. She works happily and blindly in her kitchen, humming without a care in the world. She waits for noon, when her baby boy will return to her kisses and hugs. He would return, because he'd promised it.
May Castellan dumped a tray of burned cookies into the large glass jar that was labeled boldly with the word "cookies." It was filled to the rim with those horrid pieces of charcoal, so most of the cookies she'd just added to the collection fell away to the kitchen counter that the jar was sitting on.
She didn't seem to notice this at all.
She just tossed the greased-covered tray into the sink with a loud "bang" and moved on to work on another errand.
As she wandered somewhat unconsciously past the kitchen clock, she gasped. It was almost noon!
"Oh, my. Luke will be home soon!" she cried.
Dear, I'm such a mess. I haven't even prepared his peanut butter sandwiches yet! She thought hurriedly as she grabbed a loaf of bread and a jar of moldy peanut butter.
She didn't even seem to be aware of the mountain of Tupperware boxes on the kitchen table that were overflowing with peanut butter sandwiches.
As she spread a chunk of beige paste over the flaky, thin slice of bread that was beginning to have a suspicious odor, an uneasy feeling that was buried deep inside of her nagged at the surface of her thoughts.
It was barely there. But it kept whispering to her.
It'll never happen. ( She wondered what that was supposed to mean.)
May frowned and tried to brush the feeling aside. She smeared a glob of strawberry jelly across the top of the peanut butter.
Why did the jelly remind her of blood?
"Oh, nonsense!" she snapped to herself brightly, her tone scolding and overly bright. She checked the clock again. It was ticking towards five to twelve.
She was sure that the sensation that had just washed over her was excitement and anticipation, not dread.
Why did she suspect dread?
Ah… it was that little annoying voice whispering to her again. How silly!
She scooped up the prepared sandwich and placed it on a small china plate and set it on the kitchen table, which was almost fully occupied by the hundreds of other sandwiches she'd prepared for Luke the hundreds of other times she'd waited for him to come home when it was noon.
I'll be back for lunch, he had said.
"Yes," May said aloud to herself, trying to sound confident. "Luke promised. My baby boy promised!"
Her nose started to itch.
May wrinkled her nose and tried to ignore it. But it became too great for her to resist, so she reached up and scratched it lightly, forgetting that her fingers were coated with peanut butter.
"Oh, dear! I got it on my face," she mumbled.
She reached for a wet rag that she thought she saw lying limply by the sink. She blinked, and the rag was gone.
I'm seeing things now, she thought.
She tried not to let her mind wander further into that subject than it already had.
May padded down the hallway to the bathroom. She turned the faucets on and plunged her hands into the icy water.
The water was on full blast, roaring in her ears. But May couldn't hear it. She was deaf to everything but her own thoughts.
She had begun feeling extremely weak ever since sometime in August. She was sure that something drastic had happened then, but she didn't know what.
The weakness was consuming her inside-out. It was became a horrific, difficult, and dreaded task to drag herself out of bed in the morning, only to wander around aimlessly like a loner.
As she looked up into the mirror, she startled herself.
Was the frail, old woman that was staring back at her in aghast really her?
Could that really be... was it really May Castellan? May Castellan, who was beautiful and cheery and youthful? ( Ah, "was." Doesn't mean she has to be anymore.)
Oh, and the horror of her eyes, her unnaturally stretched and brighter-than-a-light-bulb eyes. Something really was wrong. Was it really her?
It couldn't be, she decided.
As she turned off the faucets, wiped her hands on a rough towel, and returned to the kitchen, she thought she saw that little intruder inside of her smirking, as if he knew something she didn't.
She beamed with pride at the picture of Hermes that hung on the kitchen wall.
He was the most handsome man that she'd ever met.
May Castellan adored his bright blue eyes, his dark blonde hair. He looked just like their son Luke. There was no other better way to describe it.
But those eyes didn't stare back at her with just kindness and what Hermes just was. They now stared back at him with caution, despair, and pity.
Caution, because he was aware of what could happen to her if she knew what had happened to Luke.
Despair, because he knew she was always waiting for a son who would never return home.
Pity, because it broke his immortal heart over and over to see her so close to the truth, yet so blind to it. (Oh, how he wished he could be able to die now. It hurt him too much to see her wither away like this.)
But May couldn't see any of that.
The clock ticked past twelve.
And she thought, "Oh, Luke's just late."
So she happily returned to the kitchen.
Her faith in the thought that Luke would return to Westport for lunch was ruining her, though slowly.
It was just a thought, and it was a false thought.
She was going blind.
She was losing it.
(But poor May Castellan would never stop waiting for what would never happen. Luke was her baby boy. He promised he would come back.)
Meh. That was probably BAD. Flames are expected, and CC is craved.
I know that a little more emotion and description wouldn't hurt in this.
It was short, but maybe not short enough to be a drabble.
Please don't fave without reviewing first. I find that useless to me, although I do appreciate the action of you faving it :) (though I doubt anybody would like this. I just decided there weren't enough May Castellan fics around)