So um... this chapter. This chapter was really hard to write- it took me at least a month to finally get it written. It may also be hard to read. Just a warning. All I will say is trust me, I love this ship beyond compare and everything will be okay in the end.
It is unseasonably warm for late October, and Mary wakes up happily to see that it is warm enough for her to take a ride through the beautiful Scottish countryside.
She dresses in her riding clothes, untouched since they came to Scotland, and heads downstairs for breakfast, where Matthew and Isobel are waiting. Matthew is cleanly shaven, dressed, and looks much more alive than he has since he came back from the front. He is eating, actually, eating a lot of his breakfast.
"Good morning Mary," he says cheerfully. It is such a departure from the sullen, morose Matthew that she has known for the past few months, and it is hard for Mary to respond, she is so taken aback.
Finally, she manages to stammer out, "Good morning... You're looking cheerful."
He shrugs. "It's nice out today. Reminds me that there is beauty in this world still."
She tries to force a smile. It's nice to see him finally happy, but there's something not quite right about it. She knows Matthew can be moody, but he doesn't have these kinds of drastic mood swings literally overnight.
"I'm going into the village today," Isobel reminds the table. "Is there anything either of you need?"
"I do have a couple letters to send, if you'd be willing to drop them off," Mary says. "I'm going for a ride this morning, it seems a shame to waste such a lovely day."
"Matthew, will you be alright without either of us here?" Isobel asks.
He rolls his eyes. "I did manage to survive four years in the trenches, I think I'll be fine alone in a lovely house for a few hours."
Mary tries to smile at his humor, but there's something missing from him, something she can't quite put her finger on, and it bothers her more than she can say.
"Is there anything you'd like me to pick up while I'm in town, Matthew?" Isobel asks. She can sense that there's something off too, maybe just subconsciously, but the hint of concern is present in her voice.
"I have everything I need," Matthew replies.
Mary isn't sure what to make of that.
Isobel smiles tightly. "Well, then. Shrimpie's chauffeur should be here any minute now, if you'll excuse me, I should go gather my things."
When Mary and Matthew are left alone in the dining room, Mary finally works up the courage to say something. "Has anything happened? Did you get a letter or read a newspaper article or anything?"
"Why?" he asks, his eyes wide and unsuspicious.
"You're just so... much more alive than you have been the past few months. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm delighted that you seem so happy, it's just... quite the change from what you were before."
He smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "It's just... I realized something last night. And it cheered me up."
Mary raises an eyebrow. "Care to share?"
"Not particularly. I feel like my whole life is observed and scrutinized constantly now, it's nice to have something to myself."
Mary isn't totally reassured, but she lets it slide. "I won't be too long on my ride."
"Don't worry. Take as long as you like. It's a lovely day today," he says, almost absentmindedly.
She nods slowly, worriedly. "Yes it is..."
Mary realizes just a few minutes into her ride that it would be much more pleasant had Matthew not been acting so odd that morning. She is preoccupied with thoughts of him instead of concentrating on the beauty around her. She digs her heels further into the horse, willing it to go faster, as if going faster will take her away from her worries. But her worries are a part of her, and they are not left behind at the house.
The trunk of his military things is in his room, unlocked, easily accessible. He is thankful for this. It makes things much easier.
He manages, somehow, to drag a straight-backed chair across the room so he can sit next to it. He opens the trunk and casts out the uniforms sitting on the top.
There it is; his pistol. Dirty and beat up and marked and an object that has saved his life many a time. Maybe not today.
She is about half an hour into her ride when she realizes that this is not going to be pleasant. There is too much occupying her mind, and the idea of Matthew being alone at the house terrifies her slightly. Or a lot.
She calls out to the groom, "Let's turn back."
"Milady, we've only just begun," he says.
Mary nods. "I know. But I need to get back as soon as possible. There's something I forgot."
Matthew fingers the gun carefully, opening its chambers to find one bullet left. One perfect little bullet that his gun did not fire when he was injured. One perfect little bullet from a gun that has ended dozens of lives.
One perfect little bullet left.
One more life to end.
The horse gallops at a quick pace, but it is not nearly quick enough for Mary. She digs her heels into the horse's sides and leans forward, willing it to go faster. As if the horse can hear her frantically beating heart and her flying thoughts.
The horse goes, but not quickly enough.
Time seems too slow.
There are other ways, he knows. There is a rope in his mess kit, but he doubts he could reach the ceiling. Enough morphine would gently put him to sleep, but not enough would simply fail him. He has the knife he took from the dinner table, but that is a messy end.
No, this is the best way. He has seen it many times in the trenches. All it takes is one perfect little bullet.
She hops off the horse before it even has a chance to slow down, so determined is she to get to the house. But the stables are not nearby, and her fastest running pace is not all that fast. The run up the hill to the house seems interminable, and there is not enough air in her lungs to sustain her. Yet, she makes it. Exhausted and in pain, but she makes it to the entrance.
She doesn't take a break to breathe.
It is better this way, he thinks darkly. Mary and his mother will be devastated for a little while, but then they can go back to living their lives. They are better off without him burdening them. And he will be happier this way. This kind of life, with both the injury and the shellshock, has been a sort of living hell where the trenches almost seem a pleasant memory. Except when they are an all-consuming memory.
He can't live like this anymore, can't live like this forever.
He has one perfect little bullet.
His gun is clean and ready.
Mary runs up the stairs at a speed she doesn't know she is capable of. She skids to a halt in front of his bedroom door, then knocks.
Matthew freezes. Who is it? Does he reply? Does he just get it over with now? They will know what he's done no matter what.
He freezes too long to get a chance to decide
The few seconds of silence after her knock are too much for Mary. She puts her hand on the doorknob and throws open the door.
"Matthew!" she screams, seeing what is in his hand. Seeing how it is positioned. Knowing immediately what is going on.
The gun clatters to the floor.
Mary rushes over to him, kicking the gun across the room and as far away from him as possible. "Matthew, what are you doing?! No, no no, stop!" She screams, but her voice seems to scratch across the words.
She knows exactly what he is doing.
He is at a loss for words. He is not at a loss for tears, however, and he breaks down, blubbing, sobbing unintelligibly, muttering something, and unable to control himself. "I...I..."
Her arms come around him, holding him tightly. "Shh. Shh. You don't need to tell me, just... calm down."
"I'm so sorry, Mary," he murmurs roughly, finally. Her arms are around his neck, and he leans back into the chair, into her.
There is silence.
Mary can't say anything in response. There is nothing she can say. She doesn't know how to process what just happened, what almost happened.
If she hadn't decided to come back...
She shudders to think of it, and a fresh wave of anger rolls over her. How could he ever consider doing this to her?
She looks down at him, rubs his shoulders, comforts him. He is a mess, sobbing and blubbing and he seems so fragile, so broken.
She feels guilty about being angry with him when he is so utterly broken.
She still is angry, furious even, that he would try to take his own life. But she cannot take that out on him. That will not help him in any way.
"Matthew," she whispers finally, trying to sound as gentle as possible, "let's get you in bed."
He seems so drained by what just happened, and so uncomfortable sitting there by his trunk of war things, and exhausted by life in general, that there is no other reasonable way to do things.
It takes a minute, but he nods. She hands him his crutches and helps him get up from the chair, standing behind him as he moves slowly from the chair to the bed. He gets up on the bed and lays down, and Mary brings the covers over him and places a hand on his forehead comfortingly. "Are you alright?" she asks.
It's a silly question. Obviously he isn't.
"No," he answers truthfully, between sniffles.
"Can you talk about it?" she asks.
He presses his lips together, and shakes his head. "Not... yet," he manages to make out.
"Do you need any pain medicine?" she asks.
He nods mutely.
"Stay there," she says. She knows he wouldn't be able to do anything without her hearing from the bathroom, but she still would rather not have him try. He seems too distraught to try anything at all at the moment though.
She carefully doses out a cup of pain medication; she doesn't want to give him any more because she has heard of overdose deaths of pain medication, and she doesn't quite yet trust Matthew not to try anything like that.
Mary reenters the room and sees him still lying in bed, tears silently streaming down his face. He looks so tired and so small in bed.
"Here," she says, handing him the small cup.
He drinks it and tries to smile. "Thank you," he whispers.
"We need to talk about it, you know," Mary says, softly. "And I have to tell Isobel."
He shakes his head frantically. "No, don't tell Mother!"
"She has to know," Mary says.
"She'll send me to one of those places," he says, his eyes wide with fear.
Mary shakes her head. "Trust me, she won't. I promise. We won't tell Dr. Warren, I can tell you that."
He casts his eyes down but nods in understanding.
"Do you want to sleep now? And then we'll talk when your mother gets back."
"Alright," he rasps. He closes his eyes and quickly falls asleep, probably because of his drowsiness from the medicine. Mary can't imagine him sleeping otherwise.
Once she is certain he is asleep, Mary rings the bell. Anna is the one to come up.
"Anna, please stay in here while he sleeps. I can't leave him alone," she says, and Anna mercifully asks no questions. Mary begins to leave, but as she does, she picks up the gun. Inspecting it, there is one bullet in it. She takes the bullet out and places it in her pocket. Now it can't hurt Matthew.
She enters her own room. She lays down on her bed and stuffs her face into a pillow, beginning to sob.
She is so angry, so frustrated, so conflicted… and most of all, so desperately sad. She tries to assure herself that everything is alright, that the worst didn't happen. But that hardly consoles her.
This is the worst day.
...Don't hate me. Anyway, I really would love to hear what you think!