Forbidden Afflictions // Alfie Solomons Peaky Blinders

(1) Ghosts

She had left it all behind. Everything she knew, everything she was raised on, everything she loved: gone.

Everything; all of it: gone.

Freya Shelby had packed away her belongings and fortified herself somewhere she would never have to leave. She took her books, silks, clothes, jewelry, and everything she could fit inside a car and was gone.

It was all gone. She had lost everything she once knew: her home, her family, her job, her baby...

She lost her voice, her security, her strength, her will, her fight...

It had been weeks, months even, since she was released from Holloway Prison, since she was put in the noose, since she died. It had been months but days were unending and weeks were smeared into one. She had no concept of time, no measure or notice for anything other than that hollowness of losing what was once a part of her body. Physically and emotionally, she could still feel that pain of being gutted and scraped of what was once hers.

They had dismembered what was left inside her and scooped out what tissue was still infected. She was under anesthesia but she could feel how empty their unloving tools left her when she awoke.

After that, she didn't want anything to do with the world anymore. She took what she could and didn't bother unpacking when she reached Camden Town.

The first few days were run ragged. She wasn't entirely coherent or lucid, not with all the medication they had her addicted to, but she could still remember it. She could still remember that pain that followed her like her own shadow, always connected but too far to grasp.

Freya took to laying in bed. She was always in bed. Every day, it was all the same. No matter how many times she tried counting how often the sun rose, she couldn't keep track of how long she had stayed there. Sleep wouldn't comfort her without tranquilizers and no matter how large the fire or how thick the blanket, she could never get warm.

She wouldn't even let the housekeeper change the sheets unless she sat outside her bed chambers and secretly took care of the linens when Freya was using the lavatory.

She wouldn't leave Alfie's bed chambers except to use the toilets. No matter how much coaxing, she would spend all her hours lying there, buried beneath the sheets and festering in penitence.

Alfie always spoke to her and offered to bathe her and brush her hair—to take care of her. He always offered but she would only mutter under her breath and begin to cry if he lifted her from her pillow.

"I don't wanna stay here," she would croak. Or sometimes she would say, "I don't wanna be here."

It didn't matter what Alfie was saying, it was always the same response. She would always speak in that detached, lifeless tone, always saying the same thing over and over.

"I don't want to stay here."

"I can't keep doing this."

"I don't want to be here."

Alfie didn't know what to do or what was wrong with her. She wouldn't talk to him. She went silent after her release.

She told him about her miscarriage but she had gone numb after that. On the drive to her home in Birmingham, she said nothing. Alfie asked questions but the tears kept rolling down her cheeks and all he could do was hold her hand until they arrived.

She made comments about the state of the house, about the cleanliness, but after that, it was as if she had gone mute.

In Camden, she just laid in bed all day, every day, and she wouldn't tell him what she was thinking. She wouldn't tell him what was wrong and he had this horrible feeling in his gut that there was something more going on beneath her skull. He understood that she would need more time to grieve, to come to terms with their loss, but this was different.