Mar. 17th, 2008

babyjosephine: (Default)
[personal profile] babyjosephine
6 April, 2002, about two days after Robert crossed.

I should be used to disappointment.

There was one small problem. Alice wanted to die.

Wanting to die wasn’t the problem. It was that she couldn’t. Physically, she could try. But what would happen if she did? She had an eighteen-year-old, promiscuous son to chase—and if she crossed over, if she did what Robert did, where would she fit? Robert had crossed over to get away from her, from earth. She would be a burden.

She could go to her parents. Her mother wouldn’t like it. Her father might be upset. Fabian would be happy he didn’t have to listen to her nag, at least. As a mother, that was all she became good for—ignoring. Even Robert ignored her when she told him not to go—don’t go. Don’t leave us here.

I should be used to disappointment. She picked up the pieces of a coffee mug, one that had hit the kitchen floor and shattered into shards and dust at her bare feet. Her fingers were shaking too violently to pick them up, but she tried, and cut herself in the process. She could barely get the tap to work. The rivulet of blood broke free and dripped down her hand, splattering quietly at the bottom of the sink. Alice wiped her eyes with her left wrist and turned the water on so violently that it hit the sink’s surface and sprayed her.

And every minute of this was killing her. )

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