Work Text:
4:02 am. She is staring at the ceiling with the portable fan on the side table blasting cold air into her face. Her eyes are dry, her lips cracked. It is only twelve degrees outside yet she feels like she is on fire. Is this menopause finally hitting? No. She reaches over for the umpteenth time to check her phone.
Tick. 4:03 am. She opens her email app, scrolls quickly, closes the app. She opens another few apps before quickly closes them again. She could be finishing reports. Could be writing an action plan for the new staff. She should be finishing those other overdue reports. Why was she spending another night staring at the ceiling, wishing she was anywhere but lying on a sofa bed in a musty apartment in eastern Europe?
She wants to run. Run far away and even further than that. But her bones ache. She is exhausted. She wants to sleep. She wants to be still. But Bernie knows that she isn’t good at being still. With stillness comes room for error. Room for thought, for doubt, for rejection. And she knows that she can’t take responsibility for ruining someone else’s life. Too many lives destroyed because of her. Her ex husband, her children, Alex, S-
She refuses to let her mind wander to that. When she is still she will let herself think again. When she wants to be still. But she doesn’t deserve it. No. Never again. Berenice Griselda Wolfe must never be still. With stillness comes room for error. Room for thought. Room for dangerous thoughts of what-ifs and reminders of every single mistake she has made (and there have been so many) and why the definition of happiness should never be the name of someone.
Tuck your thoughts away, Ms Wolfe. Pull your hair back, shine your shoes. Don’t dare to let your eyes wander. Keep your heart in the designated locker back home.
Where is home now? It certainly wasn’t in Kiev. It certainly wasn’t back in Afghanistan anymore. Where did she last feel a sigh of relief as she closed the door behind her, locking out the rest of the world? Her heart lurches.
Those damn reports are sitting on the floor by a half empty bottle of Obolon and a very empty packet of cigarettes. Perhaps she should learn to roll her own? She should finish them. But her carefully trained thoughts lead slightly off track as she wonders whether she ever switched off her computer before she left and all of a sudden she’s thinking of a late evening of staring over the top of that monitor listening to She Who Must Not Be Named explaining to Jason on the phone that she won’t be home in time for shepphard’s pie but she can send Fletch round to help and all Bernie could think of was what Eleanor must have been like as a child growing up listening to such a soothing and warm voice and her heart lurches again and she is smiling and then the tears prick her dry eyes again for the second time that night and she wishes she was drunk or dead or asleep or anywhere but this planet and
Bernie reaches for her phone again. The screen blinds her. She flicks through some emails. Opens some. Doesn’t read. Her neck aches. She is too exhausted to move to get panadol. She is too exhausted. She just wants to forget but she can’t forget. Any mistake can be undone in time. So she will leave forever, so nothing like this ever happens again. She is incapable of loving. Why do all those blasted hallmark films make it look so easy? Step one, find someone you like. Step two, they like you back. Step three, happily ever after?
Step four, the other person wishes they were dead. She does not want to be another nail in the coffin. She refuses to be another burden, another difficulty. She has already done too much irreversible damage, regardless of what she had been told. Anyone can love. Not everyone can be loved back.
Tick. 4:04 am.
She doesn’t realise that her phone is still in her hand, some memory game app she downloaded open, the screen blocked partially by a grey notification banner. Inbox update. 13 new emails.
She scrolls until she reaches the second last newcomer, and almost throws her phone against the far wall.
Tick. 4:05 am.