antebellum [t. riddle]

lxiv

march 1945
graphic discussion of substance abuse

sicaria had been waiting for this to happen.

it was like a tidal wave of dread washing over her, then slowly receding so far back that it almost seemed hopeful for a moment. sprinkled in moments of peace and contentment allowed her to relax for brief periods of time.

and then—

the hurricane hit, bringing chaos to everything its outermost winds touched.

some part of her, deep, buried, and naïve, had hoped that nothing like this would occur, because if it did, it would mark the definitive beginning of the end of her life. she prayed to gods she didn't believe in and an oracle that she doubted existed. events like this were one of the few groundbreaking moments in the lives of all those affected, but sicaria knew what this was.

her curtain call. the credits were beginning to roll. the finale had begun.

that is why after the initial shock wore off, she could feel no sadder than she was before. no more apathetic.

but more miserable, and misery and sadness were two distinctly different emotions.

everyone around her, even those she would not normally perceive as optimistic, had a certain air about them that shouted out promises of lives after. every now and then, dumbledore dropped little questions about her life after, as if he thought she was lying about being murdered. when the dust settled, her body would be among the ashes, and she just wished someone would stop lying to her.

she had imagined death many times. drinking a poison and taking her own life. being crucio'd to insanity until her heart finally gave out. murdered in a battle by her own side. being murdered in a battle by the opposite side.

she had hoped for very long that she'd not be killed by grindelwald himself, because that would mean that her cover as a spy had been compromised. she wanted to die as unknown and nameless as possible, so that she could affect no one at all. the less consequential, the better, as if she had never even lived.

she did not want to be a martyr, nor did she want to be an example.

dreams brought these underlying fears as close to reality as her mind could create. even in rest, there was no escape.

in the still-dark early morning hours of that day, she awoke in tom's bed as she often did, but this time from a nightmare so horrifying that she felt her stomach roll.

it wasn't that she didn't have nightmares when she slept next to tom, but it seemed like some subconscious part of her brain registered him being nearby. it was like a sedative almost, in that her dreams no longer felt so vivid and realistic.

except this one. most nights she alternated between intoxicating herself and sleeping with tom, but it seemed that her 'double life' was catching up to her.

the silken sheets on his bed now felt claustrophobic and suffocating, and the warmth that radiated from him was now sweltering and delirium-inducing. her head was dizzy and her stomach churned painfully as she tried to suppress the feeling. she glanced to her left to see that he was still sleeping, or at least faking it convincingly. sicaria sat herself up off of his arm and slipped out of the bed as quickly and quietly as she possibly could have.

the moment she reached his bathroom, she threw a silencing charm over the door, and heaved into his toilet, unable to control her volume even slightly. the dream still lingered in her mind, and though it wasn't real, she could feel the blood between her fingers.

tears sprang to her eyes with the violence of the contraction of her esophagus. her entire throat felt like it was on fire, and she was too unfocused to scramble for her wand to cast an analgesic.