Hades and Persephone

winter clothes

she knows she's going home when he arrives downstairs with a huge plastic bin full of winter clothes, and her toes curl in anticipation. he wants her to see everything he's purchased though, and she watches him as he lays out each individual item. he describes each one like he's trying to convince her to buy them:

"this coat is really comfortable, i think you'll love it. it's very warm, and soft. the inside is lined with fur, real fur, feel how soft it is! it's amazing, god, i'm almost jealous. and these boots are fantastic -- no, not the ankle boots, these, the ones that lace up to the knee. the leather is supple and worn and comfortable. trust me, you'll thank me later, i promise. trust me. wow, you're lucky, honey. i'm almost jealous. look at this haul!"

the sudden change in attitude is jarring, but she doesn't argue as he tugs the coat over her shoulders and begins to fasten the buttons. it's wonderfully warm, and the promised boots soon follow, along with a hat and a pair of mittens. she looks almost like a real person again.

(she doesn't behave like one though: "aren't you gonna thank me?" he asks, brow furrowing, and she doesn't hesitate before spitting at his feet. he shoves her roughly against the table and paints xs over her eyes with a sharpie from his back pocket. she lies limp until he finishes. it's no use to fight back.)

then he pulls her up by the arm and announces, "i'm taking you home now," and marches her upstairs and right through the front door. the car is parked in the driveway under a thin layer of snow that she brushes away in order to pull the door open. it's green. bright, aching lime green.

he drives his aching car right up to the front door of her house, which is unchanged apart from the dead garden and the HAVE YOU SEEN MY DAUGHTER? signs taped to the light posts.

"well?" he says after a moment. "get out, then. go home."

she doesn't make a move towards the door. instead she turns up the music, fingers the hem of her coat, taps out the beat on her knees, anything to stall time. "i love this song," she tells him, but her voice is all wrong when she says it and he doesn't believe her.

his finger slams the power button on the radio so hard his skin goes red. "lydia, get the fuck out."

she's unfazed by the harsh tone: she exhales deeply onto the window and draws a pomegranate in the steam, juicy and perfectly ripe. "i would, but . . . you'll never let me go," she finally says. it's in a voice so faint it's a wonder he hears her at all, but he does, and his face splits with a smile.

"lydia, you're a smart girl," and then he kisses her, not on the mouth or in the hollow of her throat but on her temple, slow and sweet and terrifying.

she closes her eyes

slowly.

and then with the twist of a door handle she's gone, her footsteps crunching through the snow as she runs to her door, rings the bell. he doesn't wait for her mother to open the door, to see her shocked, happy face. he drives off, back to his silent home in his too-bright car.