Multiple bouts with fever have left Ellen drained, weak enough that lifting a spoon is an effort, barely worthwhile for the thin gruel -- though the heat from the soup does fight off the intense chills that often shake though her as if she were a sheet on a clothsline, battered by the wind.
She knows where she is, and wishes she didn't.
She's heard enough -- remembered enough of what she's overheard -- to know that the gruel isn't just because she's been sick. It's all there is.
"That it should come to this," she mutters into her bowl of soup.
It seems as fantastical as any Shakespearean fantasy, as tragic as any working of fate, that she is here. She, Ellen Fanshaw, actress. And at the same time, it seems impossible that she ever had any other other life than this, a prisoner of winter, waiting.
"For its bounty, there was no winter in't; an autumn 'twas that grew the more by reaping," she says, flatly, trying to remember what that was like.
Could there really be a world where she sometimes worried about money but never about food on the table? Where she stood on a stage and played tragedy, secure in the knowledge that the deaths were simply staged?
"Think you that there was or might be such a world as this I dreamed of?" she says to herself. A tear -- a flood -- runs down her cheek; she can feel it against her skin, down to her jawline, to her chin, dripping into her soup bowl.
The woman she once was, the woman who knew how to be a Cleopatra, a Titania, a Lady Macbeth -- the confidence, the poise, the presence -- and now the shaking of her hand as she raises a flimsy spoon to her mouth, lets the last of the gruel trickle into her mouth...
It reminds her of one of the songs Cyril used to sing in the pub. How long ago that was! How did it go? She remembers the first line and sings it to herself under her breath, a thin thread of melody, then a few lines until she runs up against a gap in her memory.
She shoves her bowl abruptly onto the bedside table and collapses onto her pillow, pulling the bedclothes up to her chin, but the melody won't let her go.
She fills in, repeating the song softly, over and over and over again until she's worn off the rough edges and has something that sounds right to her, even if it isn't the original:
When life takes its toll, and fate treats you bad You used to be queen, and now you've been had A river of tears is the new kind of fad It's nice to take a walk in the snow.
A stomp through a storm is what I'd advise When winter and ice have cut you to size The future is clear and everyone dies It's nice to take a walk in the snow.
You say you're born for a death less mournful A scream to the wind will voice your woe. All arguments tried, and nothing to show, It's nice to take a walk in the snow (for several months now) Helps to have a howl in the snow (beneath the bedclothes) Nice to take a walk in the snow!
Turning her head to the side, she sees that she's being watched. Listened to? She remembers that she'd overheard someone talking about entertainment, but only cheerful entertainment allowed.
She hadn't meant to entertain, but her performing instincts kick in. She gives the watcher a tight smile, and racks her brain until another of Cyril's songs leaps into her head. Yes, that's cheerful. As cheerful as anyone here has a right to be expected to be, considering.
She begins to sing, a little louder. ("Cheer up Hamlet, chin up Hamlet!") As long as you don't listen to the words too closely ("Your uncle is a cad who murdered dad and married mum") it sounds cheerful enough ("Perk up and sing the new refrain!")
Her grin might be a bit manic as she reaches the end: "Cheer up, you melancholy Dane!"
Somewhere in there, she'd raised herself on her elbows; with a convulsive shiver she collapses.
She needs a softer pillow.
"Cheer up, o melancholy Dane," she sings sadly, and closes her eyes.
Ellen's not looking for a wider audience (not really up for it), but this seemed to fit here otherwise, so hopefully it's okay.
Please keep this subthread linear by replying to the last comment in the subthread. Time will advance within this subthread; it is not a single scene unified in time and place. Direct replies are unlikely, and indirect replies are not guaranteed.))
no subject
She knows where she is, and wishes she didn't.
She's heard enough -- remembered enough of what she's overheard -- to know that the gruel isn't just because she's been sick. It's all there is.
"That it should come to this," she mutters into her bowl of soup.
It seems as fantastical as any Shakespearean fantasy, as tragic as any working of fate, that she is here. She, Ellen Fanshaw, actress. And at the same time, it seems impossible that she ever had any other other life than this, a prisoner of winter, waiting.
"For its bounty, there was no winter in't; an autumn 'twas that grew the more by reaping," she says, flatly, trying to remember what that was like.
Could there really be a world where she sometimes worried about money but never about food on the table? Where she stood on a stage and played tragedy, secure in the knowledge that the deaths were simply staged?
"Think you that there was or might be such a world as this I dreamed of?" she says to herself. A tear -- a flood -- runs down her cheek; she can feel it against her skin, down to her jawline, to her chin, dripping into her soup bowl.
The woman she once was, the woman who knew how to be a Cleopatra, a Titania, a Lady Macbeth -- the confidence, the poise, the presence -- and now the shaking of her hand as she raises a flimsy spoon to her mouth, lets the last of the gruel trickle into her mouth...
It reminds her of one of the songs Cyril used to sing in the pub. How long ago that was! How did it go? She remembers the first line and sings it to herself under her breath, a thin thread of melody, then a few lines until she runs up against a gap in her memory.
She shoves her bowl abruptly onto the bedside table and collapses onto her pillow, pulling the bedclothes up to her chin, but the melody won't let her go.
She fills in, repeating the song softly, over and over and over again until she's worn off the rough edges and has something that sounds right to her, even if it isn't the original:
When life takes its toll, and fate treats you bad
You used to be queen, and now you've been had
A river of tears is the new kind of fad
It's nice to take a walk in the snow.
A stomp through a storm is what I'd advise
When winter and ice have cut you to size
The future is clear and everyone dies
It's nice to take a walk in the snow.
You say you're born for a death less mournful
A scream to the wind will voice your woe.
All arguments tried, and nothing to show,
It's nice to take a walk in the snow (for several months now)
Helps to have a howl in the snow (beneath the bedclothes)
Nice to take a walk in the snow!
Turning her head to the side, she sees that she's being watched. Listened to? She remembers that she'd overheard someone talking about entertainment, but only cheerful entertainment allowed.
She hadn't meant to entertain, but her performing instincts kick in. She gives the watcher a tight smile, and racks her brain until another of Cyril's songs leaps into her head. Yes, that's cheerful. As cheerful as anyone here has a right to be expected to be, considering.
She begins to sing, a little louder. ("Cheer up Hamlet, chin up Hamlet!") As long as you don't listen to the words too closely ("Your uncle is a cad who murdered dad and married mum") it sounds cheerful enough ("Perk up and sing the new refrain!")
Her grin might be a bit manic as she reaches the end: "Cheer up, you melancholy Dane!"
Somewhere in there, she'd raised herself on her elbows; with a convulsive shiver she collapses.
She needs a softer pillow.
"Cheer up, o melancholy Dane," she sings sadly, and closes her eyes.
((A Walk in the Rain (King Lear): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bwWDNFG7eQU
Cheer up Hamlet (Hamlet): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mqioi08EIHQ
Ellen's not looking for a wider audience (not really up for it), but this seemed to fit here otherwise, so hopefully it's okay.
Please keep this subthread linear by replying to the last comment in the subthread. Time will advance within this subthread; it is not a single scene unified in time and place. Direct replies are unlikely, and indirect replies are not guaranteed.))