RP: Empty
When: December 29, 2003 Who: Jemma Dorny, Caleb Warrington, anyone else who would feel the need to bother her today? Where: Jemma's flat Private/Public: private Warning: Angst, mentions of death, swearing Summary: Jemma acknowledges the anniversary of her brother's murder.
The wind was whipping around her, blowing her hair in her face and cutting through her robes. She should have worn a cloak, she knew, but in her own little way she felt she deserved this- to be cold. Her brother had been cold for a decade because of her. What was a bit of winter wind in the face of that?
Mondays, as it turned out, weren't very busy days at the church. It was the only day of the year that she attended church any longer. She went and lit a candle for him, every year, and she tried to pray- ever year. It seemed like the least she could do for him after he'd given his life for hers and yet she had not succeeded in her prayers since her last mass seventh year. Instead she knelt in the vestibule and shed silent tears, her head bowed in what appear as humble worship.
Once her knees had long past hurt and her back was sore, her silent tears dried on her face, she allowed herself to leave.
This had become her ritual each year since she'd left her father's home. She no longer had access to Alexander's grave itself and so she'd had to find her own ways of remembrance. So every year on December 29th she closed The Alexander, she took herself to church, and then she went back home.
The afternoon was filled with silence, even Walter seemed to know not to bother her. He merely laid at her feet as she refilled the glass of whiskey. After the church she didn't cry- not on her own. She sat on the sofa or laid in her bed, letting the whiskey burn away her ability to feel as she replayed the images of that fight- of Alexander's body glowing in the sickly green color of the curse. She tried to make sense of it- over and over again- because a new purse was never important enough to trade for her brother's life. And yet- if she hadn't asked, he'd still be there. Everything would be different...
It usually took hours but inevitably Jemma would work herself up enough (or perhaps it was the sheer volume of alcohol she consumed on the 29th) that she would find herself retching in the loo. It felt natural. Disgusting, uncomfortable, and horrible- but natural. She would be empty then- it suited her.