ᴅᴏʀᴄᴀs ɪs ᴀ ʜᴀᴛᴇ ᴍᴀᴄʜɪɴᴇ (nanger) wrote in flippedrpg, @ 2012-04-25 13:10:00 |
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“Guilty.” Dorcas had known the verdict was coming, but it certainly didn’t make it any easier to swallow when it finally did. She had been, until that point, sitting in her little cell-box to the left, wrists shackled and her fingers clasped together, her head bowed in what she hoped looked like prayer. She knew nothing about God; she had never cared to. She worshipped her own idols. David Bowie, Billie Holiday, John Lennon. Sure, she’d taken a Sunday school class or two as a kid, but that had been free babysitting rather than anything truly productive. She hadn’t even been baptised. And, after this, she never really would. Nobody cared that she was a mother of three, that she was still in grieving over the ‘death’ of her son. Nobody cared that she was someone’s wife, or someone’s daughter, or someone’s sister. Once they had declared her a whore, once they had ripped her from Sirius Black’s bed, that was it. She ceased being human. She was just something else entirely – a wanton harlot, a harpy. Three men had testified to having been bewitched into her services. Dorcas had never laid eyes on them before, nor would she have ever – they were missing teeth, and hair, and one had an eyepatch. Please. Whore or not, she still did have taste. There had been booing, too, and sneers when the verdict was called. Dorcas felt numb. Why would she want to know a God who let people die for stupid reasons? David Bowie never killed a man, and even if he had, it would’ve been fabulous and glittery and super camp. This was just sad. The night in her cell passed quietly enough. Marlene, on her other side, had been sobbing quietly for most of it. They held hands, and sung songs, and talked about times at Hogwarts before the war. Reminiscence. “Do you remember…”, “Hey, what about that time…”. Until their voices were raw. Until it actually hurt to speak, and she had to pull her dingy little sheet tighter around her nude body just to stave off the frost. A man, some sort of priest, had come to give them what she assumed were their last rites. Dorcas had spit on his shoes, and told him to shove it up his arse. He’d been appropriately scandalised, and called her ‘child’ so sorrowfully it had made her feel sick. She already had parents. She didn’t need his pity. Or anyone’s. Dorcas knew she was going to die, and knowing this she wanted to go her own way. Stupid little prayers would hardly be of little use when she was food for the worms. The thought made her stomach lurched, and she threw up in the corner of her cell for the third time. When they came for her in the afternoon, when Dorcas had heard several others come and none return, she had known. She had begun, or at least trying to, accept her fate. Imagine all the people, living life in peace, oooh. John Lennon, the only God she’d ever known. The only one she’d ever needed. She wondered if he’d be the Gatekeeper. Her own personal St. Peter. That might be nice. They could jam, and maybe Mama Cass and Janis would join in, too. No kum-ba-yah circles for her, no sir. Dorcas threw up again. Dorcas had decided, the night she was arrested, to go to her grave with dignity and grace. She wanted to hold her head high, snottily, to prove to these Puritan fucks that she was better than them. Dorcas had never accounted on being terrified out of her wits. And Marlene’s body, being cut down as she approached with a farmer’s sickle, sent shivers of sickly panic running through her veins. She was too scared to even cry. Her best friend was dead, and so was Sirius, and anyone else she had ever loved. This was it. She was going to die. Dorcas’ mouth opened with a shrill, ear-piercing shriek. The words weren’t important, but she knew most of them were curses, a chorus of fucks and cunts and the occasional shit-bastard-fuck. She struggled. It didn’t matter that her hands were bound behind her back. It didn’t matter, either, that her struggling seemed only to incite the crowd. She was scared. She was going to die, and it wasn’t going to be dignified at all. It was going to be messy, and it was going to hurt, and she was going to Hell. ‘It isn’t too late to repent, child.’ A voice stage left. Dorcas didn’t even dignify it with a glance. Tears were running down her face freely, now, as much as she tried to bite her lips to keep the sobs from escaping. People were shouting. Calling her names. Anticipating the moment her neck would snap. She had never felt so much hatred in her entire life, and she’d duelled half a dozen Death Eaters whose soul intention was to shuffle her lose the mortal coil. At least they had a purpose. This, this, was just pure madness. Something hit her side, and she looked down, blankly. A red patch bloomed on the white puritan garb provided with her. To the grave with modesty, they’d said. It was a fruit. Tomato, or something. Another thing hit her ankle. An apple. Any other time, Dorcas might’ve laughed. They were throwing food at her. Who did that? But she didn’t laugh. She cried, her sorrowful yelps dying into hiccoughs now, as she was drawn to the gallows. Her feet felt clumsy on the stares. She stumbled three times before she found the top, and then there it was. The rope. Right there, with her name on it. She was going to die. Dorcas was a survivor of war, a victor, and now she’d be nothing but a casket-filler. Oh, wait – she was probably going to just wind up like Marlene. Swinging free. Nobody would collect her body. Who would want it? Her poor kids. She couldn’t think of them for long. If she did, Dorcas knew, her composure was evaporate completely. The rope was fastened about her neck, and the executioner’s hands were far more gentle than he anticipated. He leaned down, his mouth close to her ear, and he asked her, “Have you any last words?” Dorcas sobbed. There was not a kind face in this mob that she felt a need to address. Not a single person that – hold on, was that – surely not, she had asked specifically that he stay away. But Sirius was there, the eldest one, and their eyes locked. His hands gestured upwards, to his face, and somehow Dorcas understood what he meant. Look at me. And so she did. Dorcas’ small chest heaved with tears, but she kept her gaze on him. When the executioner prompted her, again, she only said, “Thank you”. Before he could kick the stall, before he could take from Dorcas what she had spent a lifetime cultivating, Dorcas knew that if she were going to go, it would be her own way. The moment the words left her lips, she hurled herself forward off the stage, the crowd recoiling with a gasp. She sent herself to her own death. It took longer than she expected, and with her hands behind her it was an impossible task. Fight or flight kicked in, and her legs kicked out. Spittle left her lips and she gasped, uselessly. It hurt. Oh, Merlin, it hurt so much, it hurt so much. Her lungs burned and her vision blurred. She felt her face go numb, and with it her lips, but the entire time her eyes remained open. Locked on Sirius, locked on the past, locked on anywhere but here. Dorcas wasn’t sure what people meant when they said life flashed before your eyes, for her only memories were that of the Compound. Of meeting her children. Of lying with Sirilla, a beauty with charcoal hair and sweet lips, of Benjy and his disappearance, and finally Sirius (And, of course, James), who she knew would fix things. They would take care of her kids. They wouldn’t be without a mother long. It took three minutes for Dorcas Meadowes to die, and when she finally did, it was with a gentle kick before she fell still. The light disappeared from her eyes, and they slid shut, leaving her swaying gently in the afternoon air. |