The boy was there every night and he stayed long after she had gone, but he had started wearing blue as if to remind her that she would always be there. But there was no one to wake her now, save for her daughter, her last daughter, and if she weren't there, then the brandy was and she relished its fiery embrace in a world that had gone so utterly dark and cold. The boy always looked the same; he was small for his years with a mop of thick brown curls that waved untidily over the pale forehead. She would always search for those big sad eyes, but could never find them. When he turned around, she would see that ruin of a face: there was a bloody crater where the nose had been been, and all that was left of those eyes was one hollow, bloodied wound, and below that was a contortion of a mouth filled with broken teeth. He no longer spoke to her, but he didn't need to; when his bloodless lips moved, she knew what he was saying.
And she was sure now that her daughter was seeing the same things, for she had barreled into her room one night soon after her own first dream, throwing herself into Scarlett's arms and when she had tried to coax her back to her own room, Ella had said nothing but stared at her with eyes as big and round as saucers, her small hands clutching the front of Scarlett's nightgown. After surveying the trembling creature for a few moments, she had sighed, lifting the corner of her blanket, ushering her in. And so she would often wake up in the early hours of the morning or even in the dead of night, from the tickling of ginger curls or the sensation of Ella burrowing into her side like a small, frightened animal.
But some sixth sense must have woken her up this particular night, for neither of these things had occurred. Her eyes had flashed open and she sat up. She surveyed her surroundings, the hairs on the back of her neck standing straight up, her muscles taut, and every nerve in her body tingling. The room was cloaked in darkness, save for the flickering light of the lamp. Ella was still fast asleep, soft, rasping snores issuing from slack, pink lips. Her head had migrated to Scarlett's pillow, and as Scarlett shifted, she mumbled something, clutching the doll even tighter to her chest. Nothing appeared to be out of place, but she could hear the hollow, rhythmic thudding of her heart and feel the blood coursing through her veins. No…she could hear movement downstairs, the faint clicking of canine nails…
She briefly fumbled about in the darkness, managing to grab Charles' old pistol before tumbling out of bed. She kept it on her nightstand now; there were better guns, of course, but she had developed a particular fondness for this one and she itched to use it again. Her bare feet whispered over the thick plush carpets and her wandering eyes gleamed in the dim lighting.
The dog wasn't in the position he had occupied for over a week now, with his head on his paws, eyes pointed towards the door, waiting for a master who would never return. He was whining and barking, sniffing and scratching, at the gap under the door. She felt her heart skip a beat, and, despite herself, flew down the staircase, leaping off the final few steps.
She opened the door as she heard the key click and there he was...and she was relieved that there was utterly no feeling at all...except weariness and a futile wish that she were anywhere else in the world but here. There was something in her eye and she took a moment to pick it out.
He was dressed as immaculately as he always had while she stood before him with her hair wild and undone, barefoot, and clad in an old nightgown. He was looking at her, not with those roving eyes that had stripped her bare, but as if he were seeing her for the first time.
She looked behind her with laconic irony. "Were you expecting someone else to answer the door?"
"That thing isn't loaded, is it?" he said, his eyes focusing on the pistol in her hand.
"Of course it is," and with the pistol still pointed at him, she struggled to cock it but it finally locked into place with a satisfying click.
The dog was positively yelping for joy, pawing at Rhett, his golf club of a tail beating against the door in a steady rhythm, but Scarlett was staring at him numbly. Her tongue had suddenly stuck to the roof of her mouth and her throat had seemingly closed up.
But she found her voice again and it was cool, dry even.
"Did you forget something? You were in an awful rush that night. You ought to have told me you were going earlier than you did. I would have helped you pack."
"Oh? This coming from the woman who was crying and begging me to stay while professing her love unless it had all been an act. Although if it were an act, I couldn't begin to understand why you felt the need to put up such a front; you have no reputation or scruples left to speak of that would be damaged by a divorce and Ashley was all yours for the taking."
"No," she remarked quietly, gazing over his shoulder and into the pitch black night: there was not a star in the sky, a chill breeze wafted through the door, making her nightgown billow and hair flow about her shoulders. "Unfortunately, it wasn't an act." She glared at him.
Admit it to me, Rhett. It must have given you some pleasure, watching me squirm...and as for Ashley being mine for the taking...technically, he was given to me...by his own wife of all people, but the two of us...we've never been satisfied with what we are given, are we? You wanted me, I gave you myself. You wanted my love, and I gave you that too. And then you wanted freedom and peace of mind, and I've done my very best to give you that as well, and yet you're here now, standing in my doorway, with God knows what on your mind.
"But I have had time, a lot of time, to think things over."
"Then why don't we discuss those things, as old friends?"
Scarlett snorted. "Friends? We haven't been friends in years, if we ever have been at all."
"Old acquaintances then."
But she didn't move, her eyes narrowing and lips pressed into a tight line.
"You know, it's bad luck for a person to linger near doorways." She rolled her eyes, but stepped to the side, and he strode over the threshold...with the dog eagerly trailing him.
As she made her way into the house, she felt the beast tug at her nightgown, and when she looked down, he looked back with childlike eagerness in those moist brown eyes, his tongue lolling about. She was about to shoo it away but paused. The poor thing. She spotted an old bone on the carpet and tossed it to him; he caught it in his huge maw and went to work, worrying it between his teeth, sending a fine spray of spittle everywhere.
She looked to Rhett; he was heading there.
She shook her head. "The dining room again?"
He glanced over his shoulder. "We've always had the most interesting talks there, wouldn't you agree?"
Oh yes. I remember our last one quite clearly. What a talk it was...although you were doing most of the talking. I must say, you were so moving that I was almost brought to tears.
She followed him into the dining room and watched him sit. In that exact chair. Scarlett folded her arms then and watched him, her mouth and jaw set in grim lines, but after a few moments of silence, she sighed, pinching the area between her eyes.
"Rhett, it's late. Can we talk tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow?" he said softly, gazing at her in an odd, pitying sort of way. "I don't think you'd be in a state to discuss much of anything tomorrow."
She felt her shoulders slump and it was as if the breath had been knocked out of her. Of course. She had forgotten...no, she just didn't want to remember. She grabbed hold of the nearest chair to steady herself.
"Who told you?"
"You'd be surprised how quickly news travels, especially if it's about you."
"That doesn't answer my question."
"My mother."
Her grip on the back of the chair tightened.
"Your mother's…here?"
He smiled but it didn't reach his eyes.
"You can set your mind at ease. You'll catch a glimpse of her tomorrow, but she will be leaving immediately afterwards."
"Then why bring her at all? She's no blood relation of his."
"I see you still have that tongue of yours. Has it ever occurred to you that someone would want to tear it out?"
Try it. Surely you know that it is unwise to threaten someone with a loaded gun? It might be in bad taste to shoot someone the morning of a funeral, although i'm sure it's happened before.
"If you wanted sweet words, you ought to have married Belle."
"I didn't need to marry her to have her."
But it's a real pity you didn't marry her. Not only would it have spared us from a whole lot of nonsense and pain, you would have also kept your investment and still had your fun, and I'm sure she would have been more than happy to give you a house full of brats, if she didn't give you some venereal disease first. And besides, I thought it was one of the reasons why you liked me, and you were never once to mince words either…I suppose that's another way we are alike…Rhett, did you fall in love with me or yourself?
He was rubbing the lower half of his face.
"Scarlett, I'm sure you know what I want to ask you."
"I don't. You've always been rather unclear, especially when it came to things that mattered."
"What was Wade doing outside that late at night?"
If you had it in you to stick around, you'd know.
"Is that why you came all the way down here? To ask me that? Surely you could have asked anyone else in town; they seem to know more about my affairs than I do."
"Or," she said, shrugging, "you could have read the papers before wasting your money on a train ticket. I'm sure they had a section in there about that sort of thing. They always do."
"The papers didn't say much of anything apart from the fact that it happened in front of the house. I know you were there. I want you to tell me what happened to my boy."
Or maybe you were too just damned lazy to read th-….my boy. My boy? So he's yours all of a sudden?
She threw her head back and laughed. "Your boy? Is this a joke?"
"I may not have been his biological father, but I loved him as if he were my own."
Like that bastard you had never bothered to mention? Your ward, my tail. And yes, I know it's yours. How much of an idiot do you think I am? And your red whore didn't even have to tell me. It's remarkable how a few months alone could give you such insight into things, but I'm sure you would have traded that boy for Bonnie any day, wouldn't you?
She smiled.
"Did you?" She saw Rhett's eyes swivel behind her. Scarlett spun around.
Ella was standing by the doorframe, rubbing the sleep grit from her eyes. She was barefoot, a mangled doll in one hand and her nightgown was in tatters. Didn't she just have that thing replaced only days ago? When Bonnie looked like a ragamuffin, it was child's play, the product of a father's doting, but if Ella had even a stain on her, it was her neglect.
"Ella, I need to talk to your…stepfather."
The girl didn't move.
"Alone."
But the simpleminded thing continued to stand there with a finger in her mouth, her gaze darting uncertainly from Rhett to Scarlett.
Scarlett fought to keep her voice even.
"Ella, go back to bed."
"But, but…"
"Get out."
"But Mummy…"
"GET OUT NOW!" she barked and with a startled yelp, Ella stumbled backwards and fell on her rump, dropping her doll. She made an attempt to retrieve it, but seeing the look on her mother's face, she struggled to her knees and, rising unsteadily to her feet, scampered out of the room.
When she looked back at Rhett, she saw the anger flare in those dark depths.
She surveyed him with grim satisfaction.
Good. So there is some feeling left in you.
When he spoke, his drawl was smooth as silk and laced with that old malice.
"I've always known that you were never much of a mother, but you only have the one child left…I'd think it would do you some good to treasure Ella and not bully her as you've done to everyone else. How you sleep at night is beyond me; then again, without much of a conscience, I suppose it's always been easy."
"For your information, I sleep perfectly well, and as for not having a conscience...I did say I was sorry, didn't I? And I meant it and you knew I did; you just didn't want to hear it."
"We both know what your apologies are worth."
She clenched her fists, her fingernails digging into the soft flesh, and when she spoke again, her voice was thick with rage.
"For all your talk that night, what you did was very simple: you upped and left. Not just me, but the children as well and as far as I know, you left without even a word to either of them and you left me to clean up the mess that was Melanie's funeral. Burial or cremation, pine or mahogany, marble or granite, carnations or roses, which dress, which priest, the measurements for the burial plot, the cataloging of expenses, the endless questions...who do you think paid for and answered all that? I suppose I got what was coming to me, with those old crones eyeing me like I was a bug under a microscope, but remember that Wade and Ella were there as well and they didn't understand a thing. They only knew that their Aunt Melly was dead and that you were gone. Bonnie was yours and Wade and Ella are mine and Atlanta will always see it that way and treat them accordingly. I'm sure that's why you spoiled Bonnie so; you went on and on about how you loved her as if you were the only one who ever did, but you had merely wanted to leave your mark on her, to make sure that we all knew that she was yours, so don't you dare come back here all these months later in the middle of the goddamned night and tell me how to manage my children."
"Children? You do mean your one surviving child, and as for Bonnie, despite my many flaws as a father, which you had so kindly listed out for me all those months ago, at least she knew that she was loved and I'm not sure if I could say the same for Wade and Ella."
His gaze flitted around the room, at the garish red wallpaper, at the heavy silverware, and at the empty decanter, before coming back to her.
"Scarlett, it seems that your ability to understand people, including yourself, has changed about as much as this monstrosity of a house. Hasn't it begun to penetrate that thick skull of yours that, save for Ella, you are completely and utterly alone? I know this is a lot to ask from someone with a mind like yours, but have you ever wondered why that is? Even the fool Prissy wants to go back to Tara."
It seems that everyone wants to go back to Tara these days. And who's to blame them? Not a day goes by when I don't want to leave this accursed place and to burn everything that reminds me of you.
"Are you really here for Wade or for this? I've been to Charleston before...it's a real bore of a place, isn't it? So what better entertainment is there for you, than to come back and tear at someone, a woman, who is already down? Have you grown so bored of your whores or is being sober too much for you to handle?"
"You'd know a lot about tearing at someone who is down, wouldn't you?" He stood then and strode over to her with the grace and strength of an old stallion. Gripping the back of the chair so tightly that her fingers turned white, she stood her ground.
"Scarlett, one of the reasons why I had made that promise, no, that I had made that offer, was because I thought you were capable of changing, but I suppose like the rest of our unfortunate Southern brethren, I have a penchant for lost causes."
She recoiled visibly, swallowing hard. She felt her knees begin to shake, her heart drop into her stomach, her already sore eyes burn, and her jaw tremble, but he wasn't finished.
"From the way I've seen you treat your children and the way you're treating Ella now, I think most would question whether they were really yours."
Her grip tightened over the pistol. She wanted to pull the trigger, to empty the contents of the holster into his face, into that vile mouth. Would it be any more difficult to explain away a dead husband than an absent one? But there was no need, no need at all. Guns were a man's weapon, after all…and she possessed a weapon that was even deadlier than that. She had seen it destroy men, destroy people, including herself. But before she could speak, she saw a pair of soft brown eyes and heard the gentlest of voices whispering to her, admonishing her, to be kind…to someone...she couldn't remember who. But what did it matter who it was? And what good was kindness to anyone? She had been such a naive fool to put such store in a dead woman's words, and those last words were all she truly had left of that woman now, and what words they were…useless, cruel even, giving her a hope that had long been extinguished.
But even so, she shouldn't speak to the man this way; if anything, he was still her husband, even if it was only in name now and he had been the father of her most cherished child. She remembered hearing those awful sounds that had been emitting from his room, how she had barricaded herself in her room rather than comfort him as a wife should, and had only come out to say those things to him, those things that she was almost certain his mother and the rest of the house had heard, and the ruin of a man she had run home to that night, but then she thought of those cold, bitter words, saw herself weeping on those steps long after his footsteps had died away, remembered those long, sleepless nights where she had only the bottle for comfort and regret to warm her bed, how even the whore had given her a wide berth whenever she ventured into town, the prying eyes and endless whispers behind cupped hands, Suellen smirking at the sight of her when she had shown up at Tara, red-eyed and disheveled, days after Rhett's flight, Mammy's dutiful, impersonal kindness, and the foul sewage that was spewing from his lips even now…but most of all, she remembered that that child, that beloved child, was dead. Well, she wouldn't be alone in the dark anymore, for her son would be rotting alongside her in the coming morning.
At this point, what did she have left to lose? Nothing, nothing at all...and so she allowed the devil to take hold of her tongue once more.
"Well," she began, lightly running a fingertip against the smooth edge of the ornately carved mahogany table, "I've only ever had one bastard, but luckily for me," and she stepped forward then, so that there was barely an inch between them and she looked him directly in the eyes, "someone was there to help rid me of it and I didn't even have to get an abortion."
When Ella tottered into the room, Uncle Rhett was gone and Mother was still standing where she had been when she left, her hand glued to the chair, staring at the wall like a dumb thing. Mother turned. She was white as chalk, the cheeks oddly flushed...two red stains on white marble.
"Ella, darling. Go back to bed. I'll be right behind you."
I try to leave the time in my stories as fluid as I can. I just think if it's been a year, he's an ass for saying that he cares about Wade, but I also think there's just too much saltiness in that final dialogue for this to take place only a few months after that. So whatever time frame you think fits is when this story takes place post-canon. But yeah, this is kind of how I picture a first conversation would go if they were to reunite a year after all that...