can't."

She pressed herself against the wall, sinking down and burying her face in her knees, trying to ignore the murmured questions. Sister Catherine tried to persuade her to come to the principal's office so they could call her mother. Margaret didn't move. She didn't need to talk and she didn't need her mother. She needed to be left alone.

He needed her.

And there was nothing she could do.

John swore as she held on tight to Fanny. She cried and cried, her tears soaking into his shirt. Their mother stood like a ghost in the doorway, her face lined with pain, her shoulders stooped as if she were a woman well beyond sixty or seventy years instead of just forty-four.

"What the hell happened?" John demanded, his voice hoarse.

He'd come home to find fifteen-year-old Fanny in hysterics, curled into a ball on the floor, unable to move while his mother tried to soothe her. A pile of bloodied towels lay next to them, and John could still see a few spots on the linoleum his mother had missed.

"Mother—"

"Shane Brady." His mother's reply was low and sharp as flint.

John stiffened and Fanny squeezed him tighter, her sobs shaking her tiny frame.

No. Not this—

Fanny had met the asshole at the state fair and wouldn't shut up about him. John didn't give her gushing rambles any more thought than he usually did. And now—

No. No.

He should've paid more attention, should've listened to her, should've cared—John's mind scrambled through all the things his sister had said about this boy she met, sinking twisting dread tearing at him.

"Is she pregnant?" He almost choked on the words.

"Not anymore."

John stared at his mother trying to process what she was saying as her posture deflated even more with her words. His glance flicked to the towels and then his sister. She was wearing one of his old basketball shirts. It was smeared with blood and vomit. Then something inside John snapped as it all tumbled into place.

God, help me.

He gathered Fanny closer and stood, ducked into her room. tucking her into bed. He muttered something to his mother and then almost ran to his truck. He had to do something. Something to fix this. Something—

John slammed his fists into the side of his truck, pain shooting up both arms, and stumbled. He ended up half sitting half sprawled against his truck, unable to move. Pain radiated from his hands but John didn't give a shit. A little pain because of his stupidity was small compared with what had happened to Fanny.

"Fanny."

He'd failed her—and his mother. Something he'd sworn to himself he'd never do. Not after his dad had left them all and—

He slid further down until he was sitting the wet pavement, the sound of his sister's broken weeping still echoing in his ears.

Margaret lay on her bed staring at the racing ceiling fan, her hands clasped to her aching chest. It seemed her body never stopped hurting these days. Her new doctor, Doctor Campbell, said it was only perceived pain; it was all in her head. Or in this case, her soul, and if she would relax and focus her mind it would eventually fade. Dr Campbell had given her focused meditation and breathing exercises.

Margaret made a face. It had been almost eight months since the incident at school yet she could still clearly feel his guilt, his anger, and his despair as if it happened yesterday. Before, with his father, he'd buried his pain and walled it up, but now he was drowning in it. He was also completely exhausted. The more tired he became, the more everything else faded inside him for a while. Margaret thought she understood why he was wearing himself out but it didn't stop her from worrying. Was it possible for someone to work themselves to death? Like, really?

Because she had a suspicion her soulmate was trying it.

"You have to sleep," she murmured, yawning, her jaw cracking.

Margaret wished he could hear her—maybe he wouldn't listen, but—

Still, she couldn't help trying. Someone had to help him and she was the only one who knew exactly what was happening inside him.

Even if she didn't know what exactly had happened. All she knew was a name—Fanny. Margaret hoped that, whoever she was, Fanny was alright. Margaret sighed. She ached to do something—anything—to help.

"I'm so sorry," she told the ceiling fan, trying to imagine his face. He was definitely older than her and probably very serious. Hopefully not too old and not too serious. "I—"

Margaret rolled onto her side in frustration, feeling silly. He couldn't hear her, she couldn't help, and—

"I wish I was there with you."

She yawned again, her own body aching with his fatigue and began to slip down into sleep.

You have to sleep

John blinked, his eyes feeling like sand, and sat up straighter, glancing around. The apartment was silent. Even the mice in the walls seemed to be asleep. And still he thought he'd heard—

John shook himself, scrubbed at his face and turned his attention back to the work in front of him, but the letters and figures swam before his eyes. His mother had been pestering him to get some real sleep for weeks. John ignored her and she'd finally given up. At least Fanny was sleeping again. These days it's all she ever did.

John pushed the pile of work aside and made his way back to his tiny bedroom, stretching out on the too-short bed. The glaring light of a street lamp streamed through the filthy glass, coating everything in garish orange. He couldn't sleep—not until he fixed the mess they were in and got Fanny the hell away from here. Mr Bell had wrangled him into a corner but he would help them move John's fledgling shipping business to Milton. John hated owing the old bastard a favor but he had no choice. He had nothing else to give Fanny.

I'm so sorry

"What the hell?" John pushed himself up and stared into the half darkness.

The few people who knew about Fanny had kept saying they were sorry over and over and over until John was ready to punch another hole in his wall. He didn't need their pity, and Fanny certainly didn't need it either. She needed a damn miracle.

But this wasn't pity. This was something else. This was sincere and simple. And it felt like—well, it felt like her. John hadn't thought about his soulmate in months. Most of the time he tried not to. Now he gently nudged at the place inside him where he could always find her. It was like blowing ever so softly on a spark until it became a flame. His awareness of her grew, sharpened until he could feel her clearly.

The loneliness was there as always. Anger and fear too. He frowned. She was worried. John was familiar with her worry. She wore her anxiety like a second skin ever since she and her mother had left her dad. She missed her dad. John's frown deepened. Sometimes her worry came with a different name—Fred. Whoever the hell that was. Fred worried her to the point where John wanted to give the little shit a piece of his mind. But tonight the worry was stronger, sadder.

I wish I was there with you

John's eyes snapped open and he swore. Ever since Dr Hamilton told him his soulmate was forced to experience his trauma, he had done everything he could to hide it from her. But he was too damn exhausted to hide anything right now. He wasn't even sure he wanted to. She knew—about Fanny, about everything—and now she was worried.

About him.

It was one thing for his mother to worry. She would do whatever the hell she wanted. But his soulmate worrying about him— so worried she was almost sick with it—

"Stop," John growled. "Stop worrying and go to sleep."

The voice was rough, deep, and a little harsh. Margaret's eyes fluttered open as she nearly rolled out of bed. Her hand pressed against her ribs and she glanced at the spot beneath her fingers, like the voice had come from inside her. She couldn't hear it exactly but—

"I can hear you," she breathed. None of the doctors she'd seen in the last seven years had ever mentioned that she might be able to talk to her soulmate. Margaret pressed harder against her ribs. Her heart was doing its best effort to pound straight out of her chest. "Can you—can you hear me?"

Yes

If Margaret could have caught that single word and saved it forever, she would. She let out a breath and almost smiled. He was here. Somehow.

"Are—are you alright?" Margaret could still clearly feel the tangle of emotions rolling off of him while she waited. It was a stupid question and she knew the answer but she couldn't help herself.

No

Margaret's eyes stung and she wiped at her cheeks. If only there was something else she could do for him—

Don't. The voice turned gruff. Don't cry.

"Bossy." Margaret grinned a little and rubbed her eyes.

She ran her hand along the coverlet. She wanted to say more. To tell him all the things she's wanted to tell him since his father died. To tell him everything would be alright even if it took ages and ages. To tell him she understood. But when you see into someone else's personal hell, words seem so powerless.

Can I ask a favor?

"Sure." John closed his eyes, wishing he could see her face. She was probably young, a lot younger than him, but he was still curious.

Hug Fanny for me and tell her I'm sorry

He shifted, raking his hands through his hair. He hadn't expected that. Nothing he did these days seemed to fix a damn thing. His sister seemed more dead than alive.

Please

"I—" John sighed. "I'll tell her."

He could feel her smile.

If I were there, I'd hug you

"I don't like hugs."

Nonsense. Everyone likes hugs

For the first time in eight months John almost smiled. He tried to think of something else to say, something nice to let her know she didn't have to fix this. To tell her not to worry or cry anymore. To tell her he'd be okay. To tell her that just knowing she was with him was enough. To tell her that one day he'd make damn certain she was never lonely. But before he could say anything else, John felt his mind finally relax enough for his body's demand for rest yank him down into a deep dreamless sleep.

AN: This little story is rough—to read and to write. But I suppose a soulmate trope about trauma has to be hard. I hope you enjoy it. Thanks for all your lovely words and for reading. Also, got to credit SHBirds for inspiring me to include a little soulmate conversation. Cheers.