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chapter sixty-one the interlude
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The sun rises again, the moon fading in the light blue sky. It was cold that morning- the cold of solder marching towards battle, marching through farmer's fields, cold in the way ignorance is a lover's murderer, cold like that rosy dawn in which the wounded can't get back up for another fight, bruised, shot, stabbed and hallucinating of a time when they were younger, when the sun was warmer and the grass was greener, and the hand of their mother would lead them to a warrior's heaven. It is cold in a way that death looms. Death surrounds all. Death, whether fast or dreadfully slow, haunts the walls with an aching terror.
Death as well as truth. To know the truth is like meeting death himself.
Nancy Wheeler is the first to sit. It is as if her knees have given up on themselves. At least, she feels that way, like the world has crumbled underneath her feet, and she's falling through the cracks endlessly. But really, it's worse. Nancy takes slow steps towards the line of chairs in the hospital's waiting room, her eyes never leaving the sight of the broken walkman. She picks it up, holds it in her hands, and stares at it.
She's silent. So terrifyingly silent. Not a word. Not a sound.
She can feel it. All of it, daring to escape as she trembles. A gut-deep, wretched shout wants to run out her mouth until her throat fucking bleeds, but she bites it back.
Nancy wants to cry, but she doesn't. She doesn't let herself. She refuses to.
Everything she wants to say, she swallows.
She sits on the same chair, eyes never leaving the broken plastic. Her fingers catch on the tape of the snapped cassette, and that almost makes her break. Almost.
