white_oleander | Into the Woods - Saturday Afternoon [08/11].

When Astrid slowly opened her eyes...no. No, her eyes hadn't been closed, they were just adjusting to the strange and sparse light that seemed to break through the trees as best they could, a feeble effort, a weak illumination. She felt lost, but not in the usual way, where she'd wander just to see where she wound up in the end. This was different, unsettling; it made the loneliness at her core thrum, reverberating through her skin, her bones, her teeth, making her feel like it would consume her from the inside out.

But the trees broke away after a moment...was it a moment, or had it been hours of aimless drifting? She couldn't tell, but the trees opened up to a small clearing where the light seemed brighter, at least enough to illuminate a small book sitting on the forest floor, waiting for her. She knew that book, even from here. A book of her mother's poetry, the one with that poem about her that she hated.

Astrid picked up the book, feeling numb as she flipped through the pages until she found it and, despite knowing it by heart, murmured the word out loud as she read:

Shhh
Astrid’s sleeping
Pink well of her wordless mouth
One long leg trails off the bed

Like an unfinished sentence

Fine freckles hold a constellation of second chances
Her cowrie shell
Where the unopened woman whisp--

Before she could finish, though, a wind seemed to stir in the small clearing, pushing the pages, making them flutter madly, fluttering endlessly, far more pages than the book could possibly contain, and out of the blur of pages, a face slowly began to emerge. Astrid knew that face. She knew that nose, those high cheekbones, she knew those eyes well before they opened and stared at her, making her gasp and drop the book as it shouted her name.

"Astrid!"

She stepped back, eyes wide, stomach practically in her feet, as the book lifted from the ground, pages fluttering still to maintain the cold anger of her mother's unmistakable face. "How could you do this to me, Astrid? After everything I've done for you? You. You could have stopped this, you could have said something. You could have defended me. How could you? You did this to me. This is your fault, Astrid! You're the reason any and all of this is happening!"

But that wasn't true! Not...really. If Ingrid hadn't...if she hadn't killed Barry in the first place...it was true that she could have said something, she could have lied, but, again, just like back then, during the trial, she opened her mouth to say as much, but nothing came out, the words didn't seem to exist, and she struggled and fought with them, and in the end, all she could come out with as she clutched the side of her head to get rid of that voice, that voice she hated, that voice she longed for, was a staggering, "I'm...I'm sorry!"

"Don't apologize! Never apologize! Only the weak apologize, but that's just like you, isn't it? You're weak, Astrid, you always have been. So pathetic. Weak. Disloyal...I can't believe you're even my daughter. I can't believe I ever wanted you. I can't believe I came back for you. I should have left you. In Mexico. In Amsterdam. In Paris. I should have just left you there, but I came back for you, Astrid, I always came back. Don't ever forget that. Don't forget that I came back, and this is the thanks I get!"

Just left you there. Astrid's spinning head and aching heart couldn't take it any more. "Stop it!" she shouted, lunging forward to grab the book. "It's not my fault!"

She started tearing out the pages, one after another, rip rip rip, torn paper surrounding her like butterflies, butterflies with her mother's face on them, until it felt like she'd torn out every one. With a sob, she threw the book as hard as she could into the shadowy forest, turning so fast her hair blinded her, and started to run away in the opposite direction.

Astrid didn't make it very far. In front of her now, floating in the air like a ghost, was a large piece of silken cloth. Stunned into stopping, Astrid blinked at it, thinking I know this; I know what this is. Large white flowers decorated it, yes, there were the sleeves, the long sashes...the kimono robes worn by her mother and...

The moment she realized it, one of the large white chrysanthemums morphed into another face. Not a beautiful, haunting face like the one in the book, but an ugly one, troll-like, a goblin face. The face of Barry Kolker, as if risen from the grave.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head, tears clinging to her eyes. She could already guess where this was going to go. "No, no, no..."

"Oh, Astrid," he sighed. "How could you?"

"I didn't--"

"We were going to be a family, Astrid," Barry moaned, and, God, what an awful sound, Astrid had to cover her ears but it resonated, it vibrated through her brain. "You and your mother and me. We could have been happy."

"But you left her!" Astrid said. "That was why she--"

"--and you--"

"No!" Astrid tightened her fists, shaking her head vehemently now. "No. That's not true. I didn't do anything!"

"Exactly, Astrid," never before had that voice that used to be so warm and joyful sounded so mean, so angry, so full of spite; it made her feel sick to her stomach. "You. Didn't. Do. Anything. You knew what she was planning, you knew what she was going to do, you could have told me, warned me, stopped it, but you didn't. You let me die. You're just as guilty as your mother!"

"You don't understand!" Astrid argued. "I couldn't! Don't you understand? If I have told you, if I'd have told anyone, she...she..."

"You let me die, Astrid. You knew. Did you even care? You could have said something."

And while this was happening, the book, it seemed, had pieced itself back together, and her mother's voice emerged from behind her shoulder, a whisper in her ear, a brush against her hair. "You're letting me rot in here, Astrid. You could have said somethi--"

Unbidden, Astrid screamed, loud as she could, and it turned into a sob, anything to make them stop and she turned again and ran, not knowing what else to do, running through the shadows to get away from the seemingly innocent book, the unsuspecting bolt of cloth, hounding her down, chanting, murmuring, pointing their nonexistent fingers in persistent blame.

All. Her. Fault.

[[Cut and posted here for, you know, length, the mental trauma of a fourteen year old girl, Astrid's lovely abusive mother, gaslighting, murder stuff, awkward poetry, and for being suuuuper dramatic. NFI (here, anyway; I'll be linking it eventually into the main thread once work isn't being so crazy, good god), NFB, OOC welcome,all that good stuff]]