Author's notes: Modern AU with the girls escaping Joe's "cult," aro-ace Angharad, mention of past abuse, POV Capable.
Capable wakes every night in a sheen of sweat, her harsh breath clattering into the room, the nightmare fading away from the edges of her vision. She looks around, takes inventory—her room is small and sparsely decorated with a roll-top desk and chest of drawers, her curtains pale pink, her framed photo of the girls atop her night table.
Joe and his roaming hands and Cheshire cat smile are nothing but memories.
The clock always reads sometime between midnight and two in the morning—the witching hours, as Miss Giddy used to say. Now they just feel like a prison sentence. Capable sits up and tugs on her plush bathrobe. She and Angharad bought them at Wal-Mart, two of the same robes, because they were so deliciously soft and luxurious, so different from the simple, coarse garments Joe dressed them in. Then she goes to Angharad’s room.
Angharad is always awake in those hours. She refuses to sleep and give in to the satisfaction of the nightmare that used to visit her as well. Her bedroom is the same size and shape with a comfortable chair in the corner for reading, and when Capable peers through the crack in the door, she sees her Angharad sitting with her legs curled up to her chest, reading glasses perched at the tip of her nose, a book open in her hands.
Angharad smiles softly and sets down her book. “Nightmares again?” Capable nods and steps inside, instantly calming in the warm, yellowish light coming from Angharad’s lamp. “Come sit with me.”
Capable curls up next to Angharad in the big chair. Her body isn’t as small as it used to be when Joe had them on rations—her hips have filled out, her face has rounded fully like it was when she was a little girl. Angharad is still slim, but she practically glows with health now that she’s free to eat the foods she loves. Her caesarean scar is dark and visible beneath her thin cotton tank top, and Capable strokes it gently with her index finger. Angharad doesn’t mind it. “I can almost smell him,” Capable says, burying her face in Angharad’s neck. “It just won’t go away.”
Angharad sighs, taking off her eyeglasses. She wraps her arm around Capable’s shoulders. “Remember what the doctor said? It’ll take time. And now that we’re free, we’ve got lots of time.” She glances at her night table where there is a small framed photo of the baby, the little one she gave up for adoption after they got out. She doesn’t know his name, only his face.
(Capable knows his name. It’s Thomas. She doesn’t know if she’ll ever tell Angharad or if Angharad even wants to know).
Capable glances over to see Angharad’s book—The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. Despite their lack of education in Joe’s “Citadel,” Angharad was an excellent reader and devoured all the literature she could get. The Dag preferred erotic novels, the pages of lush sex scenes and descriptive kissing sending her into sweet dreams, but Angharad claimed she’d had enough sex (“Not sex, rape,” Toast says with clenched teeth, and they know, Angharad knows, but she is still so very afraid of that terrible word) for a lifetime and that she’d rather read about what happens when sex is not happening.
Brave New Girls 1/2
Capable wakes every night in a sheen of sweat, her harsh breath clattering into the room, the nightmare fading away from the edges of her vision. She looks around, takes inventory—her room is small and sparsely decorated with a roll-top desk and chest of drawers, her curtains pale pink, her framed photo of the girls atop her night table.
Joe and his roaming hands and Cheshire cat smile are nothing but memories.
The clock always reads sometime between midnight and two in the morning—the witching hours, as Miss Giddy used to say. Now they just feel like a prison sentence. Capable sits up and tugs on her plush bathrobe. She and Angharad bought them at Wal-Mart, two of the same robes, because they were so deliciously soft and luxurious, so different from the simple, coarse garments Joe dressed them in. Then she goes to Angharad’s room.
Angharad is always awake in those hours. She refuses to sleep and give in to the satisfaction of the nightmare that used to visit her as well. Her bedroom is the same size and shape with a comfortable chair in the corner for reading, and when Capable peers through the crack in the door, she sees her Angharad sitting with her legs curled up to her chest, reading glasses perched at the tip of her nose, a book open in her hands.
Angharad smiles softly and sets down her book. “Nightmares again?” Capable nods and steps inside, instantly calming in the warm, yellowish light coming from Angharad’s lamp. “Come sit with me.”
Capable curls up next to Angharad in the big chair. Her body isn’t as small as it used to be when Joe had them on rations—her hips have filled out, her face has rounded fully like it was when she was a little girl. Angharad is still slim, but she practically glows with health now that she’s free to eat the foods she loves. Her caesarean scar is dark and visible beneath her thin cotton tank top, and Capable strokes it gently with her index finger. Angharad doesn’t mind it. “I can almost smell him,” Capable says, burying her face in Angharad’s neck. “It just won’t go away.”
Angharad sighs, taking off her eyeglasses. She wraps her arm around Capable’s shoulders. “Remember what the doctor said? It’ll take time. And now that we’re free, we’ve got lots of time.” She glances at her night table where there is a small framed photo of the baby, the little one she gave up for adoption after they got out. She doesn’t know his name, only his face.
(Capable knows his name. It’s Thomas. She doesn’t know if she’ll ever tell Angharad or if Angharad even wants to know).
Capable glances over to see Angharad’s book—The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. Despite their lack of education in Joe’s “Citadel,” Angharad was an excellent reader and devoured all the literature she could get. The Dag preferred erotic novels, the pages of lush sex scenes and descriptive kissing sending her into sweet dreams, but Angharad claimed she’d had enough sex (“Not sex, rape,” Toast says with clenched teeth, and they know, Angharad knows, but she is still so very afraid of that terrible word) for a lifetime and that she’d rather read about what happens when sex is not happening.