drabble about a new verse but like?? fair warning it’s low key really triggering / includes child death, suicidal feelings, and some horror elements.
She’s never felt the acute tension of her skin so much as she does now. Where top lip meets bottom is stretched so far in soundless agony that she doesn’t know what will give first: the aching join of her jaw or will her mouth itself split open one macabre, endless smile.
Padmé wishes this suffering had a sound. Her nails press so firmly into the flesh of her palms that blood runs freely down her fingertips, staining the sheets and painting in her the deep need to would, to pull asunder where she finds her own softness, her frailty.
The force isn’t kind to her.
It’s a new, white hot bloom underneath her skin and the grief grips her almost as firmly as the war of heightened emotions. This was not meant to be, she was not meant to be. All of her is an aberration before what she had always assumed was the soft, giving light of the force before the galaxy had taught her better.
So many dead, and she feels where they should be. The lingering aftershocks in the force from the sheer loss of life that had shaken it to it’s core. Is this the cost of her own life, the emptiness not only in the galaxy but in her heart. Anger, darkness. She feels the desperation and she could count lives lost until the numbers grow too large and tear-blurred eyes can no longer count on stars.
In her pregnancy, she’d had visions of her own death. It’d been so true and absolute that though she’d fallen feather soft into something of a depression, she was sure it would be worth it. Beyond her death were their children. Beacons of hope and light in a galaxy that had been cast into turmoil. Anakin must have felt the same. She felt so sure that they were fair trade for her life, that she was a fine price to pay.
Fingers clench and unclench in the fabric of a shammy-cloth blanket. She wants to undo it. She’d slit her own throat if she thought it could turn back time and she’s bitten the inside of her cheeks raw attempting to drive the nerve for drastic action. Somewhere, at the edge of her awareness, Obi-wan stands, with her child in his arms.
Child, singular. As though the galaxy hadn’t come to a halt around them already. Neither of them could save Anakin, how dare he look so whole while she fell apart in vivid detail.
She can feel it though, the sundering of Obi-wan’s soul, the clean cleave of what was and could have been as he’d felt thousands of connections, fine wires between him and the kin he called jedi, snapped in minutes. In an instant. But the deep sung sorrow in her own soul deems this death of hers worse.
It will always be her fault.
And she feels that, the dark whisper in the force that clings to new found self loathing.
She pulls the empty blanket to her chest, a mockery of the child that should be in it, and presses her face to where the phantom of a tiny face lays, soft tufts of hair to match their sibling. Curls, most likely, to match her and Anakin both. Her child, her beautiful child. A life force she had cannibalized without awareness of what she’d done. The striking, hollow note of her grief as she wishes she were made bird bones, hollow enough that she might fly from these truths.
titsay
andulkaphoto
2087
baratheonpilled
gummygunk
janainaart
