#linney lowell

[mydarlingdearestdead]

From Atlas, a 'Command' was merely a suggestion- Guidance from a friend. From Rosalyn, to contrast, it was a challenge. Yes, they expected their word to be taken as absolute, but they were the most disappointed if you obeyed them consistently.

Rosalyn, you understand, thrived on improvisation, an unpredictability which neither I nor Linney could afford them in a befitting manner. Atlas took their words to heart, but never without a playful addition or mischievous omission. I cannot imagine it in any other way as Rosalyn having gained nourishment from that energy of his. They understood it; The ebb and flow, the inability to source a pattern or pretence.

However, there was a third category, as their often was with Rosalyn and Atlas. You see, they existed fine as individuals. Rosalyn and Atlas. Separate beings. When one, they transformed into something entirely unique, transcendent and unknowing. Beyond my understanding, that I shall willingly admit.

Together, their command was law. Not an inch of space in which to improvise, nor the slightest indication of a suggestion. It was a doctrine which we were to follow as worker bees, uncomplaining and exhausted.

[mydarlingdearestdead]

"It's been years." Rosalyn protested weakly, but I saw the ravenous glint in their eyes.

Atlas' smile was wicked, "But you're still the only person I see."

They grasped him by his shirt front and he yelped. Rosalyn led him to the master bedroom, throwing over their shoulder, "Don't need us!"

After a pause, Atlas added, "For at least 2 hours."

"More if possible!"

Linney and I exchanged incredulous glances, not quite comprehending the situation before us. Hurriedly, she rose, however, pleading, "Thank fuck, I don't live here. Night."

"What? Linney-"

"Night!"

[mydarlingdearestdead]

Despite their requirement for proximity, Rosalyn often exclaimed, "I have no idea where my husband is."

This, naturally, was my cue to attempt to locate Atlas while Linney grasped their hand and chuckled good-naturally. She soothed those requiring it, addressing the camera with a jest or quirking an elbow toward a production assistant. I never had her gift for putting people at ease and, hence, it fell to me to race down endless, unfamiliar corridors, my boots pounding against linoleum, marble, hardwood, until Atlas Carraway could be found.

Usually, he had tucked himself into an alcove or closet, distractedly chattering to an intern or speaking on the telephone to a nameless producer. Once or twice, he had simply picked up a pamphlet in reception and was engrossed. Otherwise, occasionally, he was merely lost, attempting to locate Rosalyn through movements very much similar to those I took to locate him. In those instances, it was about being quick, rather than precise.

[mydarlingdearestdead]

If I am to be graded on honesty, I would say that Linney was always in love with Rosalyn, if only be a fraction and if only if a sense entirely pure, unmarred by sexuality.

At our proximity, it was obvious. Rosalyn adored Atlas and vice versa, but it was Linney with whom they would descend into childish whispers, pressing chaste kisses to one another's cheeks. I wonder how they must have seemed in Atlas' eyes. Fools, perhaps? Or trials?

No. Strangely, I believe Atlas Carraway to be incapable of resenting another, particularly in battle over Rosalyn. They were not, after all, something he possessed. To attempt to cage Rosalyn would be as fruitless as capturing the wind in a lobster cage. Atlas was no fool.

Alas, sometimes I fear he was the only member of our band who was not.

[mydarlingdearestdead]

Linney, from the carpet by her foot, retrieved a scrap of paper. A file page, it was frayed where someone had torn it from a larger collection. On it, a name- Frederick Burrows- followed by seven digits and a crude sketch at which she scrunched her nose.

Although, truthfully, no stranger to the world of sexual intimacy, even Linney cared not for the casual detachment with which men of Frederick's calibre preformed the acts. She shivered, drawing the thin cardigan which had been liberated from the floor of Rosalyn's wardrobe tightly round her.

"So," Linney cleared her throat, forming a fist around the scrap, "Something to talk about?" Matilda, buried beneath half a dozen blankets and twice as many pillows, made a prolonged noise of discomfort.

Crossing her arms, Linney continued, "Words, Matilda. I know Rosie taught you the difference between There Their and They Are before you were three, you can vocalise now."

Lifting her head a mere inch, Matilda uttered a reply, "No."

Linney shrugged, "If you insist.", and turned to leave. She did not, however, return her prize, nor relinquish it to the waste paper basket.

[mydarlingdearestdead]

Linney's breath was quiet and even. She considered her words, hesitating before beginning slowly, "Rosie became the only type of mother they knew. That can't excuse anything they did- Rosalyn's behaviour only ever made sense to Rosalyn and, on occasion, Atlas-, but it might... explain it a little bit."

Matilda seemed, in an instant, to perk up. She invaded Linney's space, pushing forward, "Their mom was... Like mine?" She allowed Linney to reach toward her and, more so, to pull her into an embrace. Linney's perfume was something light and floral- Roses, perhaps- which engulfed the two entirely in its aroma.

"She..." Now, Linney hesitated not for want of the correct phrase, but for fear that this was not, truly, what the moment required. Yet, she pressed onward, "She tried to have them declared mentally incompetent. Rosie. Mentally fucking incompetent. You don't need me to tell you how that went."

As she spoken, Matilda had turned to gawk, searching for any trace of mirth in her expression. Finding none, she expelled a harsh, disbelieving breath, "Why? What circumstances... In what situation... Why, Linney?"

Her expression blank, Linney replied, thinking of how Rosalyn's character always seemed to boil down to the very same reality, "They loved him." She told Matilda plainly, as she had told journalists and celebrities, fanatics and politicians, friends and employees.

[mydarlingdearestdead]

Matilda threw her head back in exasperation, "He's just a man! He's called Emmet, for god's sake. It's not like I'm gonna marry him or- or anything like that."

Though Rosalyn paid her display no heed, Linney continued to press, smiling her beautiful, wicked smile, "There was a time where Rosie would've said that about your father, I'm sure."

"Well-" Rosalyn perked up now to protest, their lips pressed into a thin, distastefully sour line, "Atlas was always different."

"Yeah, married at 20, whatever." Matilda seemed to draw all the attention in the room to herself effortlessly. Once, I believe, Rosalyn had also possessed such a quality. They wore it as a badge of honour. In fact, they still do, even if the effects have minimised over time. Although Matilda was never her mother, there were many similarities, this being perhaps the most prominent and yet still a stark difference as Matilda shrunk from the attention, curling in on herself.

Rosalyn sighed, petting their daughter's shoulder with a bright, wistful expression, "You'll find it too, Tildy. Not everyone has the luck of Black Widow over here."

"Natural causes!" Linney exclaimed, burying her face in her hands, "He died of natural causes for fuck's sake, Rosie. I deal with enough from the goddamn documentary without you. Not to mention the news articles-" She turned suddenly to Matilda, "Do you know how many news articles I've been misquoted in? Jokes on them, I'm suing the lot. I'll see The Daily Hippopotamus or whatever the fuck it's called in court."

Rosalyn yawned, "The Herald. She means The Herald Of Iris, the one run out of that dingy basement place." They addressed Matilda, though their eyes never left their manicure throughout the conversation."

Without warning, all the strength left Matilda's legs, as the blood drained from her face. She produced a smile from somewhere and directed the malicious thing at Rosalyn- The least she could do.

[mydarlingdearestdead]

Rosalyn threw their head back in a roar, "I'm his wife! What does that count for if not-"

Linney forced a jovial tone as she clawed at Rosalyn's arm, effectively silencing them, "Rosie, calm the fuck down before we're thrown out of the country nevermind the building." I saw the bloody cresent shapes in their arm where Linney's talons had punctured, "Okay?"

Reluctant, wincing, Rosalyn nodded, "Okay." They said, "Fine, whatever."

Only now did Linney release her grip on them. She stepped forward, polite smile in tact, and addressed the receptionist who, if I may say so, had gone the colour of the gooseberries Rosalyn adored so much, "Atlas Carraway. Arrived by ambulance, he should have had some identification when you brought him in. He's white, blond, brown eyes. This is Rosalyn Carraway- They've been married for four years, yes they were very young, yes they still are. Atlas is an... Alcoholic. His liver is wrecked, he collapsed while at a film festival in Canterbury." All of a sudden, her words seemed to evaporate on her lips, "I... I don't know what else to say."

The receptionist swallowed, beginning shakily, "No one by the name-"

"Atlas Blake-Carson." If I were to attach a description to Rosalyn's manner in that moment, I do not think myself able. Many words fit, you see, to an extent- Fractured, helpless, small- but none can adequately describe them. Rosalyn without Atlas, like the heart without their companion of the lungs or Penn lacking Teller. When they breathed, it was a mere rattle.

Finally- Finally- the receptionist managed a smile, "If you'll follow me?"