A/N: Hey guys, sorry about the month long hiatus. I'm not giving up on the story and there is a reason for the madness that was the last chapter! Just to give an idea of the timeline, this and the next chapter will be Mags dealing with what happened. Then there will be 2 or so that cover a large amount of time before we see old lady Mags. This one kind of had to be depressing but it will get better
I am drowning. Not in the literal way- not the same as the images that are permanently burned into my brain. There's no water in my lungs, yet I'm still gasping for air. For most of my life, I've mastered the art of floating along. Now my mistake has pushed me under and there's no hope of resurfacing. Why can't it just pull me under the rest of the way?
Dark oblivion has never seemed so alluring.
I tremble as the peacekeepers toss me onto the hard wood floor of my living room. Everything is beginning to sink in with frightening intensity. My husband and my son are dea…not coming back. I saw it with my own eyes, but I still can't completely believe it. I can't imagine life without them. The crushing weight in my chest makes it seem impossible to survive the next minute, much less the next decade.
They have to come walking through that door to tell me this was all a horrible nightmare. I'll wake up with Alec's body next to mine and Destan will be in his room right down the hall. I'll gasp as I wake and I'll shake slightly as I tell Alec my dream. We'll decide together that it was a warning to me to stop this ridiculous plan of mine, and we'll go on with our lives as normal. The way it should be.
A sob tears through me with such force it makes my whole body coil. I know that's not going to happen. This pain is too real to be a dream.
I stay curled up on the floor for what must be hours, sobbing until I think my eyes can't possibly produce another tear. The hardest thing to bear is knowing this is all my fault. I hate myself for thinking there was any way this could have ended well. Alec was right. He usually is.
I can't bring myself to correct that to "was".
Because of me, Destan will never grow up. He'll never have a friend his age or go to school or fall in love. I won't get to see him carefully weave blades of grass into an elaborate net in the weeks before his wedding. He'll never know my reasons for overprotecting him, the reasons I always intended on explaining when he was older.
I think the only person I hate more than myself is Snow. Even through the grief, I feel a spark of fury. That monster would be gone from this world if my hands had only a few more seconds around his throat. But somehow I doubt it would make any difference now. Dead or not, he had already won.
When I finally pull my face up from the floor, I instantly regret it. The sight of the empty sofa sends yet another wrench through my heart.
A thousand memories come flooding in. Me as a teenager sitting there with Alec the first time I came in this house. Us spending countless evenings there after we were married. Me lying on the cushions with knitting needles in my hands as I planned a way to reveal my pregnancy. Holding a bottle in my hand as I cradled that same baby nine months later. Destan and I pretending it was a ship in our game of fishermen and sea monsters.
A shudder runs through me and I clamp my eyes shut tightly. For a moment, I can almost picture them here, but it fills me with stinging emptiness instead. I try looking at other things: the TV, the coffee table, a clock. Even the simplest objects carry their own onslaught of memories. All I can hear is the echoes of those who won't return.
I can't do this. I just can't. I should be the dead one. I have a feeling I will be very soon. If there is life after death and Alec and Destan still exist somewhere out there, let me be with them. If not…at least I won't have to deal with this pain and guilt.
I get up and walk to the kitchen as if on autopilot. A gloved hand grips my wrist as I reach for the knife.
"Not so fast there, lady," the voice begins. It drones on, but I tune it all out and keep my gaze fastened on the knife. They can't stop me from doing this. No matter how many annoying hurdles they throw my way, the decision ultimately belongs to me. Free choice is the only power I have left. It's most likely the only freedom I've had all along.
I can do it now. His grip will have to loosen soon, and in that moment, I can drive the knife into my heart so fast he won't have time to stop me. So when his hold on me lessens a bit and opportunity opens, I'm not sure why I don't do it. Part of me is holding back.
I stare at the bruises and bloodstains on my arm and try to figure out why. It's not like I have any reason to live that is worth all this suffering. I bring the knife up a few millimeters and pause again.
It must be because I would rather do this in a moment of privacy. I bite the inside of my mouth so hard I taste blood. My reasoning sounds like an excuse. For years, I've promised myself and others that I would never allow myself to even think about resorting to suicide. I'm aware that doing this will betray the few people left in this world who actually care about me. Maybe it's some animalistic strive for survival, but I can feel an unspoken thought echo through me: This is wrong.
As if anything has gone right. I'm surprised I even have the ability to care at this point.
I'm sure one night of living in this empty ghost house will be enough to chase away the traces of guilt and fear harbored inside of me. One night is all I need to verify that going on would be impossible. Come daylight, this will all be over.
I gently drop the knife back down on the granite countertop and stand motionless until my wrist is released.
I return to the living room and drop my head when the memories come pounding back. The emptiness rings in my chest so intensely that I'm sure I will be engulfed by it. I squeeze my eyes shut again, as if that will block it all out.
My bedroom is out of the question. I walk down the hall, stumbling over my trembling feet as I search for a place with fewer memories. My forehead smacks into something hard and I fumble for the door handle.
Once I'm fully in the seldom-used guest bedroom, I allow myself to open my eyes. The bed is made as usual and there are no signs of disarray. There aren't many connections to Destan and Alec in here, but the breakdown comes anyway. I sink down to the floor, my legs too weak and wobbly to support me. Within seconds, my head is between my knees and I'm convulsing. I push my hands over my forehead and into my mangled hair, hoping the pain from my nails will distract me.
I have never felt more alone in my entire life. Not even the Hunger Games could bring out emotions so devastating. Just saying I miss them is a grotesque understatement.
I reach up to grab a little glass ornament from the nightstand and throw it across the room just for the sake of breaking it. The sound of shattering glass is satisfying but does nothing to pull this weight off my chest. I grab more things, anything I can get my hands on, and send them flying. I eventually push over the dresser itself and just start screaming. There is no beginning or end to the sound; it carries every atrocity I have seen in this world in one tortured wail.
It's not long before the peacekeepers burst in. Why won't they just leave me alone? I'm going to drown whether they are here or not. My scream is still going strong when I feel something warm flow into my arm.
"That should shut her up for a while," a voice says.
The numbness travels up my arm and into the rest of my body. My thoughts become fuzzy and it's magnificent. The pain dulls as my eyes droop.
The next thing I know, I'm leaning into the cushioned back of a rocking chair, my baby in my arms. I'm humming a gentle lullaby as we sway back and forth.
"Is he sleeping already?" I would recognize that voice anywhere. Alec.
I look up to see him leaning on the back of the chair. Something tugs at the back of my mind, just like a word on the tip of your tongue that you can't quite call into memory. I'm sure knowing what it is would help explain the relief that floods through me at seeing him.
His eyes flit from the baby to my face and he looks at me questioningly. "What?" he asks.
I realize I've been staring intently for too long. "Nothing. I was trying to remember something but I lost my train of thought," I respond. Whatever was on the border of my consciousness a moment ago is gone now. I breathe out contentedly.
The silence is comforting. My husband's hands rest gently on my shoulders and I pull little Destan closer against my chest. I kiss the top of his head, my lips brushing against the thin down of brown hair.
We stay that way for a long time, and the details of the day come back slowly. I lightly close my eyes, but when I open them again, I'm back on the floor of the guest bedroom.
The realization that it was only a dream hits me like a ton of bricks. What kind of cruel joke was that? I can feel Grief's arms around my throat again, strangling me as Heartbreak pounds at my chest. I can't bear the thought of being alone for the rest of my life. I can't imagine getting through one more day.
I should just end this now. I start to drag myself up to take the final walk of my life, but I find myself pausing once again. That dream- or hallucination, whatever it was- felt so real, so perfect. I can almost still feel Alec's hand on my shoulder. My arms feel warm where I was holding Destan.
Irrationally, I close my eyes and lay down again, trying to force myself back into the dream. Every second that passes brings on more desperate whimpers that turn into tearless chokes.
This needs to end. I repeat those four words again and again, hoping it will sink into my brain and clear all doubt. But the truth is, I'm terrified of the uncertainty death brings. If I could be certain that I would see my family again, that they are up there safe and sound, I would join them in a heartbeat.
What if my only hope of ever seeing them again is through medicine-induced visions? It's senseless and stupid, but I'm not exactly the definition of rational at the moment. The image of them is still fresh in my mind and I need to see them again. I need it as completely and overwhelming as an addict needs his drugs.
I'm not sure how long it will be enough reason to live in this personal hell, but for now it is the only option I can see.
I hear footsteps approaching and I press my face against the floor, fully intending on ignoring the man. The peacekeeper starts talking in a gruff voice, but then it drops down to a low tone. Intentionally quiet.
"Look, I'm sorry about what happened. I'm just letting you know we aren't all like Snow. We might take his orders, but no one agrees with what he does."
I roll over so I can look at his face. My eyes remain expressionless as I wonder what could ever possess a person to loyally serve someone capable of such evil.
My blank stare makes him uncomfortable. "Um…if there's anything you, uh…need…"
His words redirect my thoughts. "That stuff you guys injected me with last night," I tell him.
"The knockout serum?" he asks skeptically.
"Yes," I say, my voice strained. "Please."
"Are you sure about that? Those drugs aren't anything light. I've seen them mess up more than a few people."
"I'm already messed up. I'd rather not be able to think about it."
He seems lost in thought for a moment. "I have a family, too. I've had to do things I disagree with for their sake. There must have been something that pushed you to risk everything. What was it?" he asks, an edge of curiosity in his voice.
This stranger doesn't seem too bad, but he's prying into things I'm not willing to discuss. I turn my gaze downward. "Please just bring the medicine."
He looks at me and walks out the room in silence. I wait there, sure that he will walk back momentarily with a syringe in his hand, but he doesn't come. I grit my teeth, irritated. It wasn't like I was asking for much.
I spend the day cowering against my own thoughts, each moment guided only with the goal of getting through the day. I'm completely immersed in my own darkness by the time the duo of peacekeepers come in.
The two converse as the one who spoke to me earlier one bends down and grips my arm. He injects something into my veins, but I can tell it's not the same as what I got yesterday. I feel anger build inside of me, and I'm seconds from an outburst when he squeezes my arm slightly before injecting me again. This time, the warmth flows up my arm and I can feel the relaxing effects of drowsiness and morphling.
This is how it goes:
I wake up each afternoon with a gasp and end up falling into a panic attack as my mind registers the fact that the people I was just talking to no longer exist in this world. Weak and woozy, I drag myself over to the bathroom and spend the first hour or so awake leaning against the toilet until the sickness clears. Eventually I take to lying on the cool bathroom tile all the time, movement virtually eliminated.
By early evening, the guilt will be back in full force. I curl up and come up with countless ways my family could have been saved. Every scenario seems painfully obvious in hindsight.
The endless battle droning on inside does not reflect on the outside. There was never a conscious choice to do so, but I've completely shut down. I make no effort to sustain my life. I'm vaguely aware that one of the injections I keep getting is meant to provide nutrition because there is no other explanation for how I'm getting by without eating or drinking.
Sometimes I'll hear knocking or voices that I attribute to the guards that have made themselves at home. I don't see them until they slip into the room at night and I'm able breathe a sigh of relief as the shots go in. The fading of this world means the forming of one much kinder. These fleeting moments of happiness, though they are only fabrications, are the only bit of light in my life.
What I'm doing is not really living at all. I first become aware that I'm wasting away when I try to lift myself up and find my muscles unable to cooperate. Somehow I had missed my body becoming so fragile and weak. I'm forced to admit to myself that I am dying. I should be alarmed by it, but I have a frightening attitude of indifference.
My schedule is interrupted when the peacekeepers don't come to bring me my injections one night. My skin tenses as if pins are pricking me. I try to count my breaths to mark the passing time. I can't even reach one hundred without anxiety taking over. I can't face the night alone! I try to pull myself up to no avail.
What if they never come back? I need the sedative like I need air to breathe. I am only holding myself together by a thread because I know I will be liberated come night, and Alec and Destan will be right there waiting for me.
I lie on the floor, still and unmoving despite my internal panic. It is terrifying to be completely out of control of both body and mind. Hours of agony later, I hear pounding footsteps rushing through the hall, and I think I might be saved.
The door flies open and hits the wall so hard it must leave a dent. I'm completely taken by surprise when a familiar voice pierces the room.
"Mags! Oh God, don't be dead! No, you can't be dead!" Marilla shrieks, becoming more incomprehensible with each word.
I don't have the strength to pick my head up, but I can feel her kneel down beside me and frantically search me for any sign of life. The sobbing masks her hysterical words. All I can think is I can count the number of times I've seen Marilla cry in my lifetime. She was always the strong one.
Then I feel instantly guilty that I haven't thought about her much since my life fell apart. She's my family; I should have been worried about Snow discovering her involvement. I should have been staying up at night hoping that she was safe. Instead, I've been drowned in my own grief.
Her shaking hands grip mine as she feels for a pulse. I find it in me to twitch a finger. It's silent for a long moment. Then she holds my hand against her face and cries into the palm.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," she repeats again and again. I can't figure out what she has to apologize for. If anything, I owe her an apology.
"Just keep holding on, Mags. I'm going to get help," she tells me. I think she's going to leave and come back, but her hands slide under me very carefully, as if too much force would break me. She pulls me up and half-carries, half-drags me through the house.
By the time we reach the living room, she's losing it. She sets me on the sofa and I watch as she paces around the room, unable to catch her breath. I've never seen her this frantic. I wish I could reach out and help her.
Marilla stops in her tracks and darts to the kitchen. She's back seconds later, a phone and pad of paper in hand. I recognize it to be the paper I write down phone numbers on. "I'm calling the hospital," she announces.
I struggle to swallow the lump in my throat. I don't want to go there, where I'll have to lie in bed and be fed through tubes as everyone crowds around me. The hospital has always been under Capitol jurisdiction. Once I step foot in there, what happens to me becomes everyone's business. I can't deal with that right now. I don't want the world to see me like this.
"No," I say as loudly as I can. It comes out as an odd sound, somehow managing to be both high-pitched and hoarse from misuse.
I don't think Marilla will understand the word, but she must because she looks at me with wide eyes. "We both know you're in no position to reject help," she says in disapproval.
I'm not sure how I find it in me to talk, but I manage. "There's another doctor," I say, barely comprehensibly.
My cousin looks down at the pad again and flips the page. She frowns in disappointment. "You mean the one who delivered…never mind. The point is, she's not a professional doctor. You need real medicine, not herbs."
I don't know what to say, so I just stare forward, too weak to argue.
"You have no idea how terrible you look," Marilla says. Her sobbing is under control now, but her face is still wet with tears. "You look like you just crawled out of a casket, Mags! We've all been trying to come save you from this house for weeks! I didn't come this far just to see you refuse to be helped."
"Wait till morning," I relent. Marilla sighs and sits by the foot of the sofa, leaning her head next to mine.
There is so much I want to ask. I gather my strength and force out a question. "How much does everyone know?"
She closes her eyes before responding. "Now isn't the time to play catch-up. I don't think that's best for your health right now."
That only makes me more concerned. I automatically come up with endless bad scenarios. All of this is torturing my mind: the thought of my family trying to force open doors as I shut out the world, the possibility that the story of what happened may have been skewed horribly. I want to know what I've missed, but at the same time, I want to stop thinking. I need the sedative to distract me from all of this.
"There's medicine in a syringe that I take every night. I need it," I whisper.
She opens her eyes and studies me carefully. "I'm guessing it's morphling? You're already looking green. I don't think that's a good idea."
I'm fairly certain there's morphling in it, but I don't feel like explaining the full effects of the serum. I simply mouth the word please.
She shakes her head defiantly, but it's less than five minutes before she breaks down and gives in. I hear her fumble around the cabinets in the other room, and when she comes back, she approaches me cautiously.
"Promise me this won't do anything besides put you to sleep for a few hours. You do want to get better, right?"
"That's all it does," I answer weakly, making sure to avoid the second question.
The corners of Marilla's mouth pull down into a frown. "I know you miss them, but it's going to get easier. You just have to-"
That strikes a nerve. "I don't just miss them, Marilla!" I screech, my voice coming back stronger than I thought possible. "They were my life! It's not something I can get over!" My throat aches and I regret yelling at her. When I speak again, it's much softer and more composed. "The only easy thing would be to give in."
"If you really wanted to die, you would be long gone by now," Marilla responds. I don't have anything to say to that. Her words pound in my head as she holds my bony arm and pushes the syringe down.
Almost immediately, I lose track of what I was thinking. Everything is dark and warm as the world fades away.
The next thing I know, I'm in the kitchen preparing dinner like any other day. I look around, a little confused. There's something tugging at the back of my mind that feels so familiar, yet I can't put my finger on it.
The front door creaks open and Alec and Destan come in, looking exhausted after a long day out on the boat.
"Mom, look what I got!" Destan exclaims, holding up a fish that couldn't be more than a few inches long, but I share his excitement nonetheless. My breath catches in the back of my throat and relief floods through me. For some reason, I thought they weren't coming back. Once again, the feeling of familiarity attached to it surprises me. It's as if I've been through this again and again.
"That's great, Destan!" I say, my voice excited but shakier than I intended. I bend down and hold my son against me, running my hand through his brown hair and smelling the scent of the ocean. He's here, he's fine.
"Everything okay, Mags?" Alec asks, raising an eyebrow at my shaky tone. Just the sound of his voice makes me feel safer and pulls me down to reality.
I stand up and wrap my arms around him so I know he won't disappear. My hands find their way to his neck and I lean up and kiss him. It's more than a welcome home kiss, and I use it to convey all these confusing emotions that don't make enough sense to vocalize.
I can tell Alec is surprised at first, but he goes along with it and we don't stop until Destan makes a little grunt of disapproval. Then laughter bubbles inside of me.
"Not everyone here wants to watch that," Destan chastises.
"What? I'm just really happy to see my two favorite people," I smile. "I have no idea what I would do without you guys."
"That's your mom, kid; always the overly sentimental one," Alec jokes as he presses a kiss to the top of my head.
"Joke about it all you want," I say. I suddenly feel too giddy to even remember why I was worried. There's a spring in my step for the rest of the night, and the smile doesn't leave my face. Alec and Destan look at me curiously, sometimes exchanging a few glances of their own, but they don't question it.
After dinner, I play a game with Destan and soon it is his bedtime. I run my hand over his perfect little cheek as he drifts off to sleep.
"I love you so much," I whisper even though I know he is off in dreamland. The word dream gives me that feeling again, like something is on the brink of my consciousness.
I walk back to the living room, perplexed. "I think this is the first time all day you haven't been smiling," Alec notes. I plop down on the sofa and lean against him like always.
"I had the weirdest feeling earlier," I confess. "It was like…I thought something horrible had happened. That's why I was so happy when you two came through the door. Crazy, right?"
I wait for him to confirm how ridiculous it is; to laugh it off with some sarcastic comment and reassure me that nothing like that would ever happen. It takes me off guard when the answer comes.
"No."
"What do you mean?" I demand, searching his expression. His features suddenly become more composed and serious.
His green eyes bore into mine. "You have to listen to me carefully and stay calm," he begins. Whatever he's about to say, I know I don't want to hear it. My head is throbbing and my heart rate quickens. It almost looks like the room is becoming fuzzy.
"I said you have to stay calm," he says gently. I look straight ahead and try to focus on the curve of his jawline as I take deep breaths. "Mags, none of this is real," he says.
I jump to deny it instantly, but my head is killing me and somewhere deep inside, I know what he means. "Yes it is! What are you talking about? This isn't funny, Alec," I say.
An image captivates my mind. A memory. I see Alec and Destan being pushed into water. I can't think anymore. That didn't happen. It couldn't have because Alec is right here next to me.
"No no no no no no," I gasp. The images keep flooding back, and I'm suddenly aware that I'm under the serum. He's not really here.
Alec's hands are on my arms, but I can't feel them. It's only air. Already, the background of my dreamscape is turning white and I'm aware of my body lying on the sofa. I'm positive that I can open my eyes right now and I will be back in cold, painful reality. The more I panic, the more everything fades away.
"Mags, use your senses," a voice says. It must be Alec, but it doesn't sound very much like him anymore.
"That doesn't make any sense!" I cry.
He speaks again, and this time it sounds more like my husband. "See, you listened to me and it's coming back. Focus on what you hear. Feel textures. Trick your mind into thinking this is real and you'll stay."
I'm barely hanging onto this dream. I can feel the pull to open my eyes, but I try my best to follow the advice. I listen to the sound of his voice and run my fingers over his rough hands. I smell the subtle scent of linen and the fish that Destan brought home earlier. I can still fade away at the drop of a pen, but I'm feeling more in control now.
Stuck halfway in consciousness, I'm not quite sure what is reality and what's not. "Is this really you, or am I making you up in this dream?" I ask breathlessly.
"Do I seem real to you?" he questions back. I nod unsurely. "Then that's all that matters," he says.
It doesn't answer my question. Even if he had confirmed he was really there, though, how could I be sure? I don't think I even believe it's possible for the deceased to visit in dreams. It could easily be a trick of my mind, but it comforts me more to believe it's really him.
"Why did you have to tell me this wasn't real?" I ask. "I was perfectly fine believing everything was okay. That's how I've gotten through every other night."
"You would have realized eventually. I'm doing you a favor."
"I'm so sorry, Alec. I never meant for any of this to happen," I cry into his shoulder. "Please tell me you and Destan are okay," I beg, part of me aware that there's a large chance I'm talking to a figment of my imagination.
"You don't need to worry about us. You're the one who's suffering," he says carefully. I know he's right, because that's exactly how Snow intended it to be.
"You have to promise me something right now, Mags. Promise you'll take care of yourself. It kills me to see you like this. You know that's not what I want," he says, his tone serious.
"It's not th-that easy," I respond. "You c-can't just expect me to be okay. This isn't something I can get over."
"I'm not asking you to get over it. I'm saying you have to find a way to go on. There's a reason you're still alive. People are going to need you." His voice is so stern it stings.
"Everyone who needs me ends up dead."
I can tell he's getting frustrated, but I'm not about to make a promise I know I can't keep. "Why do you have to be so stubborn? You keep saying you wished you had listened to me, so why not try listening to me now? It's literally the only thing I have to ask!"
"You're asking the only thing I can't promise…" I trail off. I scowl. "I'd like to see you try to be in my place! Walk around with all this guilt and see nothing but memories you can't get back! It's impossible!" The louder my voice gets, the more the room fades, and I am drifting out again.
"Then try being in my place. Think about what you would want me to do," he says calmly now.
"That's different," I say so softly it's nothing more than a whimper.
"Is it?"
"This is crazy. You're not even here. I'm arguing with myself!" I cry, and then I am back in the living room, Marilla by my side. I want to curl up and die. That wasn't Alec. It couldn't have been. I've never been conscious in a dream before, but I can't let myself believe it was some kind of spiritual visitation.
I gulp hard because I know that even if it was only my imagination, it's still exactly what Alec would say. I know he wouldn't want to see me deteriorate like this. But that doesn't make living any less difficult.
"Alec, if you're out there, help me," I whisper. Unsurprisingly, the only response I get to that is seeing Marilla twitch in her sleep from the sound.
If I'm going to try to find a way to live with this pain, every ounce of effort will be for my family's sake. I can't wrap my mind around how it will be possible. I can only think of the present.
As I watch Marilla sleep, I think of dozens of questions I need to ask her. The future is too hard to process, but at least I know my next step is to get answers.
Chapter 33 Guest Review Reply:
dusty714: I know :/ But thank you for the compliment on my writing!