OOC-- Playing with fuzzy time a bit; this is set at the end of the first semester SA31. Courtesy of a prompt by Tabitha Hawthorne's author: "Candle."
Mary’s bedroom window, that great peekhole into the expanse of sky beyond her walls, was foggy. If she was honest, it was probably more icy than foggy, but she didn’t like to think about that. Icy windows were too familiar as she’d spent most of her sixth year of school staring out of one. It was a bleak memory and one she tried to think of only when she needed to. Icy windows meant icy waters and the icy hands of those who lived beneath their depths. She shook her head. This was no time for flagellation; there were things to be done.
Her feet were cloaked in simple white socks and the cold stone floor seeped through, chilling the bones and skin that kept her above ground. She might’ve worn slippers if she’d cared a little more to separate herself from that world below and her actions in that regard betrayed the directions of her thoughts. The face of a nine-year old boy, his black hair falling over his forehead and two bright brown eyes peeking through above a wide smile, was on her mind. There were other faces though, too. One was a woman's and it might've been an older form of Mary herself if not for the distinctly upturned nose, thick dark lashes, and rich bronze skin. A word floated through her mind, identifying the woman by the role she'd played in Mary's life at one point. But she refused to think of those three letters that were just too heavy. A man's face was lighter, wider, and full of mischief. It was a face that enjoyed a good joke as much as a good cup of tea and usually was hidden behind a newspaper with or book. Another three letter word came to mind but Mary refused to acknowledge who the man was. Had been. Could have been.
Instead, she focused on the very real pictures of those same faces on the desk near the window. They didn't usually occupy that space as Mary kept them tucked out of sight for fear of coming across them on a particularly difficult day otherwise. She couldn't help wondering, when she saw them, what the end had been like. What those cold eaters and fierce, slimy hands had felt like on her brother's arms, dragging him out of sight from the sun as the sparkle it left in his eyes faded. What had it been like for her dad to feel such heartbreak that everything flashed. Had he seen his wife fall, the light gone from her eyes as well? Perhaps it was a relief not to see pain there instead.
Mary looked at the pictures but did not see them. She refused to see them.
Instead, she focused on the candle in her hand. The wax felt slimy in her palm and deceptively warm, as if it had been lit recently. She knew this was an illusion. It was the warmth of her own palm making it feel that way. It was the warmth of a beating heart and flowing blood and proof that she was the only one remaining.
The candle found its place on the desk as well, although Mary might've been a thousand miles away when her arm reached out to put it there. In fact, her mind was a few hundred miles away, peering into a great black lake and begging it to take her too. It hadn't yet.
She never used her wand for this service, knowing what one had done to her parents.
Instead, she focused on her shaking hands as she retrieved a box of muggle matches from someplace. She didn't see where. She didn't need to. She knew how to do this by rote now and she was determined not to think.
Her mind did float though, grabbing hold of the face of a woman who had changed everything for her. But this was no time to think of love or happiness. The world was meant to be cold and so she would freeze with it. She wouldn't let her love steal her sadness from her.
Instead, she focused on the flame that sparked as she struck a match and on the heartbeat of time it took to light the candle with it.
“Happy birthday to you….” Her voice might've been quiet in the dark room, except that it was the only voice she'd heard from her family. She sounded like her mom. That three letter word hurt and she continued the song, trembling when it came to a close.
“Happy birthday,” she whispered to the pictures, not looking at them. Not looking at the face of a woman who would’ve been so happy to eat cake and blow out a very different candle with her children and her husband.
Instead, she focused on the foggy glass in front of her and the night sky outside.
“I'm a teacher now,” she whispered, thinking of the last time she’d done this at Sonora. Sitting in the dorms her seventh year had felt very different and somehow very much the same.
When she looked down again, her eyes found the candle she’d set up for this moment every year for the past dozen of her mother’s missed birthdays. She thought it was very much like Tabitha in a way, a fierce tongue of flame in Mary’s dark night.
New faces came to mind. A broken hearted boy who had grown so much since he first came to organize her books. A grumpy librarian who offered her help. A woman with questioning eyes and a sharp tongue who offered her a job that changed her life. And Tabitha.
Mary sucked in a breath of air, a reminder that she was alive and the owner of more than just a beating heart but a loving one.
She took a seat at the desk and looked at the faces of her parents and brother more carefully. Then she opened her mouth and spoke quietly.
“It's been a long time,” she said. “Let me tell you about everything that's happened.”