There's a part of her that can be proud about how utterly steady her voice is.
(Forget that she's got her hand resting just below her throat, fingers spread, as though trying to keep something in. Forget that she's stood poised like that, stood still, for the last five minutes.)
There's a part of her that she's doing her very best to ignore, to shove down and away. That will be for later, when everything is taken care of, when she's alone.
(Her sons are -- were -- very different, and while Peter never saw everything, he always seemed to see enough to know. And in turn, she always let him.
Not any more.)
And then there's the part of her that will do what has to be done. That will show Nathan the way. She's had her turn for grief.
Nathan turned toward her voice, and could see how she was standing. Poised, and yet something wrong.
"Where is he?"
He started to walk through the doorway, and then he caught sight of where she was looking. At the person laid out on the settee. Peter's head was tilted to the side, and as he got closer. He noticed the blood on his cheeks, but it was getting harder to see as tears began to obscure Nathan's vision of the grisly sight.
Dear God! how beauty varies in nature and art. In a woman the flesh must be like marble; in a statue the marble must be like flesh.
Victor Hugo. She lets the thought (his autobiography, it's in French at her bedside, she reads when she can't sleep and she'll be reading from it tonight) repeat, resonate: in a woman the flesh must be like marble.
"He's gone, Nathan."
She doesn't move, and her voice doesn't shake; the flesh must be like marble.
But Nathan has his answer when he finally could make out Peter's clouded eyes staring at nothing.
"No, no." he cried.
He lifted him up to his arms, briefly remembering the times he picked him up as a baby, as a toddler, already looking out for his little brother. Burying his head into Peter's shoulders, trying not to think of how cold he was already.
"Peter. He isn't supposed to die this way! He wasn't supposed to die this way. He was wrong." Peter was wrong, and damn that bastard, Linderman was wrong too. But this meant the bomb wasn't to go off?
He finally lifted his head to glance over at his mother, "Oh what do we do?"
Comments 35
There's a part of her that can be proud about how utterly steady her voice is.
(Forget that she's got her hand resting just below her throat, fingers spread, as though trying to keep something in. Forget that she's stood poised like that, stood still, for the last five minutes.)
There's a part of her that she's doing her very best to ignore, to shove down and away. That will be for later, when everything is taken care of, when she's alone.
(Her sons are -- were -- very different, and while Peter never saw everything, he always seemed to see enough to know. And in turn, she always let him.
Not any more.)
And then there's the part of her that will do what has to be done. That will show Nathan the way. She's had her turn for grief.
Let him have his.
Reply
"Where is he?"
He started to walk through the doorway, and then he caught sight of where she was looking. At the person laid out on the settee. Peter's head was tilted to the side, and as he got closer. He noticed the blood on his cheeks, but it was getting harder to see as tears began to obscure Nathan's vision of the grisly sight.
He knelt down by him, starting to cry.
Reply
Victor Hugo. She lets the thought (his autobiography, it's in French at her bedside, she reads when she can't sleep and she'll be reading from it tonight) repeat, resonate: in a woman the flesh must be like marble.
"He's gone, Nathan."
She doesn't move, and her voice doesn't shake; the flesh must be like marble.
Reply
"No, no." he cried.
He lifted him up to his arms, briefly remembering the times he picked him up as a baby, as a toddler, already looking out for his little brother. Burying his head into Peter's shoulders, trying not to think of how cold he was already.
"Peter. He isn't supposed to die this way! He wasn't supposed to die this way. He was wrong." Peter was wrong, and damn that bastard, Linderman was wrong too. But this meant the bomb wasn't to go off?
He finally lifted his head to glance over at his mother, "Oh what do we do?"
Reply
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