This is the new opening for A Sour Ground (don't roll your eyes, yes I know it's been 11 years...)
One of the POVs' (Redd Sommer) arc is dealing with the loss of her twins (around 7-10 years old -- not important), and Redd and her husband moving house from the New Forest (a place analogous to Bransgore to those who know Dorset) to Kyngesmouth (Bournemouth).
Not so much a crit as a sort of straw poll. If it's too bleak I'll change back to the other POV's' (Willie) opening which atm happens after this, in London.
nb: Line breaks added for ease of reading.
Redd Sommer waited for the two detectives to walk down the short, red-bricked pathway leading to the front gate of the cottage before she closed the front door. Despite everything, she felt stupidly compelled to display decent etiquette as they left. No tears — she couldn’t even if she wanted to — and no weakness. It was a ridiculous act, and one she couldn’t explain. Grief made fools of the bereaved. And the optimist.
Grief.
The word itself was insufficient. Too small, too contained and precise. It didn’t come close to describing the roiling sea inside that was, at the same time, a stagnant, flat, unplumbable lake. Losing the twins — not even knowing where they were — was more than a stupid ****ing word.
Grief.
Such a trite way of defining loss; grief was what you had when Grandpa died at ninety-one, or when the old duchess who sat everyday at the Wilts & Dorset bus stop for the X1 to Loewe, stopped showing up. It was the loss of the family golden retriever after eighteen years.
This wasn’t grief.
It was violation. It was hate — for her and Bo, not from them. It was the gears of reality meshing so the cogs ground each other down and placed good people in the unimaginable. It was proof that life was made up of equations and numbers, and nothing else. No God, just eternal entropy.
‘Baby,’ Bo said, appearing from behind and curling a thickly haired forearm around her belly. She leant back into him, staring through the warped bulls-eyed glass of the front door, and breathed in the stench of weed as he exhaled.
‘They’ve gone,’ she said, needlessly, nodding to the amorphous blue smudges retreating through the glass. She didn’t trust herself to say anything else. At least he wasn’t trying to reassure her that after four days, James and Jillian would show up at the front door.
Tricked you, mummy!
Nausea had become an emotion; she turned in to Bo, buried her head in the nook between his jaw and shoulder, her eyes as dry as his were wet. If only she could cry. Even squeezing out one teardrop was impossible.
She hid in Bo’s darkness. Outside, the sounds of the odd car trundled past, down Gorse Lane on its way to Christchurch or Kyngesmouth, probably after a day out in the New Forest with the kids; the crunch of tyres on gravel as they pulled into Gallowsgrene Inn that sat opposite the cottage at the crossroads that was Gorse village. She hated those families for having one.
Bo said nothing. It reassured her in a small way that she still felt something. Her love for him. He knew her so well, knew that there was no point in doing anything other than being together, silent. The pair of them observing each other and just being.
Is that what grief was? Being?
Without words they both turned and made their way up the crooked, precipitous staircase to their bedroom and fell on the bed together, a pair of still bodies in foetal contraction, and she waited for the being to finish.
One of the POVs' (Redd Sommer) arc is dealing with the loss of her twins (around 7-10 years old -- not important), and Redd and her husband moving house from the New Forest (a place analogous to Bransgore to those who know Dorset) to Kyngesmouth (Bournemouth).
Not so much a crit as a sort of straw poll. If it's too bleak I'll change back to the other POV's' (Willie) opening which atm happens after this, in London.
nb: Line breaks added for ease of reading.
Redd Sommer waited for the two detectives to walk down the short, red-bricked pathway leading to the front gate of the cottage before she closed the front door. Despite everything, she felt stupidly compelled to display decent etiquette as they left. No tears — she couldn’t even if she wanted to — and no weakness. It was a ridiculous act, and one she couldn’t explain. Grief made fools of the bereaved. And the optimist.
Grief.
The word itself was insufficient. Too small, too contained and precise. It didn’t come close to describing the roiling sea inside that was, at the same time, a stagnant, flat, unplumbable lake. Losing the twins — not even knowing where they were — was more than a stupid ****ing word.
Grief.
Such a trite way of defining loss; grief was what you had when Grandpa died at ninety-one, or when the old duchess who sat everyday at the Wilts & Dorset bus stop for the X1 to Loewe, stopped showing up. It was the loss of the family golden retriever after eighteen years.
This wasn’t grief.
It was violation. It was hate — for her and Bo, not from them. It was the gears of reality meshing so the cogs ground each other down and placed good people in the unimaginable. It was proof that life was made up of equations and numbers, and nothing else. No God, just eternal entropy.
‘Baby,’ Bo said, appearing from behind and curling a thickly haired forearm around her belly. She leant back into him, staring through the warped bulls-eyed glass of the front door, and breathed in the stench of weed as he exhaled.
‘They’ve gone,’ she said, needlessly, nodding to the amorphous blue smudges retreating through the glass. She didn’t trust herself to say anything else. At least he wasn’t trying to reassure her that after four days, James and Jillian would show up at the front door.
Tricked you, mummy!
Nausea had become an emotion; she turned in to Bo, buried her head in the nook between his jaw and shoulder, her eyes as dry as his were wet. If only she could cry. Even squeezing out one teardrop was impossible.
She hid in Bo’s darkness. Outside, the sounds of the odd car trundled past, down Gorse Lane on its way to Christchurch or Kyngesmouth, probably after a day out in the New Forest with the kids; the crunch of tyres on gravel as they pulled into Gallowsgrene Inn that sat opposite the cottage at the crossroads that was Gorse village. She hated those families for having one.
Bo said nothing. It reassured her in a small way that she still felt something. Her love for him. He knew her so well, knew that there was no point in doing anything other than being together, silent. The pair of them observing each other and just being.
Is that what grief was? Being?
Without words they both turned and made their way up the crooked, precipitous staircase to their bedroom and fell on the bed together, a pair of still bodies in foetal contraction, and she waited for the being to finish.