Work Text:
Mummy. Mum. Mother.
She barters for you, lies for you.
Her hand on your shoulder as life falls apart,
as everything gets blown away and smashed against walls,
the storm will not stop,
and you are helping it, and you are one more dark cloud destroying your home, her home, his home.
There are stains on the floor, dark and crimson and molding.
Only there are not,
because they were cleaned and bleached, and the floor glistens and you can see your reflection and you cannot stare too long,
for something horrible, something
you do not want to see might climb out of the cool marble,
it will strangle you,
a python wraps around your neck,
breathe? I cannot.
The stains do not leave.
Run.
“illness-” “genetic-” “so fast-” “Terminal.”
Mother, mother, mum, mummy…
Her own body is killing her, and it isn’t fair and
you want to scream and cry
but the python is still hugging your neck
and you cannot run, will not run.
You were born too soon,
small and weak. She cared for you,
would stay up at night
to watch you breathe,
up and down, a tiny chest, a tiny body, in a fancy antique crib.
You will care for her, frail and thin, sickly as you once were.
Care for her,
as she forgets, as she remembers, as she forgets.
Narcissa Black Malfoy.
“Father is gone” you say, she has asked where he is,
though you think she already knows.
“No…” She whispers, and you can tell
she remembers,
by something in her eyes, or in the corner of her mouth.
You can almost see the memories,
not wispy and liquid,
like the ones held in bottles.
They are solid,
blindingly phosphorescent, like the flash of cameras capturing the worst moments of her life, your life, his life.
Then her eyes are faraway
again, and you cannot reach them even if you run and scream and cry.
And she cannot remember,
and she will not remember.
And you cannot blame her because there are times when you look into those distant eyes, steel blue and so, so far away,
unaware and unburdened,
and you cannot help but wish you too could also let go.
And, Oh Mother!
You scream, you ask.
Did you want something different?
Who were you before my father and who were you before me?
What could you have done? If the world hadn’t gotten to you.
Daughter. Wife. Mother.
They put that on womens’ tombstones, they carve it into the granite and marble.
What else were they? Did anyone ever ask?
If they forgot who they were,
did anyone else still know them?
Rot. Run. Breathe.
She does not remember.
Will not remember.
And there is no one you want to talk to more than her.
And you wonder,
not for the first time,
what you are to do
if there is no more her?