Work Text:
Jo had no plans for the rest of the week.
After hearing the news of Beth's condition from the doctor's visit, there was no hope left. The entire March family knew what to expect within the next week. Nobody wanted to accept it, but there was no fighting it. Beth could push and push, but even the doctor said that this fever would not go away.
There was a sliver of hope, a glimmering light in the darkness, that a miracle could occur. That Beth could find the will to stand once again, that she could fight back against this deathly fever that had spread across the city and infected countless of people, stealing their innocent lives. It was possible to live, but even those who live would carry on with a weakened heart.
Though feeling lethargic, Jo wanted to write. Whenever Jo felt a hint of emotion, a dribble of sentiment, she let her feelings show through the darkened liquid ink against a white sheet of paper. However, she often questioned her writings. What was the point? Yes, they reflected her emotions, but that's all they truly were. Words. They were not actions, they had no power against others. Knowing your ABC's proved fruitless in an era freshly following the Civil War- almost everyone but women had rights, even freedmen. A woman having the ability to write meant nothing in a man's society.
But she digresses. The overwhelming need to share her devoted love for her fading sister, to share her despondent heartache, replaced any of her apathetic feelings towards her literature. She walked by her bookshelves, lined with books ranging from classical Shakespeare to new school Edgar Allen Poe. Though her own personal writings left her underwhelmed, the writings of such inspiring people gave her inspiration in its purest form.
Making her way to her desk, she approached a stack of neatly organized, clean white sheets of paper. Beside the papers laid a singular wooden dip pen, along with a small, lid-covered jar of fresh ink. The brunette pulled out her chair, ready to take a seat and begin the dreadful process thousands know as writing.
Before she could sit, before she could dampen her dip pen with ink, before she could even think, screams and sobs forced her mind to a halt. Her head whipped around to stare at the bedroom door, the noise of weeping growing louder and louder, more voices joining in as the seconds passed.
It only took Jo a moment to put two and two together before she rushed out the door.
Everything felt like a blur. It only took her a few seconds to reach the hallway where Beth's room was located, yet the time between her lingering in her bedroom to reaching the hallway felt both agonizingly slow yet terribly quick at the same time.
She knew what had happened the moment her eyes laid upon her sisters- Amy, who was a sobbing mess, clung to Meg. The eldest sister shed no tears, yet her twisted expression and darkened eyes said enough. Mrs. March was nowhere to be seen, but the muffled sound of soft cries and gentle weeps emitting from the bedroom before them confirmed where the mother was.
Jo hastily bustled into the bedroom, giving no word of sorrow to her siblings. She stood in the doorway, eyes wide as she stared at the scene before her.
Mrs. March, the girl's mother, sat beside her beloved sister Beth. Tears rolled down the older woman's cheeks, one hand covering her mouth to muffle the sounds of her woe, the other gently stroking Beth's luscious brown hair.
Elizabeth. Jo's sweet, shy, angelic, musical, piano-loving Beth. Her eyes were closed, skin paler than a ghost. Her chest no longer rose with every breath she used to take, her hands no longer fidgeted with her hair or her blanket, her legs no longer gently swayed beneath the fabric keeping her body warm. She was completely still. Her life drained away.
Jo was snapped harshly back into cruel reality at the feeling of a salty liquid dripping down her cheeks, flowing uncontrollably from her eyes. She hadn't even noticed she was crying- nor did she noticed the intense trembling her entire body was undergoing, or the raw screams that were ripped out of her throat, leaving a dull pain in its wake.
The breathing brunette fell to her knees, hands raking through her braid, painfully forcing her unruly locks of hair from its braid. Her head hung low, releasing strangled howls and gasps for breath. She couldn't think. She couldn't see. She couldn't breathe.
Beth was her everything. And she was gone. She wasn't even able to say goodbye.
As the entire March family wept, the neighbors sympathized with the grieving family. Laurie wanted to pay the gals a visit, maybe help Jo and the others clear their mind while Beth healed. But, as he stood before the front door, his once raised fist ready to knock on the door lowering to his side, echoes of their cries ringing in his ears, he knew Beth wasn't the one who needed healing.
With time, their weeps turned to gentle cries, their cries turned to sniffles, their sniffles turned to frowns and memories. Amy, Meg, and Mrs. March were deeply struck by their sister's passing, but they knew. Beth was a strong girl, and she fought 'til the end. She believed in herself and her sisters, in God, and she was in a better place.
And yet, Jo could not come to the same conclusion as her sisters and her mother. The three eventually came to her side, embracing her and giving her soft words of encouragement, reassurance that Beth was happy in the afterlife. But Jo couldn't move on.
That night, Jo returned to her bedroom without a word. Though her tears had stopped pouring, her heart was heavy. She sat at her desk, knowing that she wouldn't get a moment of sleep. But, instead of writing out her emotions, just as she had planned mere hours ago, she simply stared at the stacks of blank paper. She made no move when the light of her candle went out.
All Beth ever wanted was her own piano. She wanted to play music for her family, reunite them all through her angelic melodies.
All Jo ever wanted was to become an author. To have her words published, to have thousands of people read and connect with her work.
Even if Jo were to become a famous author in her future, there was no point. All she ever wrote were empty words, accompanying Beth's silent melodies.