Katherine "Kissin' Kate" Barlow (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ikissdhimbck) wrote2012-12-25 12:26 am
ikissdhimbck) wrote2012-12-25 12:26 am
Entry tags:
OOM: Have yourself a merry little Christmas...
It's the day before Christmas Eve. December.
Even looking at a calendar it's hard to believe she was gone the whole month of November. That's not what she had planned. She was only meant to be gone until All Hallow's passed, given a little time to ease herself into a month that makes her bones freeze whether she's in faux-Scotland or Texas, not dumped straight into the middle of it without any warning.
December.
How many years will it make it now since the Crockers put a bullet in her daddy's heart, just a few days shy of the holidays? About as many years since she last celebrated Christmas, she reckons. Is there really any point when the one you want to celebrate with ain't there? All her memories, all her traditions, tied so inexorably to her father that the thought of trying by herself made her cold.
Until last year.
It's been a topsy-turvy December, with money in her pocket and Tommy around. For the first time in a while, she hasn't been alone. But trying to explain why she sometimes goes quiet, staring off into space, arms hugged around herself and eyes so, so sad, isn't as easy as she thought it would be. They've talked, sure. He brought her to New York. But she hasn't told him everything; about the nightmares, or the conversation she had with her 'father' over All Hallow's Eve, or how it's creeping up on the anniversary of Sam's death, or the cold winter she spent trapped in a cabin in Colorado after putting Doc's body in the ground. The wind howls through the trees here, and it sounds like voices moaning, wailing, fingers scrabbling up out of the earth. The snow puts a chill in her skin that's only mirrored by the one in her heart.
She smiles, and tells him to spend the night with her. She flirts, and teases. Anything so long as she doesn't have to be alone; so long as he doesn't leave. And he makes her laugh. He makes her feel good. Some days, everything's all right. And she thinks about the promise she made to herself, alone in the desert; she thinks about trying to live again, and dares to feel hope.
Tommy's been gone for a few days now, and she can tell by the mood of the bar and the steadily growing pile of presents under the massive festive tree that Christmas Eve is growing near. She takes several deep breaths while she's settling affairs in the stables, letting the ice in the air burn her lungs. She hums under her breath, songs her daddy used to sing. And when she goes inside, she heads to Miss Bar to ask for holiday sweets and candles for her windows. She'll find a reason to celebrate this year.
She ends up with a note instead.
The words blur, along with the rest of the room. She doesn't know if she's more angry or hurt, shocked or ashamed. It's a tangled knot inside her that makes her feel sick, and through the thousands of thoughts screaming through her head she's able to discern one. Just one.
You were s'posed to be ... better.
Calmly, she conscientiously folds the note up into a perfect square, tucking it inside her vest pocket. And then she turns on her heel, abandoning everything else, and heads for the stairs. She doesn't hear anything. She doesn't see anything. She doesn't feel anything. With any luck, her door will be locked behind her before the first tears fall.
Even looking at a calendar it's hard to believe she was gone the whole month of November. That's not what she had planned. She was only meant to be gone until All Hallow's passed, given a little time to ease herself into a month that makes her bones freeze whether she's in faux-Scotland or Texas, not dumped straight into the middle of it without any warning.
December.
How many years will it make it now since the Crockers put a bullet in her daddy's heart, just a few days shy of the holidays? About as many years since she last celebrated Christmas, she reckons. Is there really any point when the one you want to celebrate with ain't there? All her memories, all her traditions, tied so inexorably to her father that the thought of trying by herself made her cold.
Until last year.
It's been a topsy-turvy December, with money in her pocket and Tommy around. For the first time in a while, she hasn't been alone. But trying to explain why she sometimes goes quiet, staring off into space, arms hugged around herself and eyes so, so sad, isn't as easy as she thought it would be. They've talked, sure. He brought her to New York. But she hasn't told him everything; about the nightmares, or the conversation she had with her 'father' over All Hallow's Eve, or how it's creeping up on the anniversary of Sam's death, or the cold winter she spent trapped in a cabin in Colorado after putting Doc's body in the ground. The wind howls through the trees here, and it sounds like voices moaning, wailing, fingers scrabbling up out of the earth. The snow puts a chill in her skin that's only mirrored by the one in her heart.
She smiles, and tells him to spend the night with her. She flirts, and teases. Anything so long as she doesn't have to be alone; so long as he doesn't leave. And he makes her laugh. He makes her feel good. Some days, everything's all right. And she thinks about the promise she made to herself, alone in the desert; she thinks about trying to live again, and dares to feel hope.
Tommy's been gone for a few days now, and she can tell by the mood of the bar and the steadily growing pile of presents under the massive festive tree that Christmas Eve is growing near. She takes several deep breaths while she's settling affairs in the stables, letting the ice in the air burn her lungs. She hums under her breath, songs her daddy used to sing. And when she goes inside, she heads to Miss Bar to ask for holiday sweets and candles for her windows. She'll find a reason to celebrate this year.
She ends up with a note instead.
The words blur, along with the rest of the room. She doesn't know if she's more angry or hurt, shocked or ashamed. It's a tangled knot inside her that makes her feel sick, and through the thousands of thoughts screaming through her head she's able to discern one. Just one.
You were s'posed to be ... better.
Calmly, she conscientiously folds the note up into a perfect square, tucking it inside her vest pocket. And then she turns on her heel, abandoning everything else, and heads for the stairs. She doesn't hear anything. She doesn't see anything. She doesn't feel anything. With any luck, her door will be locked behind her before the first tears fall.
no subject
"I'm not going to walk away, Kate."
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She refuses to fall apart.
"It's jus' been — a lot."
This whole month. The last several months. So much has happened, good and bad, and she hasn't really stopped to think or rest or breathe. And it's December. December. And she hasn't had any time —
It takes a couple of minutes, but eventually she gets control of herself.
"I hate this time'a year. An' I'm so mad at Voodooo — so mad I can't hardly see straight. I jus' need t'be by myself."
no subject
"Alright," she murmurs, pressing a fond kiss to her hair. "Okay, but I'll still be coming to check on you, okay?"
no subject
So she nods.
Helpless.
no subject
"Go on and do what you need to do to feel better, I'll come see you later."
no subject
"Thank you."
She means it. For the support; for letting her go.
Rallying what's left of her pride, she slowly makes her way up the rest of the stairs, gripping the banister a little harder this time.
no subject