Work Text:
Proof
Some nights, as she lies in bed, Mary wants to scream bloody murder. To cry against the night. To contend with the wind and rain to rattle the panes of her windows.
But.
To scream a maddening murder would mean she'd need to find the body.
She would need to find the proof of her own fear. Her own pain. Her own trauma.
She would need to find the body of her own loss.
She used to believe that 'the past passes on candles to the future if you put out your hands to take the light.'
She holds out her hands.
Waits.
And is greeted by darkness.
And more and more.
Until it envelopes her still form in her bed.
There are no candles to draw her forward. There are no burnt wicks to lead her back.
She has no way to find the body of proof.
She has no idea that it is her own.