"𝐈 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔
𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐌𝐘 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓." ────
in which tommy shelby is haunted by
nightmares from france and the
whisper of the woman who saved him.
𝒕𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒚 𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒃𝒚 x �...
⠀⠀⠀─── 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐘 𝐏𝐄𝐋𝐓 of rain against the windows of the cottage would have made Marlene Sinclair lose her mind if it weren't for the roughly folded piece of paper her fingers kept fiddling with. Indeed, her mind could not focus on pestering about the rain when she had been reading and reading the same handful of words all over again for the past two weeks, ever since she had received the damned telegram. Now, what had once been a clean printed card, just about the size of her palm, was but a crumpled thing with its corners torn by the woman's fidgety fingers. She could not care less, however; she had long since memorized every word. And each of them haunted her.
⠀⠀⠀Despair? Sadness? Guilt? Or perhaps the shame of a certain relief? It had been weeks now, but Marlene had yet to discern how exactly she felt about the long dreaded news : her husband, Laurie, was dead. The more she thought of it, whispering and stressing every single word of the telegram in her hands, the more she realized that it indeed could be shame that she felt. Or rather, Marlene was mortified by the falseness of her grieving.
⠀⠀⠀She missed him dearly, yes, but like one would miss a brief encounter, something both bitter and sweet. She did not mourn him as one would a lover. Marlene simply couldn't, although she ignored why.
⠀⠀⠀"Marlène," chirped the voice of her friend, Annette, as she walked in the room with light steps and a thick French accent she never could get rid of. Although the rain pitter-pattered against the windows still, it felt as if a bright ray of sunshine had broken through the clouds with her entrance. The young woman, with soft blonde hair neatly kept in a braided bun and delightful blue eyes, was simply radiant. She always was, Marlene recalled with a contained smile. Yet her face remained stern and as soon as her friend's hues encountered her silhouette draped in black lace, her songbird voice adopted a disapproving, though not surprised, tone. "Je t'en supplie*, stop torturing yourself! You look like one of those old Sicilian veuves*. Only wearing mourning clothes and never leaving the room."
