A Desperate Cure

first, the REVIEWS ...and i do thank those of you who criticized, i really do want to hear it!

MOONSTAR:
Yay! It's posted! Good job. ^_^ Descriptions as lovely as ever...I like the way you mentioned that "by seven thirty-five" Harold had decided to make her his wife. It really shows how fast it all went...adds a sense of drama. Lovely! The first bit makes me want to know more about what happened...and this whole world you've created! Plus Martin of course, I really want to find out more about him...so curious!

Ok. So the stories good, up, and posted. (Just so you know though, if I hadn't talked to you and already known this would eventually have slash...I probably wouldn't have clicked on it. Even if it's not in there yet...you might want to tell everyone that it's m/m...[and f/f if you plan to write about that]). But that's just me! (I like to know what pairing I'll at least eventually be reading when I start a new fic...^^;)

Anyway! Keep it up and...I have to get ready for class! xP Farewell!

-Moonstar

Thanks so much, both for reading and for reviewing, Moonstar. I’m glad I’ve made you curious. More about Martin in a little while! 8) Thanks also for the tip, I’ve altered the summary to include slash, and as I add chapters I’ll include more symbols.

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FALCON BERTILLE:
Interesting! You do an excellent job of using just a few sentences to create very believable characters, and the world you describe seems very real to me. And I like the way your descriptions evoke the details of the mundane -- things that other writers (often including myself) never seem to notice in their scramble to make everything seem poetic and flowery. Really, my only hesitation about the story is that I don't like Martin. He's a well-written character, I just don't like him on a personal level. At all. And I'm going to like him even less if he starts knocking around Delia. But I enjoy redemption stories, so I'll give him some time to show the potential of becoming more sympathetic.

Love,
Falcon

I’m thrilled to see you, Falcon. I’ve seen your reviews before, and have been reading some of your work. Thanks for stopping by. I do appreciate your specific review. About Martin, the possibility exists you’ll never like him! (But I do hope you will.) I wrote the first three chapters as one long chapter, and cut it afterwards, so I expect it will be an easier read soon. Thanks again, and see you soon!

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SARAH BRIDGET
Interesting. In my time exploring the wide variety of stories on the web, I have played the part of both flamer and fangirl. Both are increadibly easy to the point of boredom. People get mad at the slightest thing, and yet a certain number of exclamation marks behind 'I love it' can bring ridiculous amounts of happiness to anyone. When reading your story, I feel compelled to be completely honest. I don't really care whether you like me or not (remember, many hate me), but I do hope you don't take anything personally.

First, I like your story. You obviously have writing talent, but you over emphasize your strengths. As someone mentioned before me, you do well with descriptions. Wonderfully. They get boring. Incredibly dull in fact, after a point. It's wonderful to know what's happening. Visualization is essential to captivate the readers attention, but you use it so much, that the attention wanes. Sometimes, in fact, you put so much out there at once, that the reader has to go over twice or more to even half-way comprehend what you threw at them in one sentence. It piles up after awhile. (Just as a note, splitting up your paragraphs more often makes them easier to make out, more fluid to read through, and less of a tackle to make it from beginning to end. There is that certain satisfaction some get from finishing a paragraph you know...especially of your writing. ^_~)

I'd say please don't take it to heart, but I think you should, just don't get discouraged by it. I told you I'd be honest; I like your story, quite a bit in fact, and I don't think anything I've said should discourage you. The only way to improve at anything to is to work, and you've obviously come a long way since kindergarten. A lot farther than most. Your writing captivates me in different areas, and small pieces throughout catch my attention.

I read all the way through simply because it's interesting, as I said in the beginning, despite all. Delia is a fascinating character. Even with one chapter you've shown her intelligence and good-heart, and it's brought out so much in only a few lines. Harold, of course, keeps me on my seat. He's wild, brilliant, insane...and terribly suspicious. A devious character to say the least; definitely not trustworthy.

I look forward to your next update, and hope this has encouraged, not discouraged you. (If it's discouraging, tell me...and I'll burn you to a crisp with flames. ^_~ Don't worry though, readers never take the side of the flamer.) Till next time!

Sarah, you’re absolutely right. No, I’m not mad in the least! Constructive criticism is about the only thing that will truly make anything better, right? I’m thrilled at your honesty. Thank you!! SO, as I said, you’re totally correct. I have a serious bad habit with the excessive detail. I write what I feel, and sometimes forget just how much of that might not be necessary. Your review is a reminder to me to trust my reader’s senses to supply much of what I provide. Thanks again! Oh, and yes, I love Delia, too! ^_^

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II.

It was the third of November when Harold lost his temper. Delia had gone to the store early, buying her groceries before his shift started. She wanted to surprise him, a bit of reconciliation dinner. They had argued over absolutely nothing for two straight days, and Delia desperately wanted peace in the house again. She bought sirloin steak and heavy cream for the mashed potatoes, and went to all kinds of effort. Harold agreed to close up the store for Mr. Klemens, glad of a little more time away from the war zone he had created with his own ill temper. He counted the last register at eleven fifteen, and walked in the door drunk and cursing at half past three. Delia didn’t bother to get angry; she simply rolled awake, got his pyjamas, and helped him to bed. She washed the piss and vomit off the bathroom floor and walls, and scrubbed the floor where he’d tracked mud into the house. His dresser donated five one-hundred dollar bills and a fistful of fives and ones, which she shoved into her purse. She laid out fresh clothes and went to take a shower. Clean and damp, she dressed quietly, brushed out her hair, and went to the kitchen. She sliced the cold sirloin from the refrigerator, made a sandwich on rye bread, wrapped it, and put Harold’s name on it. Then she crossed to the bedroom, took her shoes in hand so as not to make too much noise, and carried her coat and purse to the door. She paused to consider before she wriggled her wedding band off her finger. It seemed awfully final, and she had no desire to give up; she hesitated till she caught sight of a bruise on her forearm in the shape of Harold’s thumb. Contemplation done, she left the ring sitting solitary on the bare kitchen table. She locked the door behind her and walked downstairs. She was standing outside the street door with the key in her hand when she heard the sirens.

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It was the fourth of November when the whole thing went up in flames. Literally.

The sign on the window of the carpet store said that closing time was at eight o’clock. The last two employees left at nine fifteen, and pulled the metal gate shut behind them, leaving the padlock dangling in the gate. The proprietor, Frederick Christian, had fallen asleep on his pallet in the back about four hours before, leaving his joint still smoking in the ashtray. When he fell asleep, he didn’t know his polyvinyl apron string was dangling over the ashtray, and when the secretary closed up, she didn’t know he had been smoking. When the technician left out the back way, he didn’t know a stack of metal casings and vacuum cleaner parts had fallen off a shelf, and when the firemen came, they said there had been no way Christian could have gotten out, even if he hadn’t been unconscious from the carbon monoxide. The clothing store next door was full of Salvation Army rejects and used polyester leisure suits. When the textile polymers began to melt, they ignited the years of wax buildup on the linoleum, a lake of fire that sprouted wings and ignited the ancient acrylic curtains. The resulting structural and smoke damage rendered the small upstairs apartment uninhabitable. The government provided for housing in some cases, but insurance would have helped. The extent of Harold’s thinking ahead usually involved setting money aside for trips to Atlantic City. Delia told her boss at the embassy the entire story on a Friday evening, hoping he would be slightly relaxed and in a good mood. He wasn’t, but he was harried, and she was a very good secretary. She had all the forms filled out for him, and she slid them beneath his hand while he was on the phone. One month later, Harold and Delia moved into a three-bedroom ranch in a tree-lined cul-de-sac forty-five minutes from the city. Delia made pot roast and Salisbury steak and never ever complained about Harold’s drinking, as long as he kept the bruises coverable. Her mother had foretold the demise of her marriage during her rehearsal dinner. Her pride couldn’t handle the stress of divorce, so she just put on scarves to cover the purpling bruises and kept the kitchen knives in a locked drawer.

Delia never forgot about the night she’d almost left. The ring hadn’t wanted to go back on her finger; she remembered shoving and gasping and forcing the ring over her knuckle while Harold had been in the shower. Harold never found out about it, waking up from his drunken stupor to a pristine house and a fresh-faced wife. Even his money was where he left it; he checked every morning while she was in the kitchen making his breakfast. He went on to become the front-end manager of the Waldbaum’s on Deane Street, one of the self-important functionaries who take sadistic pleasure in refusing to issue rain checks when there’s only one flavor of Ramen Noodles left on the shelf. Mr. Klemens had high hopes for his English-born protégé to become General Manager, but he never got around to retiring. Being at Waldbaum’s gave him a place to be that didn’t include the clicking of mah jong tiles and the smell of kasha varnishkes. Delia continued at the Embassy as a member of the secretarial pool. For her competence and discretion, she was eventually taken on as Mr. Poole’s personal secretary, and it was in this capacity that she found herself when The Fires came.

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Delia Manhalter Caldwell signed on the dotted line until she simply couldn’t remember how to spell her own name. She, like every other secretary in the building, had been reminded of her civic duty and encouraged most strongly to take a child home with her. She had attended meetings upon meetings to the tune of one lecture every other day, the exhortations becoming more desperate as time went on and the likelihood of finding relatives became slimmer and slimmer. After the first month, the few parents who were found were often mentally unstable, and of course did not have any resources of their own. Delia was one of the enthusiastic ones. She took care of a group of seven children, two of whom were reclaimed by older siblings, and one of whom was reunited with her father, who had been trapped beneath the rubble of a drugstore. One small boy died, smoke inhalation having been especially hard on his already partially diseased lungs. In the end, she formally adopted a set of fraternal twins about six months old, and a shy little boy of two. The two-year-old answered to Max, a little black boy with big brown eyes and fuzzy hair. She fell in love with him immediately. The twins took a bit to get used to, the girl was loud and unruly, her brother shy and quiet, but with a powerful punch. She named the twins after her own grandparents, amused by their equal temperaments. She knew it would be difficult, but in Harold’s absence, she had redecorated the house considerably, and there were almost no traces of his poisonous presence. The only thing she felt she could do in such a desperate circumstance was extend herself as much as possible. She had a lovely home all alone now; no one had asked any questions about anyone’s death or disappearance after The Fires.

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Alina Trudeau sat up in bed, heaving and panting. She hated dreams. She felt the breeze cross the room and evaporate the thin film of sweat on her brow, and dropped her face into her hands, catching her breath. Flinging back the blankets, she slid her legs over the side of the bed. She flung one hand out to reach the alarm clock on the bedside table, narrowly missing a half-empty mug of cold coffee and sending a rain of personal effects to the carpet. She stared dully at the square, red numbers, fighting to put 3:27 into some sort of context she could comprehend. She sighed and shoved her hand through her hair, clumsily bumping the clock back onto the nightstand and shoving the coffee mug closer to the edge in the process. She slid to the floor; her back still slumped against the bed, her nightshirt slipping up the back of her thigh to ride high on her hip. She yelped when her foot hit the cold metal of her comb, and she dropped to her knees to collect the fallen items. Her knees were tender against the pile of the Turkey carpet, and she was careful not to slide against it as she piled her handful of pills, coins, and hairpins onto the nightstand. She slid her pen and paper into the drawer, and stood up on tired legs.

The slap of bare feet on wood floors echoed in the bedroom as Alina crossed to the bath. She slid her hand over the satiny fabric of her chemise, looking at her shadowed face in the mirror over the sink. She reached out a hand to the dimmer switch, slid the lever up half-way, and stared into her own haunting face. Her round eyes sat wide-set in her heart-shaped face, blonde hair was razor-cut in long layers, the ends freshly cut and hanging down her back in straight lines that stubbornly refused to curl. Her mouth was small, her lips peaked and soft. She bit her lower lip, breaking her examination of her face to take a cloth from the drawer. She soaked it in hot water, wrung it out, then threw her hair behind her shoulders, and tilted her head back, laying the damp cloth on her face. Breathing deeply now, she rinsed the cloth and hung it to dry on the bar in the shower enclosure. She turned the light out again and fled across the cold expanse of floor to dive into the covers, the weight of her body and the silkiness of her attire combining to slide her across the quilt, her motion halted by a head-on collision with the pillow. The headboard clanked against the wall as she recovered herself, burrowing under the layers of blankets to find whatever body heat might still be left in her abandoned place. She pulled the covers up over her head, and had just tucked her arm under her pillow to cradle her head when the phone rang, reinvigorating the settling air.

She reached one arm out blindly, already regretting the loss of warmth, and dragged the handset off of its charger. She pressed buttons blindly until she heard the beep, then pulled the phone to her ear. “Yes??”

A bored voice responded in the dialect of bureaucrats everywhere. “Alina Trudeau?”

A shaft of fear spiked through Alina’s belly, burying its cold weight in the base of her spine.