Her name in type beside Connecticut's. Her place in the audience. She'll be playing her mother; no surprise there. She's been playing Allison her entire life, tasked with keeping the wife, mother and soldier's memory alive. How fitting that even in death she cannot evade the role, the faults and actions of others delegated onto her for all eternity—
Excuses.
You could have gotten to her quicker.
You could have ducked. Could have kicked. Could have blockaded this way, drove Texas that way, stopped the tomahawk before—
Could, could, could. Excuses.
This is your fault.
Her body vehemently objects her role on bone-white paper. She rubs clammy hands on pants, against seat arms, collecting again in thin, wet sheens. Her heart races a dumb, monotonous and unnatural beat. Her stomach turns. She cannot move upon her own volition, succumbed to inertia.
How is it she got here again? Does it matter? No. What matters is the performance. A scene riveting enough to draw pairs of eyes everywhere. Is the audience even watching? No. They're staring at their own names. Belting notes from larynxs' they'd never thought capable.
In the green room, Carolina takes the shape of counterfeit mother. Number one on the leaderboard. Unkillable, unbeatable, untamable Agent Texas. Red hair and tan skin are cloaked in black. She stares through her visor, a cheap and flimsy thing, at Agent Connecticut. Her breath collects on glass, plastic, whatever it is, obscuring her sight. Anticipating. Dreading.
This is your fault.
Never has Agent Carolina balked at a challenge.
Now, she wants to cry out like a child.
The music flourishes. Stage right. Connecticut at her left. The spotlight assaults her vision. Let the show begin.
no subject
Her name in type beside Connecticut's. Her place in the audience. She'll be playing her mother; no surprise there. She's been playing Allison her entire life, tasked with keeping the wife, mother and soldier's memory alive. How fitting that even in death she cannot evade the role, the faults and actions of others delegated onto her for all eternity—
Excuses.
You could have gotten to her quicker.
You could have ducked. Could have kicked. Could have blockaded this way, drove Texas that way, stopped the tomahawk before—
Could, could, could. Excuses.
This is your fault.
Her body vehemently objects her role on bone-white paper. She rubs clammy hands on pants, against seat arms, collecting again in thin, wet sheens. Her heart races a dumb, monotonous and unnatural beat. Her stomach turns. She cannot move upon her own volition, succumbed to inertia.
How is it she got here again? Does it matter? No. What matters is the performance. A scene riveting enough to draw pairs of eyes everywhere. Is the audience even watching? No. They're staring at their own names. Belting notes from larynxs' they'd never thought capable.
In the green room, Carolina takes the shape of counterfeit mother. Number one on the leaderboard. Unkillable, unbeatable, untamable Agent Texas. Red hair and tan skin are cloaked in black. She stares through her visor, a cheap and flimsy thing, at Agent Connecticut. Her breath collects on glass, plastic, whatever it is, obscuring her sight. Anticipating. Dreading.
This is your fault.
Never has Agent Carolina balked at a challenge.
Now, she wants to cry out like a child.
The music flourishes. Stage right. Connecticut at her left. The spotlight assaults her vision. Let the show begin.