Chapter Text
Walton Way was wonderful. Gorgeous. The front door was a bright red, matching the plant pots in front of it. Around the grass filled garden was a lovely white picket fence. When Dan and Diana, six months pregnant at the time, had bought it, they knew it would be the perfect place for their future children to grow up in.
Only one of them never did.
For nearly two years, the nursery stayed the same. The crib never changed. A bigger bed was never needed. The baby blue stained the walls like always, without a child asking for whatever other colour he wanted. Only when a little girl came along, things started to change.
Natalie’s first living night was spent in the same crib her brother had once laid in. Somewhere in the middle of that sleep, however, she was gently picked up by strong, warm hands, and laid on the living room couch. She slept peacefully on her father’s chest, the desperate sobs of her mother barely audible.
In the years after that, when a new nursery was built for Natalie, both of the rooms underwent changes. Dan was forced to paint the baby blue walls green, as “he really wants green walls. He won’t stop crying, come on. Don’t ignore him.” Because of this, there was no time to paint Natalie’s walls the yellow she wanted. So she accepted the fact that, only when Diana decided the furniture in the other room needed to be replaced, she would get a - never used, at least that’s something - three year old, dinosaur-filled nighttable. Luckily, she was fascinated by dinosaurs.
This is how it was for years: three bedrooms, two slept in. The house on Walton Way still shone in the sun, the walls unaware of the darkness inside of them. The perfect, loving family. That’s how Diana saw them.
Diana had only been going to Dr. Fine for two weeks when he prescribed Clozaril. The medication was supposed to get rid of Diana’s delusions. She was hesitant to take them at first, but Dan managed to convince her. So the pills went in her body and with her wherever she went.
The first week could only be described as peaceful.
Diana felt more sane than ever. A bit dizzy, maybe, but the dizziness came from her mind and not her soul. She did small chores around the house, listened to Natalie’s “piano recital” (the six year old girl slamming a few keys and bowing extravagantly) and cooked with Dan. Her son was nowhere to be seen, a faint memory. Diana knew about him - her version of him, that was - but couldn’t exactly place how it all had happened. She knew where she was now, and more importantly, who she was with. She smiled more, her eye bags began to fade. She was alive again.
The grief was still there. The ghost of it was gone. Only when the Clozaril caused bowel issues, Diana cried. Not just because of the pain, but also because in these moments, she felt closest to her eight month old baby. Realised what pain his small body must have been in.
Even though the Clozaril helped against the delusions, it didn’t stop Diana’s swinging moods. After a week of peace, the mania came back. She felt the extreme urge to clean, to exercise, to paint, to dance. And she did. Excessively.
Diana heard them. She did, and she truly tried to listen.
“She’s just happy, Nat. This- this is good. Trust me. She’s getting better. Happiness is good, right? Go back to bed. Everything is fine.”
“The last time she was like this, she saw him all the time. What if it happens again, daddy?”
And hearing it like that- in such a young voice, a voice far too youthful to be worrying about these things, Diana felt a sorrow so deep she couldn’t describe it. She had failed as a mother. Choosing her dead son over her beautiful, talented daughter. It filled her with anguish.
But more importantly, it filled her with rage.
Pure, burning rage.
How could her brain have betrayed her like this? Why? She had all she could wish for in the world and still her mind turned on her, wishing for more. More and more.
Her footsteps were loud on the wooden stairs. It didn’t matter, though. Nobody was home. Just Diana and the ghost of her actions. She roughly opened the door of the nursery. The green walls. The unused bed. The toys, the football collecting dust in the corner. Diana took a slow step inside and immediately fell to the ground. Pulling up her knees to her head, she silently cried. Not for what she had lost. For the not-quite-lost-yet people she loved, who were slowly slipping away from her only because of her own actions.
In a way, because of this very room.
In a flash she was on her feet again, kicking the bed and slamming the toys against the wall. It had to go, it had to disappear. It had to…
It had to burn.
Burn the memories. Burn the ghosts. Burn.
Burn the bed, the closet, the clothes, those dammed toys.
She didn’t know how she did it, only that she did. The carpet was the first to set fire. Then came one of the car toys, then the corner of the bed. Soon the curtains were flaming, a bright white, yellow, red, blue, pain and destruction and all that could not be named.
The crackling of the flames sung a melody to Diana. Silently, she stood in the doorframe, smiling at the fire.
It felt good.
Diana would then feel a wave of nausea coming on. Whether it was the guilt, the Clozaril or the smoke entering her lungs, nobody knew. It’s result was simple: a quick trip to the downstairs bathroom, the fire feasting on everything it possibly could. Through the hallway, eating at the staircase, making it’s way into Natalie’s bedroom. Not the dying flame anymore. Something far bigger, something destructive. Something Diana had set forth.
When Dan finally came home, it was already too late. The fire was put out, a ringing of sirens far too loud for Natalie’s sensitive ears, but all necessary destruction had happened.
The fire was gone. The damage, however, was done and could never be repaired.
Walton Way was left behind, the beautiful red door kicked down by the firemen. Only whispers where there used to be life.
The Clozaril treatment was stopped and Dan was forced to build another two children’s rooms in the new house.
As always, Natalie didn’t get first pick.