{atlantica libertine; district four} FIN!

You said I'm gonna buy this place
And burn it down
I'm gonna put it six feet underground
I'm gonna buy this place and watch it fall
Stand here beside me baby in the crumbling walls

a t l a n t i c a
f e m a l e
f o r t y t w o
d i s t r i c t f o u r

"The town's been whispering again Miss Libertine."

Contrary to popular belief, the rumors of District Four have always made their way back to me. Enthusiastic recollections of the tunes I'd purr on my afternoon stroll through the mild fishing docks, excited tales of how my flirtatious behavior would get young boys into trouble with their pretty young lovers. Beautiful, eccentric, dangerous, they whispered. District Four was my tank ― I was an exotic fish, gliding in graceful arches while my every move was inspected and interpreted.

Eternal, my beauty seemed. Even as I aged into a young woman, the inexplicable glow of youth lingered. As those I grew up with acquired wrinkles – “laugh lines” as my closest friend referred to them as – my skin remained unblemished. Our neighbor would always mutter something about witchcraft and voodoo when she saw me emerge from our single-story house and shake her head. The entirety of District Four was convinced that I was a practitioner of magic – or some unholy form of alchemy.

Only I realized the truth when I met Jagger.

Sturdy. That was the word I would choose to describe him long after we had married, when women asked me why I had chosen him, of all the young boys I had ready at my disposal. I would explain that when I glimpsed into his eyes I could see myself standing next to him for a very long time, loyal and totally in love. I saw a glorious future, full of children and joy and satisfaction. It was that half-truth, the white lie everyone told once in a while to get themselves out of a sticky situation. For, while it wasn’t necessarily a lie, it wasn’t the entire truth either. Jagger was a mysterious creature – while he wasn’t the *best* looking man in District Four, he seemed to have an extraordinary backdrop.

It had been a month after the wedding when I found my first gray hair. I had been brushing the matted mess into a neat bun when it popped between my fingers. I could only stare at it for a while, my eyes not entirely believing what they saw. For years I had managed to overcome the inevitable roadblock of age, and here all of a sudden was the proof I had never wished to encounter. Even I was unable to outrun the dastardly grip of change.

"What's wrong Mama?"

Words hurt worse than fists. When you're hit, a bruise may form. If your opponent is wearing rings, you may even receive a gash. If you're really unlucky, a bone may break. In time, however, physical injuries may fade ― leaving behind only small scars that will go unnoticed for a while. Hateful words delivered by someone you had given nothing but trust and adoration will rip you apart. Because a blow to the heart is something you will never fully recover from.

―――

I've never been a naive woman. I've always noticed wandering eyes, astray affections, clumsy excuses. When IT began, I would like to say I had noticed long before ― but I've never been one to lie. The honest truth is, I was much too far in love to have picked up on anything; least of all extramarital attention.

"Mama, where's Daddy?"
"I don't know, sweetheart."

Many times I've tried to convince myself that my worries were for naught. His late-night rendezvous really were with his fishing pals and not with some girl who had yet fallen to the dreadful fate of transformation. Those feminine curves that I had lost with the passing years; the full lips, the strawberry-blonde hair, the elegant gait. When he looks at her, does he imagine me in my prime? Or has even that been left in the not-so-distant past? The fantasies were endless; waves of nausea hit me as I lay in bed alone well past the sunset ― I'd pad into the bathroom and vomit and vomit and vomit. There I'd rest my head against the cool steel of the bath and wait for the sound of the front door swinging in against his drunken weight.

In the pawn shop, I found solace. Each new trinket brought in held another story ― a story with the ability to capture my attention and hold it until former worries had temporarily washed away, and all that mattered was the intricate setting the item had woven in my mind. A set of wedding rings, a pair of mismatch gloves, a frayed rug, the music box. A tiny square with dainty ballerina designs painted onto the fading wood, when the handle was cranked the lid would open and a three-dimensional dancer would twirl en pointe. Locking myself in the bathroom, I would listen to the hesitant tinkle of the chimes inside and watch the girl as if in a trance. I refused to put the item on the shelves and instead stowed it away in a drawer of my dresser. I couldn't bring myself to sell the music box because on those lonely nights, that dancer would give me the company my husband had refused for years.

"Tell us a story, Mommy!"

"You are going to be beautiful when you grow up. Just like your mother." His shining eyes flicker over to Mom, who is busy over the stove. She glances over her shoulder, a smile playing with the corners of her lips. Playfully rolling her eyes, she crosses the room and grabs my hands. "And one day you'll marry a man that's just as good to you as Daddy is to me." Dad chuckles and tussles my hair. "But only after you've turned thirty, alright?" His mustache twitches as he grins and I giggle, full of adoration for this man who has become something of an idol for me. He picks me up and sets me softly on the ground, joining Mom at the sink. "Go wash up. Dinner'll be ready in a few minutes."

Carefully clicking the door back into place, I stand on my tiptoes and press my eye to the keyhole. Maybe Dad wants to ask Mom if he can take me fishing with him tomorrow! For several seconds they continue this way: she would rinse the soapy dishes off and set them on the counter, he'd be ready to dry them with his grungy dish towel. After several hesitant glances at his wife, he spoke up: "I'm sorry. I really am." My interest piques. I've never heard Dad apologize to Mom for anything; he's always been the stubborn one. Mom doesn't seem to care, eyes never leaving her work.

"I don't want to hear it."
"It was nothing. I promise-"
"I said I don't want to hear it."
"She doesn't mean any-"
"Shut up."

Mom's sudden outburst surprises me; I fall away from the door and hit the wall with a solid-sounding smack. Fear clutches at my heart ― Mom and Dad have never argued like this before. What does Dad mean when he says "she"? Their conversation halts and I realize they've heard me. Panicked, I stumble up the stairs and into my room, where I slam the door shut and throw myself onto bed. I only realize I've been crying when Mom appears, pulling me onto her lap and wiping at my eyes.



"Is Daddy ever coming back, Mama?" Slowly, she looks away from her husband's retreating back. Her eyes are bloodshot and her hair's a mess. "I don't know, sweetie. I just don't know." Reluctantly, she turns away, back into the house. I follow, but pause at the threshold. It feels empty, as if the thing that made my home my home has gone. I stick my head out to call for Dad one more time, but he's already gone.



"Mom, were those your wedding rings?" She nods silently before greeting her next customer. I shake my head in disbelief, glaring at her back. As if she can feel my eyes boring holes into her, she asks the woman to wait and comes over to my stool. "What is your problem, Atlantice?" Seeing her up close locks my throat up. Wrinkles have had their way with her; signs of stress, worry, and depression have made themselves known all over her face. "Nothing. I guess you selling the rings just proves that he's never coming back." Her eyes tear and she cups my cheek in her hand. "Oh, honey."

Taking a deep breath, she gestures at the shelves behind her. "Love is like a pawn shop, Atlantica. You see the knick knacks people bring in every day. The old toys, the worn out picture frames, the tarnished jewelry. Some of the items just sit there, collecting dust. No one wants them, no one cares about them; they aren't appealing to anyone but they deserve the attention they were made for. However, if you give that item some time, someone is going to want it eventually. We're like those items, dear. We can sell fast and be forgotten in the basement of some stranger's house the next day, or we can sit and ripen, waiting for that perfect match to come and sweep us off of our feet." She cups my cheek in her hand and smiles. "You'll see, eventually. This shop will be yours some day. Hopefully you'll have better luck than me, yeah?"

I always knew she wasn't just talking about old toys and forgotten treasures.

37344B ― Speaking
303A47 ― Text
65758A ―Other Speech
2D4640 ― Thoughts
6c5e46 ― Other

A Rush of Blood to the Head ― Coldplay
Charlize Theron
Several aspects of this template are credit to the wonderful Lalia. <3