The days pass by her, hours stretching out as if all merged into one. In truth, she's not really sure how many days its been, how many sunrises and sunsets have slipped by. Just that she's faced them without him by her side. She seeks out her mother's company in her time of need, the childlike instinct within her telling her she would somehow make it better. She's grateful her mother chooses not to comment on the situation, though she knows she will no doubt have her reservations. In fact, aside from one comment in the back of Ron's car on the way home from the incident, she hadn't mentioned Flip at all.
"Phillip showed a lot of bravery today. He risked his own life for ours, and no matter what happens the church... and I will never forget him for that." She clutched her daughter's still-bloodied hands as she said the words.
A single tear had fallen from her eye, coursed down her cheek and settled on the base of her chin. Though her mother was likely still far from accepting her choice of man, she had at least begun to respect him in some way, and for now, that was enough. Since that day she had lived out her days hauled up in her childhood bedroom, clutching the sheets as if they might grant her the comfort she had once known as a girl.
They can offer no such thing.
The sunshine coloured walls do little to ease her mind, the plush carpet she had once sunk her toes into as a little girl barely even registers for her. Even her trusted childhood companion Mr. Brown, a tattered teddy bear with stitching so loose that its right arm dangles delicately from his body, can't keep her sane. Though that doesn't stop her clutching him tight every night. She feels hollow, as if everything that had brought her joy has been stripped away. Her mind is never far from that day: the pastor's sermon about redemption, the sound of Ron's singing voice blending in with that of the congregation, the gunshots firing out in the distance, her heeled feet pounding against the ground as she had run to Flip, the warm sensation of his blood spreading across her palms. It replays over and over like a broken record, and yet, the pain never subsides. On the odd occasion that she sleeps, it's his face she sees behind her eyelids, clutching to life in the visions that plague her. Sometimes she stirs from her sleep in the middle of the night, so sure that she had heard his voice call out that she was convinced he'd be waiting for her when she woke.
It never happens.
Her mother tries her best to keep her distracted. Has her repairing hems in her finest Sunday skirts, tending to weeds in the garden, chopping vegetables for dinner. Though they do most of the activities in silence, though the simple brush of hands whilst chopping carrots and mashing potatoes lets her know there is a quiet compassion there. She can't help but pass a smile as she watches her daughter stuff some of the small chopped carrots into her mouth, the sound of her crunching the only sound besides the running water in the sink.
"You know I used to have to force you to eat those when you were little," she half-chuckles.
It's the only reason she's had to smile in the past few days, watching her youngest child slowly wither away hasn't given her much cause for happiness.
"I don't know I'm just... really in the mood for carrots lately," she pipes up softly, her voice a mere croak.
It's the first time she's heard her daughter speak since Sunday, having gotten used to the sound of her soft cries instead. The majority of their company is spent in silence, a mutual understanding connecting the women. It was in times like these that she learnt to really appreciate the depth of her mother's love. To take her back in and care for her in the best way she knew how after their last meeting had been spent arguing over the man that had landed them in this situation. Even the little details emanate the love shared between them. The plates of her favourite foods left outside her door on the days she struggles to make it out of bed. The fresh flowers picked from the garden and placed on the vase in her room. The way her mother's door is always left ajar during the night, a subtle invitation to come inside at the slightest upset. They let her know that regardless of her romantic choices, she will always be her daughter.
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Against my better judgement
FanfictionIn 1972 the Colorado Springs Police Department isn't the ideal workplace for a black woman, but one man makes it worth it. His name is Flip Zimmerman. Against the odds, they fall for each other. But things become complicated as his role with the KKK...
