anyway, here it is. don't read it if you haven't seen the movie because a) it won't make sense and b) it'll probably spoil the ending. and if it doesn't, you'll just be confused... but if anyone's seen it, or doesn't mind being spoiled/doesn't intend to ever watch it but it just interested, feel free to read on. i warn, you it's not good, and it's probably out of character, and it has no plot whatsoever. i don't even know if it fits into any category. but anyway. here we go...
This house has always been so quiet. Even now, with the six of us - three servants, two children, their mother - it's silent, like the proverbial tomb. But I suppose that's rather apt. We've no call for noise, and the children have never been raucous by nature. Besides, it was the Others who disturbed the peace.
Footsteps echo when you walk, and yet you don't hear another approach until you're on top of each other. It can be somewhat annoying. We live - or rather, we do not, to be strictly accurate, but it's all a technicality - and wander in this house with no discernible purpose; the deliveries do not get made, but the cupboards remain fully stocked; the fog refuses to lift, and yet the house is always bright.
I watch my children play in the light. They run in the garden, or dance in patches of sunlight; they laugh and explore the grounds, no longer afraid. Anne torments her brother, the same as always. They run circles around Lydia, who smiles, but still refuses to speak.
One would expect it to be difficult to adjust, but it's easy enough, really, to accept it. The body has ceased to exist; this corporeal form, although fake, feels as real as it should, as real as it ever has. The children were afraid at first - of themselves, of each other, of me - until they felt the warmth of the sun for the first time. They never grow any less pale, and I must accept that I'll never see them grow up, just as none of us will ever grow older. It's so much like eternal life that it's ironic.
It's easy to forget; this morning as the children came running down the stairs, I closed the nearby curtains in a panic and shrouded the hallway in darkness. I saw Anne's brow crumple accusingly; I opened them again, and in the stream of fog-filtered light, she changed instantly, grinning at me.
"Mummy, don't be so silly," she said, with the air of one older than her years, humouring a small child. "You know we can't be hurt any more."
Nicholas' expression was fearful; I doubt he'll ever lose it. "I know, my darlings," I told them, "but sometimes, Mummy forgets..."
Yes. Sometimes, Mummy does forget. Often, she does not forget enough.
It blurs, and yet a memory does poke at my mind, of when the old situation became the new. Nobody remembers specifically; the sound of a distant gunshot, the children's muffled cries, a sense of clouding sanity... but nothing more clear.
If only I could forget what I did to Charles.
Of course, it's clear now, why he left, what was wrong with him. While it's true the war can do strange things to people, I would have thought that seeing his family again might bring him slowly back to us. Did he realise, in the woods, exactly what he'd run into? And did he know, at the time, that he was making love to a shadow; was his own denial as strong as ours? He left to save his sanity, I think, as I should have done long ago. Oh, poor Charles...
Well. He's gone, now. I think the children are starting to forget, it's been so long. Charles was never a part of this; he'll blame himself, but how was he to predict what happened? There have been no Others since he left, since we drove out the last lot. This house is ours...
as i said, it's... bizarre. but anyway. i managed to find out the boy's name from various online reviews, but there's no script for it yet, annoyingly. never mind.
hurrah for random fic!