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❛ our backs tell stories no books have have the spine to carry. ❜ - Milk & Honey, rupi kaur
Forced to take time off, rid of her sense of purpose, Vera seems incapable of learning the implications of proper rest. In the shower, she claws off dead skin. Scrapes and scrapes until she’s as pink as a newborn baby. She cannot scrub enough. Fine, hairline scratches adorn her skin. Her fingers trace those ragged welts. Let them hurt, she decides. Somehow, she convinces herself that she deserves it. In the aftermath, she envelopes herself in a warm, soft, grey towel. The sweet angel of mercy never felt so far away.
Cast as another forgotten martyr despite catching Conway in her futile attempt at a prison break, the back of her hand swipes under her red, raw nose. Ruin is a song to be sung, even wailed. How weak and powerless she feels. She swallows her fears and anxieties, still wracked by disappointment worming its way into her head. How many times does she give up the best parts of herself?
From the pressure, her spine curves while her shoulders sag. A horrible tension embeds itself deep within her muscles, her back aching. It’s the pain often accompanying the stress of working a double. The twinge in her wrist, freshly wrapped, only makes matters worst.
During after hours, Joan visits her, just as she did when Mum was at her most terrible, most tyrannical. Reassured in the moment, Vera neglects their positions - their precarious predicament. Yet, as if in disbelief and weary resignation, Vera shakes her head. She no longer reeks of vinegar, but feels soiled by marginal failure, small and insignificant in her empty home. It’s impossible to sort out the complexities in a single night.
Torn between wanting to be alone and yearning for the company, this is the feeling of never being enough. Vera steps aside and lets her in. She always lets Joan inside.
Orders are easy to follow, obey, adhere to. Quick to throw away the old parts of herself, Vera quits her sniveling at last. She’ll learn from this. She’ll grow. She swears upon it with a rattling fist banging against her chest.
Yes, Vera gives away the last parts of herself. Thrown away the old mouse alongside Mum’s belongings. Life continues its cycle, history a shadow’s constant threat. It’s a journey to heal, to learn from old behavior.
Joan pours her a glass of Pinot that’s a glistening ruby shade. Vera clutches the crystal stem like a lifeline.
A guiding, messianic palm settles on the curve of her neck. Beneath that steady hand, Joan feels the fragile knob of bone. She forces Vera to look at her. Experiences the rivulets of water trickle down Vera’s dewy skin. Drowning in an over-sized navy house robe - ratty, old thing, clearly cherished, but Joan makes note to replace it.
And Vera drinks in the attention. Dies a little. Leans into the killing blow.
That glimmer of pain Joan finds more riveting than a Botticelli piece. She wets her lips, savoring that glimpse of weakness.
“It’s just pain,” Vera dismisses the years of abuse, the era of neglect, with a deep gulp of wine and a flippant toss of her hand. Though it stirs a fire from within, Joan Ferguson has always been responsible for kindling that fatal spark. “My story isn’t that interesting.”
For years (to endure all her tears and fears), Vera has learned to swallow her pain. A strained, wavering smile sits in perfect place. Caught in implicit duality, she wants a better life, a better story, for herself. Although hesitant, Vera searches Joan’s face for some sort of sign, some expression to set her on the right path.