( cw for references to child murder, child abuse )
The world in this memory feels much greater, and you are small. You walk, no more than six years old, a tiny pale wisp of a child—down a hallway decorated with expensive carpeting and portraits, from the washroom to your bedroom. A nanny, too tall from your point of view to fit in focus beyond the austere skirt, holds your hand in a light grip. The woman, whoever she is, doesn't really want to be touching you—
You hear them sometimes. Even at your age you know: all of the domestics think they'll catch what you have, they’re all unnerved by you, all perceive this venture as fruitless, but this is their job. To feed and wash this troublesome child, to dry you so your illness isn't aggravated, and to put you to bed, now.
But in that hallway, along the way, there is a distinct thud from behind a door. The manor has a few of them, lots of floors and lots of doors on those floors, but you know the source for certain—the study your father has taken up. Your feet go still in the hall, head craning to glean the remaining information—what the noise was, what his status is.
"But I think—Charlie, it's far too important for you to go without a second thought." A voice you'd heard once before. Your uncle’s tone beyond the door is plaintive, mournful. "How has it grown? You know as well as I do, it can only be done today. Tomorrow, only the Lord could tell, but today—tonight."
He continues, volume unchanged but an unmistakable tenderness to his tone, "I have an unshakable faith in you—that you are not so gone from us, just yet... Nowhere is it written it has to be this way, and there is time, still—I would wager there is a year remaining before she's grown beyond it."
"I will even make the journey with you. Into town, or out to [REDACTED]. Here on our property where no one will notice. I will ensure everything is taken care of. But for your own sake, Charlie, you simply must get rid of that thing—"
And you tremble. Not from the words—facts you have long since accepted to be the truth, how he has suffered because of you, how everyone has suffered because of you—but a small cough that rocks your body. The nanny is quick to yank you from the scene by your wrist, hurrying towards your bedroom at the farthest end of the hall. When you arrive she tucks the you into bed and leaves for the remainder of her business; neither of you say a word.
NOTES:
- To anyone viewing it it is pretty apparent from body language and briskness that the nanny is less worried about Aradia and more worried about getting caught eavesdropping on a private affair. - What can be seen of people's clothes would date this memory as happening... vaguely sometime either at the end of the 19th century or the beginning of the 20th. Likewise, the styles are vaguely western. - The bedroom she ends up in most prominently has a canopy bed in it, like the only thing visible in this memory.
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3
The world in this memory feels much greater, and you are small. You walk, no more than six years old, a tiny pale wisp of a child—down a hallway decorated with expensive carpeting and portraits, from the washroom to your bedroom. A nanny, too tall from your point of view to fit in focus beyond the austere skirt, holds your hand in a light grip. The woman, whoever she is, doesn't really want to be touching you—
You hear them sometimes. Even at your age you know: all of the domestics think they'll catch what you have, they’re all unnerved by you, all perceive this venture as fruitless, but this is their job. To feed and wash this troublesome child, to dry you so your illness isn't aggravated, and to put you to bed, now.
But in that hallway, along the way, there is a distinct thud from behind a door. The manor has a few of them, lots of floors and lots of doors on those floors, but you know the source for certain—the study your father has taken up. Your feet go still in the hall, head craning to glean the remaining information—what the noise was, what his status is.
"But I think—Charlie, it's far too important for you to go without a second thought." A voice you'd heard once before. Your uncle’s tone beyond the door is plaintive, mournful. "How has it grown? You know as well as I do, it can only be done today. Tomorrow, only the Lord could tell, but today—tonight."
He continues, volume unchanged but an unmistakable tenderness to his tone, "I have an unshakable faith in you—that you are not so gone from us, just yet... Nowhere is it written it has to be this way, and there is time, still—I would wager there is a year remaining before she's grown beyond it."
"I will even make the journey with you. Into town, or out to [REDACTED]. Here on our property where no one will notice. I will ensure everything is taken care of. But for your own sake, Charlie, you simply must get rid of that thing—"
And you tremble. Not from the words—facts you have long since accepted to be the truth, how he has suffered because of you, how everyone has suffered because of you—but a small cough that rocks your body. The nanny is quick to yank you from the scene by your wrist, hurrying towards your bedroom at the farthest end of the hall. When you arrive she tucks the you into bed and leaves for the remainder of her business; neither of you say a word.
NOTES:
- To anyone viewing it it is pretty apparent from body language and briskness that the nanny is less worried about Aradia and more worried about getting caught eavesdropping on a private affair.
- What can be seen of people's clothes would date this memory as happening... vaguely sometime either at the end of the 19th century or the beginning of the 20th. Likewise, the styles are vaguely western.
- The bedroom she ends up in most prominently has a canopy bed in it, like the only thing visible in this memory.