E N T R ' A C T E

- Dim Aldebaran -

:i:

His hand curled around the banister, fingers clasping it like a careful white spider moving around the corner of a wall. The sunlight pooled around him, blood from the prey, the hunter having overtaken the sun as its shadow loomed, night over the world.

The place had the feeling of a tomb; Mother drifted as a ghost in her suite of rooms. The son, too—me, myself and I, holy trinity—wandered, undead, and perhaps not wandering at all but waiting, waiting to be found by his thoughts.

Again: the curl of the hand, tentative, seeking: dead and white against the rich red of the mahogany doorframe, old, but not as old as the white spider/rabbit/elephant (all the same story—)

He could hear, now, hear murmurs that trickled across his mind like a pale brook of stars: Timmy, so delighted you could come, Timmy, dearest, I have so much to say to you—here, have some nepenthe, I simply must hear how it was at the bottom of the sea—

And—the voice stifled. It was a curious silence, then; the drama before the curtains rise, the guillotine before the fall.

Through the gloom, her face emerged like that of a geisha, pale and white and still. Her lips were parted, giving an anguished feel to the classical beauty of the mask—and then, opened to a soundless cry.

Her robe seemed to flow from her shoulders, a seamless waterfall of harebell blue; and it fell, she fell, down like that waterfall to the floor. Her robe crumpled in a spray of wild blue, and she stilled, like the calmest of pools as the moonlight shone down upon her—

—and there was only the night.

He found himself walking forward through the gloom, snared by the sight of Mother, peerless as a well of water. Whispers seeped through the air to his ear:

timmytimmywhere?—

—here please timmywhywhywhy

He waited until the moonlight was covered with a shroud of rain before moving her, fearing that dream of a nightmare.

He watched the rain, for a time, watched the slow slide of light/dark water down the glass, the images cast on the floor creeping upwards to Mother, on Mother, like slugs, leeches, sucking her soul away—

Something strange surged in him with the storm; he stood still until he could take it no more and went to her side. Her lids fluttered as no Galatea ever could in REM; and he could trace the fast flicker in her throat and wrists, where her skin was laced with blue-purple veins that stuck out, like they might on an old woman, though her skin was young and smooth: a vampire's?

In her death, life: her lips moved, cold and white like dead coral. The sound seeped upwards, slowly, for it was against the rain: Timmy, whatwherewhenwhywhywhywhy, Timmy, you forgot—

Her brow had a sheen of sweat; it glinted like a pearl might. He resisted the urge to wipe her brow—though he could not stop himself from brushing the hair from her face, brown locks now black as a forest at night. Mother stilled under her son's hand; she had not been able to bear human contact since her fall, maybe she was better now, maybe the madness was draining out in her fever—

Mother's hand could have been all bone, a skeleton; it clutched his forearm with a terrible strength he had never considered of her. He pulled away, but the hand clutched on and the eyes opened, dark in a silent world: timmytimmytimmytimmytimmy—!

The hand released; he stumbled back, falling but so very afraid that he scrambled up in a sort of mad rush. She sat up in the bed; her hair tumbled around her, so very dark, tangled nightmares. All was blue and black, like a bruise.

—you forgot and now you forget and now you are forgotten—

Her eyes roamed the room; he stood still, afraid that she might see and remember. But her eyes passed over him without action; and he felt a chill up his body like seawater, over his head.

timmy you forgotfor-got-got-got forgot—

Lightning crashed; thunder fell; she was the ghost of Christmas Past, the picture of Dorian Grey, Lenore upon the mantel, sweet Mercedes in the mind; she was that which haunted him. With the curve of her throat was the sound and the scream, and upon the slope of her shoulder the world entire, a slow crush as she struggled to breathe—

She slipped from the bed; the harebell robe gleamed like the most turbid of twilights, and she stood now; the shadows of the rain slid down her, and she appeared to melt in its fury—

Her pockets were deep: she put those long hands in and they were swallowed by a sea and she was sheathed in it, mermyd, Basque waterfall. They emerged and brought forth a long rope, like an intestine, long and fleshed out with round beads, pale gray, dripping shadows. Broken: some fell to the floor and shattered, rain. timmy forgot the beads but whywhywhywhywhywhyWHYwhywhy?

He slipped back further; velvet, for once, did not seem to comfort him. Mother was no Demeter; she was pale death, Persephone, daughter of life and thus nothing more—

The rosary beads hung from her hand, entrails of sacrificed sanity, swinging, back and forth as she moved forward, glistening in the moonlight—haha, pit and the pendulum—

Forward, forward—blue harebell and gray, almost white between the lightning. At war, marching forward, cadence of rain.

Forward, forward—bottom of the sea/without your rosary beads whywhywhywhywhywhy –why without?—no—

The curtains folded around him: encompassing him like the womb, warm, comforting darkness, though behind him the window trembled with the storm.

Mother—the rosary beads swung, incense in the church, most sacred insanity, blessing the storm, little wisps of yesterday swirling in their wake, smoke before the eyes.

The rain drifted slowly down her; her robe was streaked with stains of night, like bloodstains in the gloom. The rosary beads swung; and his eyes followed, the pendulum nearing. timmy, saidsaysays if timmy says I will timmy lies/lied liars go to hell—

He nestled further into the drapes; now flat against the window, Mother a sliver of blue on a field of black but still walking, stepping here/there, hesitant/hoping, small birdlike lurches as the feet moved forward and down, but the beads would still swing, silver-gray guillotine of guilt.

timmy I prayed for you why didn't you— I went before Mary and she told me to keep tryingtrytried—

Mother was close, now; he could feel her breath through half-parted lips, alive for a moment as the sticky air passed his face then dead the next, dead as Timmy, dead as her unanswered prayers.

The rosary beads swung and hit the drapes, once, twice, thrice, and she brokenly stumbled forward, first into the drapes and then into him, velvet crushed between them, and the beads, rosary beads, small, sharp points of pain against his chest as she pressed deeper.

He lunged to the side, through velvet black, velvet night tossing them aside until he was in the relative day of the storm, blue. He scrabbled up in a sort of mad rush and fell again, floor, like the glass but not as clear, not as cold, Hades, not the heat of Hell, and he tried to escape but it was all cold, cold, white and blue and cold—

The world flushed as the storm deepened, darker bruise. He found himself against the door; but no, he couldn't, couldn't leave her to be devoured by her madness—

The beads, back and forth; the cross at the end was silver, the sharp silver of a knife that cut deep into his soul with every flash of lightning. no purgatory for you burn boy burn givetake who's the martyr now?—burn

The doorknob was warm, so warm it did indeed seem like a door to the purgatories; but anything was better than the cold, anything was better than witnessing the slow death of a woman and her world.

timmytimmy you didn't even bring them—timmy why/why not

The door, too: rich red mahogany, dark red, blood in the night, entry/exit wound from the bruise of a room, he wasn't sure which but it didn't matter, he could go and leave and never come back and never die, immortal, immortal, immortal Hesperides—

The rosary beads swung and she kneeled, Mother before him: the beads stilled as well, water droplets on a cave wall, gray and so very still. beadsbeadsbeadsrosarybeads timmy you forget timmtimmy beads rosy rosaries say the rosaries pretty pretty rosary beads—

The door opened: the gate to Tartarus, perhaps, but he didn't mind anymore, and he closed the door and there was the cry and a pounding but he locked it, standing there until the pounding stilled to the rustle of cloth and the clink of beads and the whisper of rosaries.

It ran in the family.

:i:

Well, that is weird. To my defense, I have some very pretty rosary beads at home. When the AC's on, they swing around.

This is supposed to take place in the early stages of her madness, before 'they' developed in her mind. Poor Arty, though. No wonder he'd give up half the gold to get her out of this.

I hope how I did the dialogue—in italics, all of it considering Angeline was the only one speaking—didn't confuzzle anyone.

Anywho, if anyone is open as a beta reader for this, feel free to step up. I was waiting to post this until Whilily finished moving house, but I couldn't wait. This isn't the most coherent thing in the world, and is probably too flowery for its own good. Concrit much appreciated.