Chapter Text
Edith had been sitting, staring blindly at the dying embers in the fireplace for long enough now that it had gotten dark outside. The late February sun had faded from gold to pink and now to a deep black darkness only illuminated by the gas lamps outside. Guests had come and gone, prayers had been said and her kitchen had been stocked by well-wishers. She had known, even before getting married, that with her husband's line of work, she would most likely end up a widow. She knew her husband would die before her, she had thought she had steeled herself to this fact. But sat here, in her parlour, with no husband beside her and the dog bed in front of the fire empty, she had been kidding herself. Nothing could have readied her for the grief that she was feeling, only fourteen months after their wedding. She had cried and screamed herself hoarse, when Adam, one of husband’s men, had come to her house with the news. Adam, who had fought beside Alfie in the war, who had been around enough death, stood on her doorstep, face contorted into a measure of grief as he told her what had happened.
Alfie had been shot.
The King was dead.
He was no more.
The funeral had been seven days ago, a simple affair, Jewish of course. She had cried then too. Watching as her husband’s body was lowered into the ground. She doesn’t remember the speeches or the prayers. And now her mirrors were covered, a candle was lit on the side table and every day some new person came into her home, with a prayer and some more food to go uneaten. She does not cry now; now numb to the pain within her heart. Numb to the outside world. She wished for something, anything, to rid her of this feeling, or lack thereof, she wished for a stocked liquor cabinet with rum or whisky, or for seven tonnes of opium, to smoke like the men down the docks do when the sounds of the war inside their heads would not be silenced. It was the last day of Shiva, and she knew that tomorrow she was allowed to resume her normal routine. But what was normal without her husband.
Their relationship had been tempestuous, many arguments had been had, many disagreements, and loud and rough as he was, she had met him halfway just as loud, just as rough. But for every argument there had been twice as many moments of kindness, soft mornings wrapped up in blankets to hide away from the world, and twice as many moments of merriment, silly crude jokes whispered into her ear when in public. And now she missed everything. Everything, even the way he muttered to himself when annoyed, or how he could never be straight with anyone. Always twisting his words, long winded speeches that said everything and nothing all at once. She missed him, his silly hair that would never lay flat, always mussed, always messy. She missed his hands and his cold rings as he held her hand or her hips, she assumed they were buried with him. Ishmael had handed her his wedding band at the funeral, a simple silver ring with “With you, I am me” engraved on the inside.
She had laid down, curled up on the sofa, under a patchwork blanket, slowly drifting off. She hoped for a dreamless sleep. She hoped to wake up in the morning, all this having been a nightmare. She hoped to wake up in their bed, her husband snoring away, Cyril laid at their feet, as the birds outside chirped and the sun streamed in through the curtains.
Oh how hope kills you.