Brittany (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
breezeshadow) wrote2012-01-13 01:09 pm
breezeshadow) wrote2012-01-13 01:09 pm
Entry tags:
This is not Indicative of my Current Mood
Title: N/A
Genre: Fantasy
The Troops: Greta
Status: Complete but VERY rough
Rating: M for implications of violence and due to trigger warning: suicide and domestic violence
Summary: Under the stars in the dying winter, face the moment...
Prompt: Nothing left
Author's Notes: I don't think I really wrote the emotion of this well so I'll have to go back and try later. Also this contains spoilers for my novel. And makes me really sad. :(
---
She could feel so little even though the wind buffeted at her cloak and tossed the dying grasses around at her feet. She was used to this -- this lack of mind and emotion, this sort of shutting down, the train for the evening rolling in for its last stop.
Her mind had frozen up last night -- no, no, it was before then, at the trial. It had gone exactly as she had been expecting and fearing, the Judge's face one of profound boredom, for he had no doubt been given his decision along with a stack of gold coins and a gun aimed at his nose. Half of her character witnesses mmysteriously did not show up, under varying excuses, but most fell under "illness". They had not seen the money, just the weapon. And the therapists -- oh she felt bad for her therapist, her nose still a tad crooked from the punch, her mouth and face still a little stiff from where the bones had not yet sealed. She thawed a bit at that from the guilt -- she had involved the poor woman in this mess, and while Rose May Pursa was certainly not naive, she was just a rookie, still thinking that the law cared about the mind.
The Judge's face twitched just a little bit at the mention of suicide, of how concerned the psychologists were about Greta Falk's mind when she was with her husband. She saw Antony's face twitch then, barely hiding the anger behind a mask, his eyes cold. And then the Judge became emotionless once again and she knew she was done.
Poor Pursa, the look on her face when the verdict fell was like she had been punched all over again. Her partner looked so unsurprised though, just very sad, looking over at Greta helplessly. But she could not look at him for too long, for Antony had his possessive mind about him, and she had to think about her plan. Eric no doubt noticed how stiff she was when she wished him farewell and he begged her to come back to the Station with her -- but she said she could not, because that would be breaking the Judge's orders.
She had to go home.
The night was a blur to her, mixed in with so many other nights, and the only reminders she had were the aches and pains in her body, the closed left eye, the pain when she urinated. She knew she begged and pleaded, meant maybe half of it; the rest was an act he fell for so easily. She assured him that of course she'd be loyal, that the hardships of the trial had taught her so much and she'd do anything, anything, please, just don't hurt--
It was a good enough act that he told her she was allowed to go out and allowed to quit her job. That was all she needed. Oh his sweet arrogance, she knew how to play it straight into the palm of her hand.
Under her robes to hide her face and disguise her figure she dropped off papers at her workplace.
"You will want to publish this article." The reworking he had done to her face masked her voice, and her coworker looked confused.
"We don't publish anonymous works."
"It's not anonymous." And she turned and left.
And now the train was rolling into the last station of the night, letting out a whistling sigh as the conductor glanced at her when she stepped carefully away. She was somewhere in Rezten, wherever the train station was located, it didn't matter where. By now Antony knew she had run away and was scouring the entire landscape for her, determined to get her back, that lying little bitch slut, who dared to question his authority and his ever amazing mind.
She paused outside the train station and pulled her little toy out of her purse, tossing the bag on the ground and moving on. The metal of the muzzle was so smooth and delicate, the design solid -- best gift her father had ever given her. Too bad she couldn't use it on the right person.
A dog chased a cat out of an alleyway and she slipped into it, smelling the garbage and smoke. She sat down and took the pistol out to examine it in the dim moonlight. She heard laughed and joking coming from the building next door -- a bar no doubt. One last drink would certainly be nice but she couldn't afford that sort of exposure.
She stared at the gun for a while longer. It felt different from her simple plans. They had seemed so straight-forward.
And they still were. She had a life ahead of her consisting of a dark locked room with an enraged powerful man, with no outside light or care, shunned by the public eye as the woman who defied her husband. She was the disobedient one, the bad wife, the terrible woman, who needed to be taught a lesson, who should be grateful Antony kept her. She had read the newspapers. She knew what the government thought of her.
She looked up at the stars and stared at them, admiring their beauty, their freedom.
Then she put the gun to her head and pulled the trigger.
Genre: Fantasy
The Troops: Greta
Status: Complete but VERY rough
Rating: M for implications of violence and due to trigger warning: suicide and domestic violence
Summary: Under the stars in the dying winter, face the moment...
Prompt: Nothing left
Author's Notes: I don't think I really wrote the emotion of this well so I'll have to go back and try later. Also this contains spoilers for my novel. And makes me really sad. :(
---
She could feel so little even though the wind buffeted at her cloak and tossed the dying grasses around at her feet. She was used to this -- this lack of mind and emotion, this sort of shutting down, the train for the evening rolling in for its last stop.
Her mind had frozen up last night -- no, no, it was before then, at the trial. It had gone exactly as she had been expecting and fearing, the Judge's face one of profound boredom, for he had no doubt been given his decision along with a stack of gold coins and a gun aimed at his nose. Half of her character witnesses mmysteriously did not show up, under varying excuses, but most fell under "illness". They had not seen the money, just the weapon. And the therapists -- oh she felt bad for her therapist, her nose still a tad crooked from the punch, her mouth and face still a little stiff from where the bones had not yet sealed. She thawed a bit at that from the guilt -- she had involved the poor woman in this mess, and while Rose May Pursa was certainly not naive, she was just a rookie, still thinking that the law cared about the mind.
The Judge's face twitched just a little bit at the mention of suicide, of how concerned the psychologists were about Greta Falk's mind when she was with her husband. She saw Antony's face twitch then, barely hiding the anger behind a mask, his eyes cold. And then the Judge became emotionless once again and she knew she was done.
Poor Pursa, the look on her face when the verdict fell was like she had been punched all over again. Her partner looked so unsurprised though, just very sad, looking over at Greta helplessly. But she could not look at him for too long, for Antony had his possessive mind about him, and she had to think about her plan. Eric no doubt noticed how stiff she was when she wished him farewell and he begged her to come back to the Station with her -- but she said she could not, because that would be breaking the Judge's orders.
She had to go home.
The night was a blur to her, mixed in with so many other nights, and the only reminders she had were the aches and pains in her body, the closed left eye, the pain when she urinated. She knew she begged and pleaded, meant maybe half of it; the rest was an act he fell for so easily. She assured him that of course she'd be loyal, that the hardships of the trial had taught her so much and she'd do anything, anything, please, just don't hurt--
It was a good enough act that he told her she was allowed to go out and allowed to quit her job. That was all she needed. Oh his sweet arrogance, she knew how to play it straight into the palm of her hand.
Under her robes to hide her face and disguise her figure she dropped off papers at her workplace.
"You will want to publish this article." The reworking he had done to her face masked her voice, and her coworker looked confused.
"We don't publish anonymous works."
"It's not anonymous." And she turned and left.
And now the train was rolling into the last station of the night, letting out a whistling sigh as the conductor glanced at her when she stepped carefully away. She was somewhere in Rezten, wherever the train station was located, it didn't matter where. By now Antony knew she had run away and was scouring the entire landscape for her, determined to get her back, that lying little bitch slut, who dared to question his authority and his ever amazing mind.
She paused outside the train station and pulled her little toy out of her purse, tossing the bag on the ground and moving on. The metal of the muzzle was so smooth and delicate, the design solid -- best gift her father had ever given her. Too bad she couldn't use it on the right person.
A dog chased a cat out of an alleyway and she slipped into it, smelling the garbage and smoke. She sat down and took the pistol out to examine it in the dim moonlight. She heard laughed and joking coming from the building next door -- a bar no doubt. One last drink would certainly be nice but she couldn't afford that sort of exposure.
She stared at the gun for a while longer. It felt different from her simple plans. They had seemed so straight-forward.
And they still were. She had a life ahead of her consisting of a dark locked room with an enraged powerful man, with no outside light or care, shunned by the public eye as the woman who defied her husband. She was the disobedient one, the bad wife, the terrible woman, who needed to be taught a lesson, who should be grateful Antony kept her. She had read the newspapers. She knew what the government thought of her.
She looked up at the stars and stared at them, admiring their beauty, their freedom.
Then she put the gun to her head and pulled the trigger.
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The prose is a little jagged, though, particularly where it segues in and out of the flashbacks -- I'd expect more environmental details from the court and most definitely the office (given it's familiar, presumably a space of escape-fulfillment for her, and that this is the last time she will see it).
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First, I think this was especially hard-hitting because you took it from Greta's perspective. It's nice to see a character so stripped of power given agency over this part of the text. And I enjoyed much of the imagery throughout. The prose is not as smooth as I'm used to from you, possibly due to the difficulty of emotion you're trying to convey, but I'm not sure that's a helpful remark without specifics, so:
The Judge's face twitched just a little bit at the mention of suicide, of how concerned the psychologists were about Greta Falk's mind when she was with her husband. She saw Antony's face twitch then, barely hiding the anger behind a mask, his eyes cold.
I would try to think of multiple ways to describe their facial expressions, as the re-use of "twitched" stood out even on the first read. Similarly, the paragraph Poor Pursa has a rather excessive use of the word "looked," albeit in varying applications. I tripped over it, and it would definitely be easily corrected.
who dared to question his authority and his ever amazing mind.
This just struck me as awkward. I'm not sure what is intended by his "ever amazing mind;" is the implication that he tries to prove he is more intelligent than her? If this is the case, I would go with something a little less clunky - for example, "superior intellect," or if his mind was not specifically want he held over her in the relationship, perhaps just superiority.
Indeed, I did notice "mind" referenced excessively in the trial as well - it may do well to specify more. Do they fear for her "mind," which is broad, or her sanity? Her mental health? etc.
She stared at the gun for a while longer. It felt different from her simple plans. They had seemed so straight-forward.
I'm a little puzzled by this. How is the gun different from her plans, if her plan was to kill herself? I would say, from experience, that when you have what you gathered for suicide, the effect of hefting it and preparing for its use is: Calming. Reassuring. Right.
Things that really worked for me, those crits aside:
And now the train was rolling into the last station of the night, letting out a whistling sigh as the conductor glanced at her when she stepped carefully away.
I love how the train becomes an extension of the mood. I'd consider making the conductor's reaction to her more dismissive to also fit it.
The reworking he had done to her face masked her voice,
I like what is suggested here, though the wording itself could possibly be smoothed by "his reworking of," or something thereabout.
the Judge's face one of profound boredom, for he had no doubt been given his decision along with a stack of gold coins and a gun aimed at his nose. Half of her character witnesses mysteriously did not show up, under varying excuses, but most fell under "illness". They had not seen the money, just the weapon.
Loved this; says so much about Anthony.
Anyhoo: for some specific, "I came within a few breaths of actually going trough with it" perspective: There truly is a very beautiful calm when you realize you're going to kill yourself. For me at least, it wasn't quite numbness so much as a serene feeling, the lifting of a great weight, a sense of "nothing can touch me, because I have true agency, and none of the stupid little trifling things happening around me matter worth a goddamn because I won't be around for their consequences." For someone as oppressed as Greta, I imagine this sense of liberation would be quite profound.
Also, and I've heard this from a few people and experienced it myself: there's often some stupid little thing that seems important to resolve before death. Tidying up the house. Making sure paperwork is filed. Whatever. For me, it was buying a light bulb for my aquarium because I didn't figure my parents would be able to figure out the right size and didn't want my fish in the dark. A family friend who killed himself? Did the laundry, then proceeded to shoot himself in the shower so it would be easy clean-up. So I think it works that she delivers those papers to her coworker.
Okay, I just threw a lot at you. To be clear: I like this scene, and I think when it's refined it's going to be VERY effective.