Thread: Southern Girl [ Ariamella & Reydan ]

RE Southern Girl Ariamella Reydan Virgil, weak at the knees, allowed himself to be lowered into the chair and, at Camilla's urging, drank down the mixture of scotch and opium that Hoskins brought in a heavy glass tumbler. It was an odd mix of sweetness and bitterness, and he couldn't help smiling sarcastically. Just like this evening. His side throbbed, a dull pain now, but a constant reminder. He was barely listening to the conversation, but bits and pieces flooded into a consciousness increasingly hazy with opiate. He'd never had a head for the stuff. Her brother...gone. He wondered which one. Which one had fought for the North? He tried to reach for names, faces, people he had grown up with, but the details kept fogging, dancing in and out of the reach of his brain. He frowned, memories continuing to flood back unbidden. When you marry my sister.... A young man, same sun-kissed skin and blonde hair as his sister, paused in a room wafting with cigar smoke and the warmth of a Virginia evening. Leave off... He heard his own voice, younger and keener, full of laughter, and he felt the smooth wood of the pool cue in his hands. Dead sure! the other brother spoke from behind Virgil, his face and name a blur too, slapping him on the shoulder. Dead sure echoed the first, leaning in to take a game-winning shot. He straightened, still chuckling, eyes triumphant. When you marry my sister you must take her in hand! She's a little madam, that one, and you'll need to keep her in check as her husband! Keep who in check I wonder? came a soft voice from the door and in Virgil's addled memory a figure seemed to glide across the room. Lucy, soft and gorgeous, but smiling wickedly at their discomfort, pressed in between him and the pool table. Her lips were a stained deep red, and she held a glass of what looked to all like red wine in her hand. Yet Virgil knew it would be cherry cordial, so strong the spoon almost stood up in it. She loved sweet things, Lucy, and also the pretense of being a sophisticated drinker. Just teasing he murmured, reaching up and stroking her cheek, his lips inclining to her own... He jerked back to the present, aching and muddled, to hear Lucille finish her speech. And suddenly he was angry. Angry with...he didn't know what. Her. Himself. The War. Every God damned thing. Slaves he croaked, his voice thick and stretched with the drink and drugs, they kept slaves Adrian. That was why they fought. He waved his hand passionately, weaving a drunken pattern in the air, getting into his staggering stride. They kept people as chattel, chained and whipped, until they worked themselves to the bone for them. All that guff about tradition and agriculture and...and... he glared at Lucille, hating himself as much as her, it was all built on cruelty. Cruelty to fellow men. He turned, facing Adrian, not seeing the fright in the young man's face. They branded them, he hissed, glaring still, chained them together. And if they tried to run away he drew his finger across his throat in a sickening cutting motion. That's what the South's grand cultures and traditions amount to. He slammed the table, making the assembled company jolt and the silverware clatter. Visions of all those dead friends, those boys in blue who had followed him into that accursed Georgia valley. All because of slavery. The Union forever! Hurrah Boys Hurrah! he sang drunkenly, slurring the words, Down with the Traitor and Up with the Star! Then he realized no-one else was singing. Adrian was white faced. Several people were crying. Only Camilla was looking at him admiringly and the sensation made him sick. He didn't remember being taken upstairs. Only lying on his back and watching, hazily, Camilla unpin her hair dressed in only her shift. You were very brave, you know, she smiled. It was a terrible place, the South, with its horrors and unspeakable depravity. I am so glad you saw the light. She paused, smiling, her face golden in the gaslight. I think its good for my cousin to be put in her place when it comes to the war. You should really come back to chapel, hear the assembly. We're lobbying our Representative to be harsher on the Rebel states. Less money and more land appropriations. Leave them be Camilla he mumbled, unable to meet her eye. They lost. She sighed, unfurling her hair. She ran a tenative hand along his lower leg. Would you like me to stay... she began, but he could sense the hesitation in her voice. He knew, as always, that even this offer of intercourse would be laced with guilt on her part. He rolled onto his side, still hating himself, and listened as she settled in bed, unable to tell if her sigh was one of sadness or relief. He lay awake. Unable to sleep. Fearing to dream. Yet the memory came anyway. The worst one. The horrible one. Virgil! His father thundered. The map book lay, scuffed and ripped, on his oak desk. Do you know? Do you KNOW? He rubbed his fingers into his furrowed forehead and seven year old Virgil sank into his chair further. His father was angrier than he had ever seen him. This was a gift to my Grandfather! he roared From Thomas Jefferson! I have told you time and again not to play with it. Not to touch it! Not to even think of it! Jackson! he roared, and his overseer entered, clutching the cane. Virgil froze, whimpering a little, at the sight of it. His father had struck him before. Many times. But the cane was for the slaves. Thick and lined and heavy. Then small, terrified, Virgil Abernathy did the unthinkable. It was Solomon! he screeched. Solomon, the little house slave. The serving boy. Virgil's best friend. And, when Virgil saw his father's face, that furious mask, he wished he could cram the words back into his mouth. He rose. It was dark. Maybe 1am? 2? He wasn't sure. Heavy feet compelled him out of the door and into the silent corridor. With trembling heart he tapped at her door. Lucy's door. He needed her apology. Didn't deserve it. But, in that witching hour when guilt was heavy upon him, Virgil needed it anyway.