@etiolee [x]
Worst words could not have been spoken at such a time, a build up of gushing paranoia and fatigue sludging from within and weighing down what was once a light demeanor. What could she say? ‘Obviously’? ‘Not likely’? She could lie. She could deny concerned sentiments and reassure both of them. Her mind was fine. It was safe. Untainted. Uncracked and formidable. But lying was too much of an exercise; to think she’d had to do it to more than just herself. Of course it is, she dared to utter, hand stressing into a fist. Too much. It was too much. “…ta gueule,” came a mumble, head slowly finding diluted sanctuary onto a pillow. It was too much. Too much.
He’d said the wrong thing. God, he didn’t know what to do. How to help. He wanted her to have the comforts of home, but part of him terrified him to think she wasn’t ready to be here. He didn’t know what they did to her. He didn’t think anyone knew. He wasn’t nearly qualified for this, and it was his fault.
A nightmare. A complete nightmare.
Laying next to her, he said nothing as he was told, he did not touch her. But he was there, and he wasn’t going anywhere. It tore him up, the helplessness of the situation. The fear that it wasn’t going to get better.
The mental fatigue made it harder for him to conceal his worry. While he managed to not sob in front of Amélie, gravity pulled the tears from his eyes, and he sighed.
Whatever Gérard did at this point felt too little too late. This should have never happened. No apologies could have undone whatever they did to her. Anger was too exhausting for him at this point. There would be time for anger.
Tears subsiding, he looked over his wife, wanting only to comfort her, not having the tools how.
