Medea | Madeline Medes (wicked_ways) wrote in nevermore_logs, @ 2016-03-01 16:46:00 |
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Entry tags: | medea |
Who: Medea
What: Sometimes they come back (~Ghost Day~)
When: Monday evening
Where: Medea's apartment
Warnings: Dead children :|
"Mama."
Medea went still as death. Stiller, even. She knew that voice. She could not forget that voice, or the second, higher one that joined it.
"Mama."
Her sons stood at the kitchen table, looking as they had after she-
"Get out," Medea hissed, not looking at the boys. Young boys, the oldest not quite tall enough to see over the table. Jason's eyes, blood filling one completely. "Whoever the fuck is trying to scare me, it's not working!"
The younger one stepped forward, holding his arms out towards her. His hands were covered in bruises, cuts, defensive wounds. "Mama, I'm cold."
Medea had been grappling with what she did to her children for more than a thousand years, and she'd thought that she was on steady ground. What could anyone call her that she hadn't called herself? Murderer, witch, child-killer. She wore the titles openly. She was what Jason and his world had made her.
But now, staring at the fractured jaw of her younger son, Medea felt something curiously like terror snaking through her.
"Mama?" That mouth, missing teeth, had nursed at her breast. It had smiled, and cried, and trustingly swallowed the herbal potions she had prepared for the aches and pains of childhood. Her children, her babies, they had come back-
The oldest stepped forward, leaving bloody footprints on her kitchen floor.
-dead, they had come back to her dead, wearing the marks of what she had done to them.
Moving on instinct, Medea grabbed a knife from the block in the kitchen and sprinted down the hall, banging her hip hard on the wall as she threw herself into the bedroom and locked the door. Would the door even stop them? Would they pass through it, crawl under it, tear it off the hinges?
Instead, there was a small, knocking sound. "Mama? Come out, please?"
"Get away from me!" Medea howled, clutching the knife with a white-knuckle grip. "I'll kill you again, I swear it!"
It would have been so much easier if they were angry. Medea knew anger, knew every variation of it with the intimacy of a lover. But this innocent, confused trust, that was something she had left behind a dozen lifetimes ago. She had no defenses built against it, because why would she?
For a long while, the only sounds in her apartment were three different voices, all sobbing for very different reasons.