the trial ; d.m

18

30th January 2003

The lamplights within the drawing room are still blearing their warmth despite the awakening of morning. And the light is slicing, spearing its way through Geneva's retinas as she becomes conscious with the sun.

Complete disorientation reigns upon her through her splitting headache as she forces herself to take a quick glance around the room. A bottle of mead, three quarters empty, resides on the table beside her and several bottles of wine. She can still taste the alcohol on her stained tongue.

In an overwhelming crash, her memories catch up with her and at first she's unsure of whether or not she's dreamt it. Though her surroundings confirm that it indeed was not a figment of her imagination.

She kissed him. Kissed, snogged, consumed.

And worse, she liked it.

Even now, recalling the event, she doesn't feel repulsed or even disgusted with herself, nor does she feel any form of regret. Because it was good. So good. She's transported back as her teenage self. Her mind's in complete unrest remembering, reliving the feeling, craving it. What the fuck?

Then remorse floods in. Theodore.

For a moment, she's completely forgotten about her distaste towards him and feels nothing but sorrow. She wants to be able to blame her actions on something, she wants to hold Theodore accountable for leading her to this spontaneous burst of desperation for comfort and affection. But truthfully she was the maker of her own destruction.

Yes, she was emotional, and drunk— she still is, and realistically there is absolutely no excuse she can find that can condone her actions. It happened and she had wanted it to happen.

But now she doesn't know what to do. Much less knows what this means for her marriage and despite her pre-existing reckonings for the state that it's in currently, she decides to put the night behind her. No need to make matters worse.

It was nothing but a relapse of adolescent craving for desire and thrill. Nothing.

Picking up her wand, she casts a spell to burn out every lamp in the room for the daylight and through distorted, blurry vision, takes herself back to her bedroom where Theo resides.

He's still asleep when she unlocks and creaks open the door. And he's just lying their, peacefully, beautifully, it makes her want to weep.

Geneva gently collapses onto the bed beside him and sits idly for a while, staring into space, not even thinking. Pushing away the thoughts altogether. There's too much thinking to be done. It will have to wait.

Out of instinct, she falls onto her side and folds an arm around him, holding him closely to her body—feeling nothing.

He flinches subtly and turns his head to find her. He seems almost relieved, but so, so guilty.

"I'm sorry," his voice whispers in a sleepy rasp. "I'm sorry, we can wait. I'm sorry."

She makes no reply. Just shuts her eyes and lets him kiss her head, her nose, her lips. Feels nothing. No difference.

When his arms cascade around her, she just begins to cry. Body shaking against his, and she's sobbing. Through her cries, she hears his pleas of apology, and he believes it's he who has done all wrong, who has thrown her into this pool of empty despair. Perhaps it is. She doesn't know anymore.

Not before long, she's asleep again. And in sleep it's not Theo's breath she can feel, nor is it his heartbeat she can hear.

No, it's those silver eyes she can see. Those grave, cold as stone silver eyes.