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11.15

The last time she'd held a bottle of pills like this, it had no label and contained only three, all blue and marked with a crown. Caroline remembered holding them up to her and shaking the bottle, and the way the rattling got lost in her laughter, and the way her laughter got lost in kissing her. But that was thirty years ago, when little pills were synonymous with fun, and there had not yet been any 'never see her again'.

She rolled the bottle between two fingers and there wasn't any laughing to cover up the rattling. Now little pills just meant accepting he'd broken her and it was up to her to fix it. That was her responsibility, and she liked the sort of pattern it made, liked getting a little lost in counting them all out every day. It didn't feel anything like fun, but it didn't feel like crazy either, so she didn't try to make it.

2.16

Coming around to the idea that she’s ******** up this badly goes slowly. For a while, it’s still too hard to reconcile reality with what she’s thought--seen--for so long, but it catches something tangible eventually. One stitch manages to hold it in place, and then it’s almost too sudden when she finds it normal to care about the woman with her daughter’s name like she’s the daughter she lost - because she is after all.

It’s around that time that looking back at her starts to make her sick, so violently sometimes that she can barely stand it. Her stomach churns when she sees her say something she knows he taught her, sees her say things that look too close to his words.

That’s when she knows she ******** up the most. Maybe it’s his fault he did this, but it’s hers for never taking her out of it. It’s hers for bringing her into a game that a child should never have been a part of, with a man she’d known would do that if they never left.

It’s her fault that they never left.

4.16

The weapon thing (they call it a totem, she thinks), fits right on her finger and comes to a point, like it’s taken her human shape over to give her claws. Or a claw. She doesn’t wear it. Sometimes she puts it on and tests if it’s sharp (it is) and puts it right back in her pocket. It always smiles that goddamn smile in her head when she does that, and she hates letting it feel like it's besting her.

The more she feels that point pressing into her thumb, the more she thinks about how it might be to kill someone herself instead of having it one step removed. She starts to think of it in more detail each time, piece by piece, tiny indulgences in inhumanity that don’t count. She doesn’t notice when it begins to become more of a fantasy, when the someone takes the shape she always meant for it. By the time the day comes that she knows she would do it, she doesn’t think to worry about the fact that she would. But only if they deserve it.

(She knows he deserves it.)

4.16

An outstandingly shitty alarm clock, made with one little battery and some otherwise useless pieces she’d scrounged up, was ultimately the unfortunate victim sent crashing into the basement wall. It probably hadn’t been very safe to keep around anyway - paperclips weren’t really acceptable substitutes for wires - but it wasn’t her phone, and that was the important part.

The sound of the pieces falling and settling on the floor brought the satisfaction she’d been looking for. A half-second of near euphoria was awarded when she crunched the only unbroken part beneath her shoe.

Then a deep breath, and a smile, and it was all gone again, replaced with the disgust and hatred she had hoped this would get rid of. Somehow, even with the context of that moment, she still managed to miss the reality that the relief she felt in destroying something would never be more than temporary.

4.16

'I know'. It's always been an 'I know' when she told her that he lied, or hurt them, or celebrated that they died. She can barely ever grasp her tone, which hurt enough anyway, but the 'I know' was one of the hardest to understand the meaning of. She could never tell if she should apologize for bringing it up or offer a gesture of solidarity and proof that they both made it.

If she got an 'I know' this time, considering...no, she stopped herself, it would be worse if she didn't. She would have no trouble getting through this in spite of everything, even in the event that she had been the only one who didn't know about it, but she had never looked at him the way her daughter had.

Not even close.

She laughed again, small and nervous. Talking to the other 'kids' was infinitely easier. She'd spent half of the last week wallowing in how terrible she felt about that, until a lightbulb flipped on that was still not especially comforting: they allowed the room and forgiveness to allow for an honest mistake or two, but if she ******** up again with Mimsy in even the slightest of ways, she would never have another chance at knowing her. She still wasn't sure she had one now.

The backlight dimmed and brightened, repetitive, cyclical, as she tapped to open then tapped to close a message to her. The sight of the screen blurred when she did it enough times to idly notice that the light was strongest when she touched her; she set the phone down and left it that way.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow she'd risk breaking her daughter's heart with the truth. Or the next day. The next might be better. If she was already waiting two days, though, why not three or four or five...