Scarlett awoke just before dawn, feeling as if her head had been stuffed. Ella was already awake and fully dressed, sitting at the edge of her bed, sucking her thumb. Scarlett found that she couldn't eat anything; the white fat of the leftover pot roast congealed unpleasantly and the lumps of bloodied flesh would give sickening squelches every time she pierced them with her fork. The bread was dry and tasteless but had somehow stuck to the roof of her mouth and wouldn't wash down even after two full glasses, leaving her no choice but to pick it out with a finger. The sweet tea was sour and even the fresh milk curdled unpleasantly and her hands were trembling...this wouldn't do. This wouldn't do at all. She eyed the empty decanter lying in repose on the table and promptly stood up. She strode to the wine cabinet, opening it with a flourish and uncorked a new bottle as easily as if it were sleight of hand. She was on her third glass when she noticed Ella staring at her with those huge doe's eyes and Scarlett set the glass down with a loud thunk. Perhaps she would take up smoking instead. Ella had wolfed everything down and had emptied her glass of milk, leaving not a crumb on her plate or a drop in her cup. She was sporting a spectacular white moustache on her upper lip that wiggled with her every word.
"Why are you always yelling at Uncle Rhett?"
Scarlett paused, the fork wavering over her plate.
"Ella Lorena. I thought I told you to go back to bed."
"I was going Mama, but I still heard you."
Scarlett didn't reply, but set her fork down, closing her eyes and rubbing her temples. It's interesting how everyone only ever seems to hear me. She spotted a bottle of honey tipping dangerously at the edge of the table and she strangled the life out of it, listening as gobs of the amber gunk plopped into the already sickeningly sweet tea and as she watched each thick swirl sink to the bottom of the glass like a weighted corpse, she mused wryly: Someone ought to let Doctor Meade know that everyone in town is suffering from a serious case of selective hearing. She took another experimental sip and gagged: it was no good, no good at all. She threw her napkin down and stood up straight, pushing her chair back.
"It's time to go, Ella."
When she alighted from the carriage, the sight briefly gave her pause: it seemed that half the town was there. The ghostly grey figure of Ashley Wilkes hovered near the entrance. Scarlett surveyed him with a twist to her mouth: Melanie wasn't the only one who died that night, was she? India stood by his side with one arm around a shivering Beau and as Scarlett swept past the duo, she spotted that same pitying look in those colorless eyes that the red whore had given her all those months ago; Scarlett felt the heat rise in her cheeks and jerked her head away: save your pity for your brother, your nephew, and yourself. The strange, wizened, and gaunt figures of the Meades stood closest to the casket and as she caught a glimpse of the old goat's face wrinkled with its haughty disapproval, she felt an overwhelming urge to slap that pathetic feather duster of a moustache off his lip. Even the Picards were there, huddled like a flock of ruffled hens: she could see from the swelling of Maybelle's face and distending of the figure that she was pregnant yet again. The fat old dowager was supporting her with the frail Mrs. Elsing and plump Mrs. Whiting right behind her.
But was Maybelle doing out in public when she was clearly showing? Were these people so desperate to catch a glimpse of her? She hadn't been out of the house since it had happened, but didn't these people have anything better to do than to ogle at her? Or perhaps she was the only one who worked for a living instead of leeching off relatives or perhaps they had hoped to get fat off gossip as they concocted theories as to how her son met his demise. Well, feast away. There's nothing left. But they all kept their distance as if she were a leper. Rhett, when you bought that house for me all those years ago, I had no idea you were buying my cage. For it was a cage, one that she saw no chance of escaping from. All the money she had clawed for, had bled for, all her work, and the undying love she had poured into Tara...all of it would ultimately be to Suellen's benefit, not hers, for her line would end with Ella...unless the simpleminded thing managed to catch a husband, which was about as likely as her becoming a great beauty or developing a head for figures. But she supposed if Honey Wilkes could do it, Ella could as well. But how funny. How ironic. She had been atoning for Frank this entire time without even knowing it.
The dog's relentless whining and barking sent pain tearing through her and she wished to God someone had brought a muzzle or a length of rope so she could clamp or tie its mouth shut: why on earth had she decided to allow that flea-bitten mutt to accompany them? It had keened at the sight of the casket and the sound made her gnash her teeth and she had to resist the urge to clasp her hands to her ears. It was a mercilessly chill morning: a cloud of vapor issued from her lips with every breath and the cold, damp mist filled her lungs. He was there as well, and would have been lost within that sea of black if it weren't for his height. So you didn't leave town after a round with me. This must be a first for you. But Scarlett swallowed as she spotted the reason why: the resemblance was uncanny; she was so slim and petite, but had the same black hair and dark eyes and she brushed right past them as she had done at Bonnie's funeral, but she was stifling a hiccup this time. She briefly paused to smell her own breath, but she no longer felt the sting of self-consciousness: how could anyone expect her to get through this sober?
Her eyes burned but there were no tears...had they finally gone dry? It seemed as if they would never end those first few weeks; they would appear unbidden, dribbling down her cheeks and neck, staining her clothes and falling onto her napkin at meals. She would wipe them away only for more to appear and for weeks, she had woken up to her damp pillowcase sticking to her face. It had gotten to the point where she reckoned that she was turning into the weeping willow. When she had peered into her gilded mirror in the mornings, it was no longer to apply rouge or to rearrange her hair, but to pick the crust from her eyes and she had often ordered Prissy to bring an iced wine bottle to her so that she could press it to her face to reduce the puffiness, relieve the headaches, and attempt to drown the painful emptiness.
That thing in the casket...that thing that had been on the slab like a butcher's carving was not her son anymore than the thing Rhett had been storing in his room those nights had been her daughter; they were only empty meat suits, food for the worms. She fidgeted as the priest's droning went on and on; why did there always have to be a priest at these things? It wasn't as if the dead could hear and the words did nothing to comfort the living either.
Her temples were throbbing again. The blood bulged in her forehead and pooled in her ears; there was a searing pain at the base of her skull, and the joints in her body groaned with slightest movement. It was hard to breathe; the gown was clinging to her very skin. She tugged at her collar, undoing the first few buttons and futilely pulled at the stays, but the hands around her throat and the steel bands around her ribs only seemed to tighten. That fool Prissy must have laced her too tightly again or perhaps her dresses had shrunk...
She wondered how this looked to Atlanta, for husband and wife to be standing apart at their son's funeral. Well. It hadn't any different at their daughter's, had it? And he was her son, not his. But it didn't matter whose son it was; sympathy would always be with him for he was the poor, mistreated grieving husband and she just the adulterous bitch wife. But it seemed so very petty to care about that or anything else now.
What was the last thing she had said to her son? Oh yes...that she didn't care, that she didn't care about him.
Her stomach gave a violent lurch and her blood turned to ice.
"Mother! Mother!"
Mother! Mother!
Scarlett squeezed her eyes shut, clenching her teeth.
Shut it. Please shut it.
She turned away from the casket, away from the grief, with one hand pressed hard against her forehead as if she were trying to iron it. It must have started raining for when she removed her hand, it was damp. She didn't care that it was scandalous for her to leave in the middle of a funeral, her only son's funeral. She didn't care at all. She had to get inside and her husband, her husband…there had been no grief, no anger, no devil. It had all been her, her own will, that had moved her tongue…she saw it then, her face as pale as death, the small hand peeking out from a torn blue sleeve, she heard that sickening crunch, a horse's dying screams, a man's wracking sobs. Her breaths were coming in quicker now; her heart was near to bursting. Everything was sliding in and out of focus...blood-red circles were twisting and spinning. She had to get to inside. It was so hot. It was so cold. She had to get inside. She only wanted to catch her breath. She only wanted to rest her eyes, if only for a moment, but the faces were dancing now and when she took another step, the world became a rush of sounds, a whirl of colors, but no…it was one color. Black. Only black. Always black.
The ground suddenly rushed up to meet her.
...
The rain was a cool caress against her burning skin. A dog was howling…whimpering…moaning. There were faint whispers... like the humming of bees. A child was crying fretfully: "Mother! Mummy!" Something warm and wet was pooling in her mouth. A pair of hands grabbed her roughly and turned her onto her back. A man…or a woman...was calling her name. Then another pair of hands, softer than she could have ever expected, touched her face and gently opened her eyelids but all she saw was a misty brightness. She tried to struggle against the fog but it was like quicksand: the harder she fought, the deeper she seemed to sink, but then someone lifted her and all the fight left her body and she surrendered to the darkness, the sweet illusion of death.
Yeah, he's an asshole, but I suppose he's her asshole. I should probably be grateful Mitchell didn't decide to kill off Wade and Ella. I think losing your parents, a guardian, your best friend, two lovers, and three children on top of that would send anyone to the mental hospital, if they didn't die from a heart attack first. As for Rhett being OOC in the first chapter, idk...the last dialogue seems to change flavors every time I read it. At first, I thought it was just depressing, then I thought it was sad/tragic, now I see some real saltiness/bitterness...And as for Scarlett not giving him a chance...I used to agree like 110%, but I think now that although she would have been an ass at first if he told her his true feelings, she would have come to be genuinely touched by it if she saw that they were real. My first reaction to the end of GWTW was just: wow Scarlett, you dumb. But now, its more: wow Scarlett, you dumb but I understand why you acted the way you did.
How long did it take you all to figure out that Wade was dead?