my life is a candle and a wick
So this is a series now? Ruth ficlet; post 5.05, 600 words. There are more of these to come, because apparently Laura Marling gives me lots of ideas. Right.
there's hope in the air,
there's hope in the water
but sadly not me, your last serving daughter.
laura marling; hope in the air
+
They hold her in the interrogation rooms, hand her passports, both red; she catches the crest of a lion on one, French words on another. She can have choice, she can go anywhere in the world. Others have made this decision; she imagines Tom choosing the dreariest place he could find.
She doesn't want that. Adam's hands are splayed on the table, cautious; his eyes are sorry, but she takes the passports, piled, and his fingers curl into his palms.
He leaves the room with a nod that says everything.
__
From boat to plane to boat again, she travels.
It feels nomadic, too fast, too slow, too blurred to pick out the fine grain of detail. The world goes from grey to disappeared to sun-filled in the space of several hours; England is two hours behind her, dour. A man greets her with a too-bright smile to match the sun, walking her up the quay.
(“You will stay long?”)
She feels dazed, recovers herself. She fingers the passport she holds ready in her pocket. It reads another name; she speaks with another voice. “Ναι.” (“Yes. I'm sure, yes.”)
His smile is pleased. She thinks of Zaf.
__
Athens is beautiful.
She admires the Acropolis, crowning the hill; the city descends to the sea.
(The sea: Blackpool, Peter, lies - a born spook, she was. Was. Is. Was.)
She gives it a day, but she's had enough of big cities; by evening she is boarding another boat, ferrying herself to the islands. Those are held for a week, a straight line from Naxos to Rhodes, but an overhearing of British accents on a side street causes her to flee.
Cyprus is a direct trajectory against the coast of Turkey, a pleasing line on the map. It feels sensible, straightforward.
She leaves her coat draped against the balcony, vines creeping the rails; she fingers the flowers, deep, accosting red, and heads toward the harbour.
The boat docks in Polis, the ropes are thrown ashore; she settles.
__
George is father to a boy, Nico; they are alike with wide dark eyes and open smiles. It puts her in a comfortable lull, this faux family, simplicity, and there are moments when she doesn't think of pasts.
But there are always precautions: a bag on the top of the hall cupboards, passports hidden in her drawer, three, stacked and red like that first day with Adam's gaze on hers.
George has never asked, never prodded; he is too kind, too trusting - he shortens her name and laughs at her awkward traits; her instances of memory, frozen in front of the mirror, stuck on a word, they go unnoticed. She leaves the room when he turns on the radio; he tries to discuss politics with her, once, while she is cooking, but she stays unresponsive until he goes quiet.
“I'm tired,” she says, carefully jarring the knife against the cutting board.
He nods, gaze flickering, and leaves her a glass of wine on the worktop. She expects him to leave, but he comes around, cradles her face in his warm hands. “Ruth,” he says. “You will tell me when things are wrong, won't you?”
She holds his gaze; she feels trapped against him. (I can't tell you, I can't say, I still live by the rules that their law says I broke.)
(I have passports for when things do go wrong.)
(They aren't wrong, here. You just aren't - )
“Yes,” she says finally. “I will tell you.”
end.
there's hope in the air,
there's hope in the water
but sadly not me, your last serving daughter.
laura marling; hope in the air
+
They hold her in the interrogation rooms, hand her passports, both red; she catches the crest of a lion on one, French words on another. She can have choice, she can go anywhere in the world. Others have made this decision; she imagines Tom choosing the dreariest place he could find.
She doesn't want that. Adam's hands are splayed on the table, cautious; his eyes are sorry, but she takes the passports, piled, and his fingers curl into his palms.
He leaves the room with a nod that says everything.
__
From boat to plane to boat again, she travels.
It feels nomadic, too fast, too slow, too blurred to pick out the fine grain of detail. The world goes from grey to disappeared to sun-filled in the space of several hours; England is two hours behind her, dour. A man greets her with a too-bright smile to match the sun, walking her up the quay.
(“You will stay long?”)
She feels dazed, recovers herself. She fingers the passport she holds ready in her pocket. It reads another name; she speaks with another voice. “Ναι.” (“Yes. I'm sure, yes.”)
His smile is pleased. She thinks of Zaf.
__
Athens is beautiful.
She admires the Acropolis, crowning the hill; the city descends to the sea.
(The sea: Blackpool, Peter, lies - a born spook, she was. Was. Is. Was.)
She gives it a day, but she's had enough of big cities; by evening she is boarding another boat, ferrying herself to the islands. Those are held for a week, a straight line from Naxos to Rhodes, but an overhearing of British accents on a side street causes her to flee.
Cyprus is a direct trajectory against the coast of Turkey, a pleasing line on the map. It feels sensible, straightforward.
She leaves her coat draped against the balcony, vines creeping the rails; she fingers the flowers, deep, accosting red, and heads toward the harbour.
The boat docks in Polis, the ropes are thrown ashore; she settles.
__
George is father to a boy, Nico; they are alike with wide dark eyes and open smiles. It puts her in a comfortable lull, this faux family, simplicity, and there are moments when she doesn't think of pasts.
But there are always precautions: a bag on the top of the hall cupboards, passports hidden in her drawer, three, stacked and red like that first day with Adam's gaze on hers.
George has never asked, never prodded; he is too kind, too trusting - he shortens her name and laughs at her awkward traits; her instances of memory, frozen in front of the mirror, stuck on a word, they go unnoticed. She leaves the room when he turns on the radio; he tries to discuss politics with her, once, while she is cooking, but she stays unresponsive until he goes quiet.
“I'm tired,” she says, carefully jarring the knife against the cutting board.
He nods, gaze flickering, and leaves her a glass of wine on the worktop. She expects him to leave, but he comes around, cradles her face in his warm hands. “Ruth,” he says. “You will tell me when things are wrong, won't you?”
She holds his gaze; she feels trapped against him. (I can't tell you, I can't say, I still live by the rules that their law says I broke.)
(I have passports for when things do go wrong.)
(They aren't wrong, here. You just aren't - )
“Yes,” she says finally. “I will tell you.”
end.