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Tu étais formidable, j'étais fort minable. // You were terrific, I was terrible.
Dressed all in black, Governor Vera Bennett mourns the loss of something once so profound. Scratch that, with her governorship revoked, she has nothing. She is nothing. Alone, Vera embarks on her march through the cemetery. An eerie, albeit reverent silence befalls this place. Her calves ache, her arms feel like lead. With relative ease, she navigates the land of the dead.
With the loss of her governorship, Vera finds herself at a dead end, but some things are worth fighting for. She'll stay at Wentworth and rise above the occasion. Channing represents all that she hates. The path ahead twists. She follows the curved, dirt road.
Unlike Bea Smith's funeral, Vera is the only soul present.
Fallen leaves crunch beneath her heels. Sucking in the fresh air, she stands over Joan Ferguson's grave. Her name reads proudly, along with her title, and a simple quote: Всё хорошо в меру.
Everything in reason.
It's a grave that she personally invested in. With her own savings, Vera has purchased a plot more beautiful than the cheap piece of land for her mother. The granite tombstone sparkles, catching the last hint of sunlight; here, the monument rests beside a smaller limestone dedicated to Jianna Riley.
“This wasn't fair to you.”
Her throat tightens.
You found your way inside of me.
She adjusts the scarf that hides her neck and conceals the tiny scar that remains from the riot.
You ruined me.
Her hand balls into a fist that loosely beats against her chest. Thump, thump. Thump, thump. It's a dull, dead sound.
So this is what it means to feel hollow.
The sky turns from blue to ashen grey.
She's the only one there. She's the only one who cared.
“After everything, I still came back to you. I could never stay away. No one deserves this. Not even you.”
Her humanity gets the best of her.
The tears come quietly. Then, loudly.
It's the type of anguish that makes for a melancholy symphony.
When she kneels, she makes for the perfect portrait of reverence. Much too loud, her blood rushes in her ears. She cleans the top off the tombstone, frees it of grime and decay. Her fingers graze the top of the tombstone, her tears hit the fresh patch of dirt. She sniffles. Wipes away the snot and ugliness with the back of her hand. There's been enough collateral damage.
“I'm sorry, Joan.”
A broken mantra calls itself an apology.
The queen's been knocked off the bloody chess board with her eyes are as blue as a gunshot wound. She pinches the bridge of her pert, little nose. She shouldn't feel this way; she should despise the woman who dismantled her so effectively.
When a heaving sigh consumes her, Vera struggles to stand. She clears her throat, but cannot clear away the things that have been said and done. Her mind flashes back to the kangaroo court – to the noose that sailed over the chainlink fence, to a pariah hanging by a loose thread, to Joan laying on the concrete.
And now she lays six feet under.
Vera's stomach churns. She feels light-headed. Anger is the last emotion to course through her veins. Her knuckles scrape the underside of her chin. Her willowy limbs begin to shake. Despite the odds, she stands tall – stands tall and mourns.
It's a raw type of mourning that she never experienced with Rita.
Back then, she'd been numb.
Her mouth runs dry, as though she's ingested several shots of vodka – bullets right into her bloodstream. Her hand masks her face that turns red. She tastes the salt of her tears and her own unraveling.
By the lonesome Judas tree, there stands a figure from afar. Gnarled branches make for the perfect coverage. The shadow stretches across the field, dragging over the row of tombstones, synonymous of the way an insidious darkness molded Vera into the person she is today.
But she has a heart.
A heart that loves too much – that bleeds too much – and it's made her a better person all the same.
“Vera-”
The smokey timber has gained a newly found hoarseness. Death grants perspective and suffocation damages the vocal chords. A red ring dances around her neck; call it her sinister halo.
Alarmed, Vera whips around.
She looks as though she's seen a ghost.
And the figure, a woman clad in black, also mourns a profound loss.
After several moments of silence, Vera finds her voice. Reminiscent of the mouse she used to be, her soft tone shakes.
“Joan?”