Work Text:
They are gone and you cannot even think about being Gentle. Your family have been ripped from your chest, your lungs, the fiber from your being, the marrow from your bones. It was not Gentle, so why should you be?
They are gone and you are alone with your wine and what-ifs in a house that used to shake with the force of running footsteps. Six around the kitchen table was always a tight fit, though that's no longer a problem. The house is empty and so are you and you know it will remain this way for some time - perhaps all of it.
They are gone and you buy groceries and your little sister skips alongside you while you walk the aisles, basket hanging too light on your arm. She asks you to buy oranges - the ones you'd always end up peeling when she had no patience for it. Weeks later the fruit bowl hums with flies and a fetid stink that you hardly notice, that never really left your nose after the morgue. Your sister used to compost. You throw the sticky remains in her bin for it outside and wash up the fruit bowl. The next time you go to the shop, a net of oranges returns home with you.
They are gone and you go to the park. Your younger brother swings his legs in the tree above you, calls you to come climb with him. You tell him your shoes are new, that you'll rip your stockings, that you'll ruin your dress. You sit on the bench below and slowly strip a daisy of its petals. By the fountain, he plays chess. You sit opposite, marble and paint aside from the eyes that track every move. He makes mistakes, silently challenging you to correct him. You never do. The chess set at home gathers dust on its table by the window.
They are gone and you sit and read: books, magazines, newspapers. Your older brother asks questions about them. You make tea with too many sugars and not enough milk. One day you reach into the cupboard and there are no mugs left. You read Little Women in the window seat and your brother somehow fits beside you even though the two of you haven't sat here together in years. He asks about the March girls and you tell him there were four and then their sister died and there were three, and he tells you he won't read that one, then, sips at his tea. The white ceramic interiors stain.
They are gone and there is a storm and you step outside in your nightgown to rage with it. Your little sister splashes in puddles and dances. Your younger brother warns you not to stand under the tree at the bottom of the garden. Your older brother tells you to get back inside or at least put some shoes on.
They are gone and you are empty and you let the oranges rot and you let the chess set lie unused and you let the tea go cold. You stand in the rain until you're soaked deeper than the bone and you don't like the way you still eventually dry off.
They are gone and when you travel you take the train, where you can. You hope the fates are tempted just enough. You hope for something. You sit in a booth made for four.