Post by Regan Kelly on May 17, 2005 13:02:16 GMT -8
1860.
He ran his fingers over her face, watching her intently. She stared at him in disbelief, pulling her cheek away as she mentally recalled his question, shocked.
"I think I deserve to know if you love me, Josie."
She pursed her lips, sitting up in the bed. "Thomas, that is the dumbest thing I have ever heard come out of your mouth. Do I love you?"
Josie scrambled out of the bed, wrapping a sheet around her as she went, wavy hair tumbling into her eyes.
"But Josie.."
"No. Don't you 'But Josie' me, Tommy Murphy." She shook her finger at him, chin pulling up and nostrils flaring in irritation.
"I am my own woman, Thomas. I am Josephine Kelliher. Not Josie, not your sweetheart, your darling, anything like that. We did what we did..."
"Because we love each other!"
"No!"
She stomped her foot, bed sheet held against her chest, giving a small frustrated shriek.
"Because you think you love me, Thomas. Because I wanted you, and because I was alone. With the exception of your father, no one I consider family is left to me. I did this because I needed to feel alive. Because I could trust you. Not out of love. After three months, I thought you would-"
She took an unsteady breath, looking down to her feet. She could hear Thomas slide out of the bed. He took a brief, hurt breath before pulling his clothes on.
"You should leave, Thomas. We don't love each other like that, and I will not be your bride or your girl or anything else. My father left me a business, and I refuse to let him down by rolling over and accepting the first man who comes knocking. Or any man, as long as I have the stage line to take care of."
He pushed his blond hair out of his eyes, nearly spitting. "You don't know a good thing when you see it in front of you, Josephine. You could've been a wife. A mother."
She waited till he left to cry. Eventually, she would wipe the tears off her face as she sat on the edge of the bed, mourning that she couldn't love him. She'd tried, and she couldn't.
Josephine left the empty bed the next morning as lead driver on the Kelliher Stage Lines route to Dallas.
_________________________
Texas, August 1, 1860. Evening.
"In the heat and in the din
Yes, in the heat and in the din."
-John Finn's Wife, Nick Cave
They shot the horses first. It had been a brutal sound as the guns fired from the darkness, stage horses screaming as they had begun to crumple, stage groaning as it begun its' descent to the ground.
She had hit the ground shortly after the stage toppled, and it all blurred from after that moment. Screams, horse and passenger. Pounding hooves, impossibly loud from on the ground. She could hear Bill swearing, her next best driver on the line who had come with her, due to the temperment of Dallas and a sense of intuition. She could hear gunfire.
She could taste the blood in her mouth, feel it trickling across her face, and she lifted her guns.
her father had made her swear with his dying breath that she would carry his guns
There was moonlight, but not much. She had been gifted that much advantage. The men out there didn't have the gifts her father's tutelage had given her.
She crawled through the dust and blood, flat on the ground near the collapsed coach, the blood of the stage horses mixing with the dirt.
Josephine listened to the screams in a corner of her mind, and she nearly wept as put the need to survive over her need to stop and scream in pain and horror. She could feel every aching, bleeding tear and hole in her body.
..Hole?
She could feel a numbness in her side, a cold fire that seeped black liquid. It was the night that turned it black.
Horses dropped to the ground screaming. Bill dropped without a sound; he'd left himself too open while taking aim in his sequence of shots, the price of his mistake soaking across his chest. The blood, like her own, appeared black in the moonlight.
She forced herself upright, crouched into the shadow of the stage, her father's voice in her mind.
Aim with your eye, Josie.
She pulled the trigger, over and over, shutting her left eye, useless from the blood trickling into it. She listened to her passengers die, registered in the far reaches of her mind that she would die out here, if not from blood loss, then from what robbers would do to her, if any survived. She couldn't remember if she had been firing already, whether or not this was a continuation of a few early shots, a phenomena her father was no longer alive to tell her about, even if she did survive.
She managed to reload, in the din of spilling blood and screams. She ignored the the depth of some shadows, out beyond her vision. That could, that would, matter later. It ended far quicker then she thought it should, despite her father's stories of similiar night skirmishes along the border, the place he and his wife had plied their trade. Josephine slunk wearily against the remnants of the coach, eyes and nose taking in what her mind couldn't. The scent and sights of death. Bill. Mr. Leighton. Mr. Covington. Mr. Vance. Dead.
Bandits? Horses?
She could see four of their dead horses, one barely. Four bodies. One horse and rider missing. She held one gun in a now slightly tremourous hand, holstering the other gun, now empty. She strained her hearing, only now cursing that it was good eyes she had always posessed, not good ears. She held her breath. Beyond the pounding of her heart and the singing of her blood, she could almost hear it. The last horse, and someone dragging along beside it.
It was the strangled shout that caused her to raise her revolver, barely managing standing in the blood and dust and splinters, knowing that she was in too much pain and too hazy to remember if there was any more bullets in the right revolver. She sunk to her knees, breathing in shallow gasps, her eyes straining at the night beyond the pooling, fading moonlight. She could hear the boots as they came closer, out of the darkness. When he came into the clear, she raised her gun, cupping her half-numb hand beneath her wrist. Her eyes met the eyes half-hid by the brim of a hat, and he slid it off when he came to a stop, a few feet from her.
When she pulled the trigger, the gun clicked. Empty.
He looked into her face, and when he didn't see tears fall, he smiled. He moved in and knelt in front of her, wrapped a strong arm around her, sinking
into her, into her very blood, dear God oh Dear God
[the last escaped as a breathy exclimation, eyes fluttering as]
-his fangs sank into her throat, holding her tightly in his left arm, right arm snaking around her, to hold her upright as he began to
drink.
Her gun dropped into the dirt as her eyes closed, and he smiled against her throat.
He ran his fingers over her face, watching her intently. She stared at him in disbelief, pulling her cheek away as she mentally recalled his question, shocked.
"I think I deserve to know if you love me, Josie."
She pursed her lips, sitting up in the bed. "Thomas, that is the dumbest thing I have ever heard come out of your mouth. Do I love you?"
Josie scrambled out of the bed, wrapping a sheet around her as she went, wavy hair tumbling into her eyes.
"But Josie.."
"No. Don't you 'But Josie' me, Tommy Murphy." She shook her finger at him, chin pulling up and nostrils flaring in irritation.
"I am my own woman, Thomas. I am Josephine Kelliher. Not Josie, not your sweetheart, your darling, anything like that. We did what we did..."
"Because we love each other!"
"No!"
She stomped her foot, bed sheet held against her chest, giving a small frustrated shriek.
"Because you think you love me, Thomas. Because I wanted you, and because I was alone. With the exception of your father, no one I consider family is left to me. I did this because I needed to feel alive. Because I could trust you. Not out of love. After three months, I thought you would-"
She took an unsteady breath, looking down to her feet. She could hear Thomas slide out of the bed. He took a brief, hurt breath before pulling his clothes on.
"You should leave, Thomas. We don't love each other like that, and I will not be your bride or your girl or anything else. My father left me a business, and I refuse to let him down by rolling over and accepting the first man who comes knocking. Or any man, as long as I have the stage line to take care of."
He pushed his blond hair out of his eyes, nearly spitting. "You don't know a good thing when you see it in front of you, Josephine. You could've been a wife. A mother."
She waited till he left to cry. Eventually, she would wipe the tears off her face as she sat on the edge of the bed, mourning that she couldn't love him. She'd tried, and she couldn't.
Josephine left the empty bed the next morning as lead driver on the Kelliher Stage Lines route to Dallas.
_________________________
Texas, August 1, 1860. Evening.
"In the heat and in the din
Yes, in the heat and in the din."
-John Finn's Wife, Nick Cave
They shot the horses first. It had been a brutal sound as the guns fired from the darkness, stage horses screaming as they had begun to crumple, stage groaning as it begun its' descent to the ground.
She had hit the ground shortly after the stage toppled, and it all blurred from after that moment. Screams, horse and passenger. Pounding hooves, impossibly loud from on the ground. She could hear Bill swearing, her next best driver on the line who had come with her, due to the temperment of Dallas and a sense of intuition. She could hear gunfire.
She could taste the blood in her mouth, feel it trickling across her face, and she lifted her guns.
her father had made her swear with his dying breath that she would carry his guns
There was moonlight, but not much. She had been gifted that much advantage. The men out there didn't have the gifts her father's tutelage had given her.
She crawled through the dust and blood, flat on the ground near the collapsed coach, the blood of the stage horses mixing with the dirt.
Josephine listened to the screams in a corner of her mind, and she nearly wept as put the need to survive over her need to stop and scream in pain and horror. She could feel every aching, bleeding tear and hole in her body.
..Hole?
She could feel a numbness in her side, a cold fire that seeped black liquid. It was the night that turned it black.
Horses dropped to the ground screaming. Bill dropped without a sound; he'd left himself too open while taking aim in his sequence of shots, the price of his mistake soaking across his chest. The blood, like her own, appeared black in the moonlight.
She forced herself upright, crouched into the shadow of the stage, her father's voice in her mind.
Aim with your eye, Josie.
She pulled the trigger, over and over, shutting her left eye, useless from the blood trickling into it. She listened to her passengers die, registered in the far reaches of her mind that she would die out here, if not from blood loss, then from what robbers would do to her, if any survived. She couldn't remember if she had been firing already, whether or not this was a continuation of a few early shots, a phenomena her father was no longer alive to tell her about, even if she did survive.
She managed to reload, in the din of spilling blood and screams. She ignored the the depth of some shadows, out beyond her vision. That could, that would, matter later. It ended far quicker then she thought it should, despite her father's stories of similiar night skirmishes along the border, the place he and his wife had plied their trade. Josephine slunk wearily against the remnants of the coach, eyes and nose taking in what her mind couldn't. The scent and sights of death. Bill. Mr. Leighton. Mr. Covington. Mr. Vance. Dead.
Bandits? Horses?
She could see four of their dead horses, one barely. Four bodies. One horse and rider missing. She held one gun in a now slightly tremourous hand, holstering the other gun, now empty. She strained her hearing, only now cursing that it was good eyes she had always posessed, not good ears. She held her breath. Beyond the pounding of her heart and the singing of her blood, she could almost hear it. The last horse, and someone dragging along beside it.
It was the strangled shout that caused her to raise her revolver, barely managing standing in the blood and dust and splinters, knowing that she was in too much pain and too hazy to remember if there was any more bullets in the right revolver. She sunk to her knees, breathing in shallow gasps, her eyes straining at the night beyond the pooling, fading moonlight. She could hear the boots as they came closer, out of the darkness. When he came into the clear, she raised her gun, cupping her half-numb hand beneath her wrist. Her eyes met the eyes half-hid by the brim of a hat, and he slid it off when he came to a stop, a few feet from her.
When she pulled the trigger, the gun clicked. Empty.
He looked into her face, and when he didn't see tears fall, he smiled. He moved in and knelt in front of her, wrapped a strong arm around her, sinking
into her, into her very blood, dear God oh Dear God
[the last escaped as a breathy exclimation, eyes fluttering as]
-his fangs sank into her throat, holding her tightly in his left arm, right arm snaking around her, to hold her upright as he began to
drink.
Her gun dropped into the dirt as her eyes closed, and he smiled against her throat.
