Arc One [7]
Author: Cha Ma Mib
Title: Blood in the Sugar
Rating: PG-13 (strong language)
Word Count: 897
She would be an acceptable target for my rage. Everyone would understand the damaged, replaced first wife ushering rudeness and hostility to her substitute's home. No one would approve of it, but they'd understand. It would be more sympathetic to them than the way I lash out at Peter and Marco some days without even thinking about it, because they are sainted, they are the heroic son and the ever-understanding husband who took me back.
This woman - Nora - sits across from me, and she is nothing but an intruder. Animal instinct justifies territorial rage.
"...But I love him enough to know that you needed him more and a part of him will always need you. The math just doesn't line up. We couldn't both get our happy endings with only one prince between us."
Twist the knife, you sanctimonious bitch. Talk about fairytales as if you're some princess approaching a happy ending because you're so damn pure. She reminds me, with every taut smile, that she's so very fucking benevolent and wise. Such an angel to sacrifice her perfect domestic life to let the damaged wreck of a person have the TLC.
"I mourned for my husband and step-son..."
Every time she uses a possessive, she drags herself through my territory and leaves a claiming scent in her wake. My husband, my son, how could they ever be hers? When did it happen that I had to share them with Edriss and now with this woman?
"You never tried to contact him," I say, grasping at straws.
"I love him enough to know a part of him will always need you, and you needed him infinitely more than I did."
"Spare me your pity."
"I wouldn't degrade you with such a useless emotion. What I feel for you is empathy…"
I taste metal in my mouth. When I take a sip of coffee, there's blood in the sugar and cocoa. The woman drinks mochas. I've bitten my lip into a minefield of oozing sores.
"We are not the same," I say, tempering my harshness with a purposefully flat affect. Better to remove myself. Better to pretend this is all happening to someone else. Better to sit in this chair and tap my fingers on her gaudy brightly-painted mug and pretend that someone else is going to come in and make my choices for me, again. I try not to remember that the last choice I made was many times over the wrong one.
"We stole each other's lives, Eva. It was neither of our faults. I have looked it in the eyes more times than I can count, because I can't heal my students if I can't even heal my own hurt first. I know Peter well enough to let him go, to give him back to you. No matter how much I miss his chatter."
Giving. She's patting herself on the back for giving me what was rightfully mine, what isn't rightfully mine anymore.
"I couldn't," I say softly, knowing that I can't muster that strength.
"I know. I'm not asking you to. I…I would like for my daughter to know her father, but I understand if you can't allow that. But that's all I will ask you in relation to Peter."
"I don't know what I expected coming here. You know more about me than I have managed to learn about you. You have an advantage."
"It's not a chess game, Eva."
Of course it is, you silly woman, because you see, in games there are good sports and gracious losers. In games, the result really doesn't matter so much as the steps taken to get there. In games, you aren't tugging around real people.
"Probably better that it isn't. I'm not sure who would have won," I admit, quietly. More to my coffee than to her.
I could hate her. I have every reason to hate her, what she is and how she speaks to me. I could leap across the table and put this metal fork through her throat. I could issue some scything words and shut her down. I could let the heat morph my face into an ugly manifestation of everything I want to say.
Instead my shoulders shake and my voice cracks as I tell her I'll let my husband meet his daughter.
This is not my decision. It never has been. It's a simple calculation between good and evil, who wins and who gains, and what Eva gets to keep is of no concern when loved ones are involved. Because that is love, and that is morality, and that is selflessness, and Yeerks do nothing better than teach us selflessness.
I will not let myself be so damaged as to do harm to the people I love.
She smiles sadly. "I know this is hard for you-"
"Don't," I say. I stand up and my peripheral vision blurs. I close my eyes. I can hear Marco in the other room with a laughing child - every giggle makes the headache worse. "Just don't. I'll make myself scarce when you visit."
I tell myself, do the right thing. You do the right thing. The zero-sum game never promised equal division anyway. I bring the cup of coffee back to my mouth to hide the blood that drips from my lower lip.
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Title: Blood in the Sugar
Rating: PG-13 (strong language)
Word Count: 897
She would be an acceptable target for my rage. Everyone would understand the damaged, replaced first wife ushering rudeness and hostility to her substitute's home. No one would approve of it, but they'd understand. It would be more sympathetic to them than the way I lash out at Peter and Marco some days without even thinking about it, because they are sainted, they are the heroic son and the ever-understanding husband who took me back.
This woman - Nora - sits across from me, and she is nothing but an intruder. Animal instinct justifies territorial rage.
"...But I love him enough to know that you needed him more and a part of him will always need you. The math just doesn't line up. We couldn't both get our happy endings with only one prince between us."
Twist the knife, you sanctimonious bitch. Talk about fairytales as if you're some princess approaching a happy ending because you're so damn pure. She reminds me, with every taut smile, that she's so very fucking benevolent and wise. Such an angel to sacrifice her perfect domestic life to let the damaged wreck of a person have the TLC.
"I mourned for my husband and step-son..."
Every time she uses a possessive, she drags herself through my territory and leaves a claiming scent in her wake. My husband, my son, how could they ever be hers? When did it happen that I had to share them with Edriss and now with this woman?
"You never tried to contact him," I say, grasping at straws.
"I love him enough to know a part of him will always need you, and you needed him infinitely more than I did."
"Spare me your pity."
"I wouldn't degrade you with such a useless emotion. What I feel for you is empathy…"
I taste metal in my mouth. When I take a sip of coffee, there's blood in the sugar and cocoa. The woman drinks mochas. I've bitten my lip into a minefield of oozing sores.
"We are not the same," I say, tempering my harshness with a purposefully flat affect. Better to remove myself. Better to pretend this is all happening to someone else. Better to sit in this chair and tap my fingers on her gaudy brightly-painted mug and pretend that someone else is going to come in and make my choices for me, again. I try not to remember that the last choice I made was many times over the wrong one.
"We stole each other's lives, Eva. It was neither of our faults. I have looked it in the eyes more times than I can count, because I can't heal my students if I can't even heal my own hurt first. I know Peter well enough to let him go, to give him back to you. No matter how much I miss his chatter."
Giving. She's patting herself on the back for giving me what was rightfully mine, what isn't rightfully mine anymore.
"I couldn't," I say softly, knowing that I can't muster that strength.
"I know. I'm not asking you to. I…I would like for my daughter to know her father, but I understand if you can't allow that. But that's all I will ask you in relation to Peter."
"I don't know what I expected coming here. You know more about me than I have managed to learn about you. You have an advantage."
"It's not a chess game, Eva."
Of course it is, you silly woman, because you see, in games there are good sports and gracious losers. In games, the result really doesn't matter so much as the steps taken to get there. In games, you aren't tugging around real people.
"Probably better that it isn't. I'm not sure who would have won," I admit, quietly. More to my coffee than to her.
I could hate her. I have every reason to hate her, what she is and how she speaks to me. I could leap across the table and put this metal fork through her throat. I could issue some scything words and shut her down. I could let the heat morph my face into an ugly manifestation of everything I want to say.
Instead my shoulders shake and my voice cracks as I tell her I'll let my husband meet his daughter.
This is not my decision. It never has been. It's a simple calculation between good and evil, who wins and who gains, and what Eva gets to keep is of no concern when loved ones are involved. Because that is love, and that is morality, and that is selflessness, and Yeerks do nothing better than teach us selflessness.
I will not let myself be so damaged as to do harm to the people I love.
She smiles sadly. "I know this is hard for you-"
"Don't," I say. I stand up and my peripheral vision blurs. I close my eyes. I can hear Marco in the other room with a laughing child - every giggle makes the headache worse. "Just don't. I'll make myself scarce when you visit."
I tell myself, do the right thing. You do the right thing. The zero-sum game never promised equal division anyway. I bring the cup of coffee back to my mouth to hide the blood that drips from my lower lip.
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