♕ susan peverell - d12 ♕

The bottle of liquor chinks against the glass. I pour with shaking hands and a scowl, my boots resting on my father's desk. There are footsteps behind me, but I do not turn. (Whoever it is, they can wait.) In my hand, a cigar smokes, leaving a grey trail of sickening smog hanging in the air. The study is cold - bitterly so, held entirely within the clutches of winter. In response, I wrap my fur coat more tightly around my shoulders and lean forward, pressing the nib of my quill into the parchment.

("Susan, I'm hungry.")

"We're all hungry, Edmund."

("I'm cold.")

"Father's old coats are in the wardrobe."

("But they're his.")

"He's dead, he doesn't need them."

("There's got to be another way to fix it, Susan.")

"I'm sick of fixing things for you. It's all I ever do."

I sigh. My breath billows, visible in the velvet darkness. Night fell long ago, but in the days since my sister left I have given up bedtime stories and early nights for alcohol and long, angry letters to my father that he will never read. I grew up when I was young, for our parents were absent and I was wise. Peter and I learned quickly how to mend wounds and remedy tears. Soft and sweet and gentle, I fell easily into the role of the martyr. Now, past midnight, I am far too alone to be content with the role fate dealt me. (Peter tells me I ought not be bitter, but years of suffering have hardened me and I have found that a quick tongue and a shot of whisky are a better shield than housework and love ever were.)

The fire has ceased to burn, and so I drag myself from my chair, not caring to tiptoe along the floorboards. I keep myself occupied, calloused hands ensuring everything in our house runs smoothly. (It just hurts too much to crawl beneath the frozen sheets of my bed each night without my baby sister there. She always used to believe that I fought away her nightmares and whispered in her dreams, but she was wrong. All those years, it was Lucy who kept me strong.) My hair is tangled and unkempt - as I step out into the street, the wind attempts to snatch it away. Stiff fingers curl around the rough wood and splinters dig into my skin. I am not afraid of pain.

. . .

It is morning, and I dutifully serve helpings of porridge to my brothers. My life is held tightly by routine and things I do not owe but provide anyway. Peter asks what the bruises on my arms are from and I snap at him. Moments later, I apologise. It is too late. (Father paid the price for speaking too openly of his secrets, and I do not intend to follow him on his path to the Capitol.) Edmund leaves, and we speak in hushed voices, trying to remain his stability. Me and Peter, we are fighters, twisting lies into believable stories for the big bad world. Our most common mistruth: it's going to be okay. I press my cheek against the cold glass of the windowpane and watch the people passing. When they smile, I envy them, for it seems to me that they are living. Us Peverells, we simply survive.

. . .

"Susan, I'm not lying!"

I awaken suddenly, sweating, mouth dry. Fear drums against my ribcage, and it takes a long moment for me to understand where I am. My parent's old bedroom surrounds me, dusty and vacant. The wardrobe is ajar, and I realise that until last night, when I wandered in to search for something my father might have left, was the first time anyone has been here since Lucy. The room is hollow. My nightmare plays an encore in my mind. Please, Susan, believe me!

I take a step toward the wardrobe. I am more than a little afraid.