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red_satin_dollTitle: The Tides
THE TIDES
“How did you know –“
The woman shrugged and waved her hand dismissively. “I know you, very well. I know you, Laura Brown.”
“How?”
“How could it be otherwise?” Long, slender fingers reached out and stroked the worn cloth cover of Mrs. Dalloway, still resting on Laura’s stomach. Stroked it back and forth, lightly, and Laura felt the touch in every inch of her own skin. She trembled. “I know you because you know me; you’ve held me in your heart for a long time. Held me closer, perhaps than your own husband or children. Closer than you’ve held yourself. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
Laura shook her head; her lips mouthed silent syllables for a long time before words finally came forth. “I-I don’t want to feel like this anymore.”
“And what are you feeling, exactly?”
Fandom: The Hours (2003 movie)
Pairing: Laura Brown/Virginia Woolf
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
An AU take on what Laura Brown experiences when she goes to the hotel in the movie. Because I'd only seen the movie the once, I'd completely forgotten that she went to a posh hotel instead of the dingy motel I described. Again - AU. Humor me
I wrote this story in 2003 but never posted it anywhere; it was inspired by the movie version of "The Hours"; I hadn't yet read Michael Cunningham's novel. When I wrote this I was just emerging from a writer's block of ten years; or more precisely, from a refusal to allow myself to write. The friend to whom I had dedicated this story has been long gone from my life and I'd forgotten it still existed on my harddrive; but Virginia Woolf came up in a conversation![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kikimay were having recently, and she expressed interest in reading this. Parts of it make me cringe but overall, I can live with it. (What's really freaks me out is how much of this reminds of Buffy, circa S6. *hugs Buffy and Laura*)
Pairing: Laura Brown/Virginia Woolf
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
An AU take on what Laura Brown experiences when she goes to the hotel in the movie. Because I'd only seen the movie the once, I'd completely forgotten that she went to a posh hotel instead of the dingy motel I described. Again - AU. Humor me
I wrote this story in 2003 but never posted it anywhere; it was inspired by the movie version of "The Hours"; I hadn't yet read Michael Cunningham's novel. When I wrote this I was just emerging from a writer's block of ten years; or more precisely, from a refusal to allow myself to write. The friend to whom I had dedicated this story has been long gone from my life and I'd forgotten it still existed on my harddrive; but Virginia Woolf came up in a conversation
kikimay were having recently, and she expressed interest in reading this. Parts of it make me cringe but overall, I can live with it. (What's really freaks me out is how much of this reminds of Buffy, circa S6. *hugs Buffy and Laura*)THE TIDES
She’d been in this place before. Contemplating the end, feeling herself drowning...
Yes, she’d come to this motel before, if not this exact room. But it didn’t matter. This one looked exactly like the last one, she was certain. She imagined every room here must look the same, lined up within grey concrete-block walls in a neat row; all alike, just as the houses on Sunnyvale Road were - all alike.
There were the same curtains and bedspread, a once-cheerful shade of yellow faded by too much sunlight and too many washings. The same heavy, ugly furniture, every piece of it bolted down, even the lamps. Who’d want to take it? The same black plastic ashtrays, the same nicotine stains on the ceiling. She wondered if similar stains of another substance also graced the mattress.
And she knew, without looking, that the same palm-sized, green-covered copies of the New Testament rested in the nightstand drawers, offering salvation to no one.
The only thing that marked this room as distinct from any other, in fact, was her own presence there; her brown monogrammed suitcase on the thin carpet next to the door, patiently waiting to be unpacked. Her shoes, summer espadrilles, lying on their sides by the bed where she had removed them. Her own body laid out neatly on the bed, arms stiff at her sides, legs closed, as if afraid to claim any more space for herself there than necessary.
She caressed her well-worn copy of Mrs. Dalloway, the only object that held any meaning for her, laying it on her belly and feeling her breath rise and fall more distinctly because of the book’s slight weight. Tenatively, she spread her arms over the width of the bed. Would she feel that rush come over her again, feel the wave rise up to consume her, as she had before? She had resisted it, then; would she let it complete it’s work, now?
Was she contemplating the ending, or the beginning?
“They are one and the same, my dear girl. You don’t know that yet but soon, soon you will.”
Laura thought she should have been surprised by presence of the other woman, but wasn’t; and found that, in itself, oddly comforting. The gentle voice was a further comfort, low and rich and tinged with cigarette smoke; every sound and syllable pronounced as distinctly as a jeweler cuts a diamond. Still, she did not—could not—turn her head to face her unexpected companion. It was enough right now just to breathe. Feel the weight of the book on her belly, rising, falling, rising again…a miracle. Just breathe.
She thought, perhaps, if she remained silent, the other woman might also. That they could remain in deep silence until darkness settled itself in the room. Or until that tide came, yes, and when would it come?
“What do you want?”
“I don’t know. “ Would the water be cold, like it was the last time she’d nearly drown in it? When you drown, Laura mused abstractly, is it the water in your lungs or the cold that kills?
“Of course you know.” The woman’s voice was grave, but there was a hint of sly mockery to be found there, as if she were indulging a petulant child. “Why else would you be here? Why else would you leave your family? Leave that strong, dependable husband, those beautiful babies, leave them behind for – what? For what, Laura?”
Laura turned her head to her right, where the woman sat on the edge of the mattress. A long face, “patrician” Laura supposed it was called. Lively almond-shaped eyes splashed that darted about the room and defied sleepy-seeming lids. Mousy hair, neither brown nor blond, pinned into an uncertain bun at the nape of her neck. Shapeless, unfashionable tan cotton housedress of the sort Laura remembered her mother wearing, with orange ribbon trimming a square neckline; a fraying brown cardigan, though the weather seemed too warm to require it. A teardrop-shaped pendant of angel coral on a long sterling chain was the one concession to any conception of feminine adornment.
Laura suddenly became too-aware of the tightness of her own green organdie dress, the scratchiness of her petticoat, the discomfort of her girdle. She felt distinctly overdressed; but, what was the proper ensemble in which to abandon one’s family?
“Not the sort of the advice to be found in latest issue of The Ladies Companion, I take it?” The tone of mockery was front and center now. The woman sucked the end of a hand-rolled cigarette, and blew a long stream of grey smoke through a tiny opening in unpainted lips.
Yes, she’d come to this motel before, if not this exact room. But it didn’t matter. This one looked exactly like the last one, she was certain. She imagined every room here must look the same, lined up within grey concrete-block walls in a neat row; all alike, just as the houses on Sunnyvale Road were - all alike.
There were the same curtains and bedspread, a once-cheerful shade of yellow faded by too much sunlight and too many washings. The same heavy, ugly furniture, every piece of it bolted down, even the lamps. Who’d want to take it? The same black plastic ashtrays, the same nicotine stains on the ceiling. She wondered if similar stains of another substance also graced the mattress.
And she knew, without looking, that the same palm-sized, green-covered copies of the New Testament rested in the nightstand drawers, offering salvation to no one.
The only thing that marked this room as distinct from any other, in fact, was her own presence there; her brown monogrammed suitcase on the thin carpet next to the door, patiently waiting to be unpacked. Her shoes, summer espadrilles, lying on their sides by the bed where she had removed them. Her own body laid out neatly on the bed, arms stiff at her sides, legs closed, as if afraid to claim any more space for herself there than necessary.
She caressed her well-worn copy of Mrs. Dalloway, the only object that held any meaning for her, laying it on her belly and feeling her breath rise and fall more distinctly because of the book’s slight weight. Tenatively, she spread her arms over the width of the bed. Would she feel that rush come over her again, feel the wave rise up to consume her, as she had before? She had resisted it, then; would she let it complete it’s work, now?
Was she contemplating the ending, or the beginning?
“They are one and the same, my dear girl. You don’t know that yet but soon, soon you will.”
Laura thought she should have been surprised by presence of the other woman, but wasn’t; and found that, in itself, oddly comforting. The gentle voice was a further comfort, low and rich and tinged with cigarette smoke; every sound and syllable pronounced as distinctly as a jeweler cuts a diamond. Still, she did not—could not—turn her head to face her unexpected companion. It was enough right now just to breathe. Feel the weight of the book on her belly, rising, falling, rising again…a miracle. Just breathe.
She thought, perhaps, if she remained silent, the other woman might also. That they could remain in deep silence until darkness settled itself in the room. Or until that tide came, yes, and when would it come?
“What do you want?”
“I don’t know. “ Would the water be cold, like it was the last time she’d nearly drown in it? When you drown, Laura mused abstractly, is it the water in your lungs or the cold that kills?
“Of course you know.” The woman’s voice was grave, but there was a hint of sly mockery to be found there, as if she were indulging a petulant child. “Why else would you be here? Why else would you leave your family? Leave that strong, dependable husband, those beautiful babies, leave them behind for – what? For what, Laura?”
Laura turned her head to her right, where the woman sat on the edge of the mattress. A long face, “patrician” Laura supposed it was called. Lively almond-shaped eyes splashed that darted about the room and defied sleepy-seeming lids. Mousy hair, neither brown nor blond, pinned into an uncertain bun at the nape of her neck. Shapeless, unfashionable tan cotton housedress of the sort Laura remembered her mother wearing, with orange ribbon trimming a square neckline; a fraying brown cardigan, though the weather seemed too warm to require it. A teardrop-shaped pendant of angel coral on a long sterling chain was the one concession to any conception of feminine adornment.
Laura suddenly became too-aware of the tightness of her own green organdie dress, the scratchiness of her petticoat, the discomfort of her girdle. She felt distinctly overdressed; but, what was the proper ensemble in which to abandon one’s family?
“Not the sort of the advice to be found in latest issue of The Ladies Companion, I take it?” The tone of mockery was front and center now. The woman sucked the end of a hand-rolled cigarette, and blew a long stream of grey smoke through a tiny opening in unpainted lips.
“How did you know –“
The woman shrugged and waved her hand dismissively. “I know you, very well. I know you, Laura Brown.”
“How?”
“How could it be otherwise?” Long, slender fingers reached out and stroked the worn cloth cover of Mrs. Dalloway, still resting on Laura’s stomach. Stroked it back and forth, lightly, and Laura felt the touch in every inch of her own skin. She trembled. “I know you because you know me; you’ve held me in your heart for a long time. Held me closer, perhaps than your own husband or children. Closer than you’ve held yourself. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
Laura shook her head; her lips mouthed silent syllables for a long time before words finally came forth. “I-I don’t want to feel like this anymore.”
“And what are you feeling, exactly?”
“Like I’m on the edge of something...“
“Too vague, dear. Try to be more precise.” The woman would not let Laura go easily, oh no.
“Like I’m on the edge of some…chasm…“
“Better.” Another stream of grey smoke shot out and then dissipated over Laura’s still-prone body.
“…a yawning chasm…“
“ ‘Yawning chasm’? That’s much more poetic, yes. ‘Yawning chasm.’ The right words make all the difference, don’t they?” The woman exchanged her cigarette from left hand to right as she settled herself on the mattress next to Laura, supporting herself on her left elbow. “But, we’re going off the page again, aren’t we? Please, do continue.”
Laura looked at her companion. This strange, demanding woman lying next to her felt warm, radiant, and yet a thousand miles away all at once. As though she were keeping herself in check, while asking Laura to reveal everything. Was this woman safe, should she send her away? “I don’t know...“ Laura hedged a little.
“ ‘Yawning chasm’, remember?”
No point not to go on. Nothing else to do. “It feels like I’m frozen there, on that edge – stuck – I can’t back away, but I can’t jump in either.”
There followed the first sustained moment of silence since the other woman had arrived there. “You do know that you still haven’t answered my question, dear girl. She brought her lips very close to Laura’s ear, curled and pink like a conch shell. “What do you want, Laura Brown? What do you want?”
“I – I – “ Tears rolled down her cheeks; it occurred to Laura that her eyes were becoming puffy, that her make-up would be streaked, that she must look rather ridiculous. Couldn’t they just be quiet for a while, couldn’t they just lie there and wait for the cold?
“I shan’t leave you until you do say it.” She sat up again, took Laura’s hand in her own, and kissed it tenderly. Laura was surprised by the depth of affection she felt in this woman – and for this woman. “You know what you want, Laura; you need only name it. That’s why the words are so important. But it takes great courage, naming our destinies, giving voice to our desires.”
“I…it...it’s too frightening.” Laura felt the tide begin to rush upon her in an ice-cold stab. Here it was, finally – she welcomed it, she struggled against it – couldn’t the other woman feel it too? She became aware of the soft hand still wrapped around her own, that gave a little velvet squeeze, and she focused on that. Focused on two hands, together. “How do I keep from drowning?”
“You don’t.” Any hint of mockery was gone from that low voice. Laura’s companion looked down at her with an expression that was almost maternal. Really loving, the way Laura herself had tried to look for her children. Were they ever really fooled? “We all must die at one time or another. We spend our entire lives rushing towards death, from the very instant we are born. So then, we might as well live in whatever time we’re given, yes?” A gentle, wizened smile curled the woman’s lips; she seemed very ancient, indeed. “Live fully, Laura. It will be so much better than this shadowy half-life that you’ve condemned yourself to. I promise you.”
“Virginia –“ She didn’t know how she suddenly knew her companion’s name, whispered it as if she’d always known it. She didn’t know how. She didn’t care.
Virginia laid herself down fully on the mattress next to Laura – the springs made no sound when she moved. She brushed the book off Laura’s belly and let it fall between them; her long fingers reached for the fastenings of Laura’s dress. “Believe me.” She paused, head cocked a little, and Laura understood she was waiting for permission to procede.
“I want to live. Truly.” She breathed out the words, then gulped them back in again like the drowing take in water. What was this feeling washing over her? Laura didn’t know what to name it. She only knew that tears continue to stream down her cheeks. And, that sure hands were parting the front of her dress, loosening her girdle.
“Silly contraptions” a voice laughed lightly – and Laura could breathe. She could breathe.
She impulsively turned on her side and intertwined her fingers into Virginia’s hair, already somewhat messy, and ran her hands down to unlock the bun found at the nape of the neck.
Virginia smiled, but Laura thought she saw – what, exactly, did she see in those hooded, darting eyes? So hard to tell – a thousand shades of meaning seemed to reside in them, shades Laura had no name for. She wanted to know every one of those shades. She wanted to abide in those eyes for a long, long time.
“I want to live.”
“Of course you do.” Virginia’s low, velvet laughter wrapped itself around Laura’s shoulders. “What else is there to want?”
Laura remained there for – for how many hours, she did not count, although she knew from the light that fell on the walls through drawn shades that the sun set, and the sun rose again. She abided there, lovingly traced her fingers down the spine of Mrs. Dalloway. She believed her. And she embraced life.
“Too vague, dear. Try to be more precise.” The woman would not let Laura go easily, oh no.
“Like I’m on the edge of some…chasm…“
“Better.” Another stream of grey smoke shot out and then dissipated over Laura’s still-prone body.
“…a yawning chasm…“
“ ‘Yawning chasm’? That’s much more poetic, yes. ‘Yawning chasm.’ The right words make all the difference, don’t they?” The woman exchanged her cigarette from left hand to right as she settled herself on the mattress next to Laura, supporting herself on her left elbow. “But, we’re going off the page again, aren’t we? Please, do continue.”
Laura looked at her companion. This strange, demanding woman lying next to her felt warm, radiant, and yet a thousand miles away all at once. As though she were keeping herself in check, while asking Laura to reveal everything. Was this woman safe, should she send her away? “I don’t know...“ Laura hedged a little.
“ ‘Yawning chasm’, remember?”
No point not to go on. Nothing else to do. “It feels like I’m frozen there, on that edge – stuck – I can’t back away, but I can’t jump in either.”
There followed the first sustained moment of silence since the other woman had arrived there. “You do know that you still haven’t answered my question, dear girl. She brought her lips very close to Laura’s ear, curled and pink like a conch shell. “What do you want, Laura Brown? What do you want?”
“I – I – “ Tears rolled down her cheeks; it occurred to Laura that her eyes were becoming puffy, that her make-up would be streaked, that she must look rather ridiculous. Couldn’t they just be quiet for a while, couldn’t they just lie there and wait for the cold?
“I shan’t leave you until you do say it.” She sat up again, took Laura’s hand in her own, and kissed it tenderly. Laura was surprised by the depth of affection she felt in this woman – and for this woman. “You know what you want, Laura; you need only name it. That’s why the words are so important. But it takes great courage, naming our destinies, giving voice to our desires.”
“I…it...it’s too frightening.” Laura felt the tide begin to rush upon her in an ice-cold stab. Here it was, finally – she welcomed it, she struggled against it – couldn’t the other woman feel it too? She became aware of the soft hand still wrapped around her own, that gave a little velvet squeeze, and she focused on that. Focused on two hands, together. “How do I keep from drowning?”
“You don’t.” Any hint of mockery was gone from that low voice. Laura’s companion looked down at her with an expression that was almost maternal. Really loving, the way Laura herself had tried to look for her children. Were they ever really fooled? “We all must die at one time or another. We spend our entire lives rushing towards death, from the very instant we are born. So then, we might as well live in whatever time we’re given, yes?” A gentle, wizened smile curled the woman’s lips; she seemed very ancient, indeed. “Live fully, Laura. It will be so much better than this shadowy half-life that you’ve condemned yourself to. I promise you.”
“Virginia –“ She didn’t know how she suddenly knew her companion’s name, whispered it as if she’d always known it. She didn’t know how. She didn’t care.
Virginia laid herself down fully on the mattress next to Laura – the springs made no sound when she moved. She brushed the book off Laura’s belly and let it fall between them; her long fingers reached for the fastenings of Laura’s dress. “Believe me.” She paused, head cocked a little, and Laura understood she was waiting for permission to procede.
“I want to live. Truly.” She breathed out the words, then gulped them back in again like the drowing take in water. What was this feeling washing over her? Laura didn’t know what to name it. She only knew that tears continue to stream down her cheeks. And, that sure hands were parting the front of her dress, loosening her girdle.
“Silly contraptions” a voice laughed lightly – and Laura could breathe. She could breathe.
She impulsively turned on her side and intertwined her fingers into Virginia’s hair, already somewhat messy, and ran her hands down to unlock the bun found at the nape of the neck.
Virginia smiled, but Laura thought she saw – what, exactly, did she see in those hooded, darting eyes? So hard to tell – a thousand shades of meaning seemed to reside in them, shades Laura had no name for. She wanted to know every one of those shades. She wanted to abide in those eyes for a long, long time.
“I want to live.”
“Of course you do.” Virginia’s low, velvet laughter wrapped itself around Laura’s shoulders. “What else is there to want?”
Laura remained there for – for how many hours, she did not count, although she knew from the light that fell on the walls through drawn shades that the sun set, and the sun rose again. She abided there, lovingly traced her fingers down the spine of Mrs. Dalloway. She believed her. And she embraced life.
