"I don’t really blame you for being dead but you can’t have your sweater back." Ig said flatly. It was a childish sort of defiance that kept his fingers closed around the chunky weave, as if he expected her to rip it out of his hands. It was one of her favorites, he thought with a momentary pang of remorse--or, maybe the opposite. The kind of thing she wore all the time because she didn't care what happened to it. She probably took it from a grave.
Just a sacrificial lamb. A sturdy fair isle, red and white--like Lucy. Bearing old stains and signs of abuse. Like Lucy. Ig remembered why he kept it now. What he couldn't remember was when he started wearing it. When exactly he'd grown tired of catching glimpses of it in the back of the closet, a ghost's ghost. When exactly he stole the sacred object--secret wealth of the tombs--from the dark and let water and sunlight card the death out of its fibers until it was just another sweater.
When life without Lucy became routine.
"I'm sorry, that was..." Ig trailed off, losing his train of thought. He looked to Lucy for a clue.
She looked the same as ever sitting next to him in an unseasonable red-and-white wool sweater. To someone like Ig, who always ran warm, it was a wonder she could stand to wear sweaters anywhere south of the Ozarks. But the dark, puffy bruise above her eye took precedence.
"Lucy, what on earth happened to your face? Were you in another fight? Stay there, I'll fetch some ice and an iburofen."
The sweater, forgotten, was set to the side.
"Don't really? Well, that is very comforting," she retorted, with only a miniscule amount of frustration. She did like the sweater, but it is any easy thing to give, she would not have put up much of a fight for it in life either. Maybe then she might have mentioned it would be too short in the arms -- it wouldn't, her sweaters in particular left quite a bit of room for movement, and were sized so they could be shed quickly too, wiggling out of clothing was not practical. Now it took only the space between two of Ig's breaths to surrender it.
After all, she could give him everything he asked of her now. A sweater, beads made of bones, any protection he needed in her home. In life she couldn't, she couldn't avoid danger, couldn't avoid death, couldn't avoid refusing the safety of a world that he wanted for the both of them. But now, she was dead, and he married and it was all very simple to give anything he asked because the problems between them (in her mind, at least) were dissolved.
She picked up the cup in front of her and blew a breath of cold air over the top out of habit more than necessity. It was a bit cumbersome to hold the mug as usual with two of her left phalanges gone. Her mind sought to a word to assist him, but stopped as she felt changed.
Suddenly, the mug was easier to hold, the finger returned to normal. Her face ached and she was warm for what felt like the first time in forever. It felt like burning.
"Ig no, no," Lucy reassured, setting down her mug and shaking her hand until the finger was restored to its new proper shorter length and held it up. "It's just a memory; I'm fine -- it's all old. Remember?"
She reached out towards the sweater and pushed it to his hands. "But, you can't wear it now. We will look ridiculous."
