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Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody

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Thursday, July 13th, 2006
6:42 pm - Mattie
I dropped off wee Catherine just before midnight on the 11th. I’ve chided myself quite often for mooning about like a lovesick female Hogwarts third-year when I’ve thought of her. Rosie has asked several times if the little tyke is in my thoughts. I deny it, of course, and she knows I’m lying, of course. Read more...Collapse )
Tuesday, July 11th, 2006
9:34 pm
Six days ago I proposed matrimony to my dearest Rosie. We want it to be a secret for the time being, but my Patronus is trying to give me away.

Minerva McGonagall, Filius Flitwick, and I Apparate right into a battle zone in Godric’s Hollow. The village is of no strategic or tactical value. There are mostly Muggle living there with a small wizarding enclave of no significance. They are nice enough, I’m sure, but their destruction would accomplish nothing. Read more...Collapse )
Wednesday, July 5th, 2006
2:33 pm - Potter's Return
Early the morning of July 5th

“Al…. Al! – Oh, Alastor. I thought you’d stopped this.”

It was Rosie voice that called me back from my self-created oblivion.

I never was much of a drunk. Constant vigilance kept me from it. But several years ago Rosemerta, before she was my Rosie, saw that I needed a bender one evening. So, she gave me access to an Unplottable room in the Three Broomsticks that had been used during the Goblin Rebellion planning sessions centuries ago. Read more...Collapse )
Sunday, April 16th, 2006
8:57 pm
Ernest is the perfect name for this earnest young Macmillan standing before me with that chocolate eating grin on his face. We haven’t even walked the course, but Ernie seems to think I want to count all his teeth, the way he’s smiling. We’ve just left the old greenhouse converted to a fitness center. Read more...Collapse )
Sunday, February 19th, 2006
6:17 pm - Confounded, beautiful woman; knows me too well.
“Rosmerta, dear, I’ve… I’ve come to a compelling and fearful decision.”

I now value my dear one’s opinion too much to ignore it, but confound it all, I am not used to seeking anyone’s opinion or even approval. I do consult with my fellow triumvirs on Order of the Phoenix business, but I have my responsibilities and they have theirs. Read more...Collapse )
Sunday, February 5th, 2006
9:20 pm - Gone Too Long

It’s been six ruddy weeks and I thought it would be three, four at the most. Read more...Collapse )
Wednesday, November 30th, 2005
8:52 pm - It’s not the courage to say, “Hullo,” I lack.
Blast it all.

It’s not the courage to say, “Hullo,” I lack.

- -

It’s the courage to say, “Goodbye.”

- -

In 1943, I proposed marriage to Constance Magilicuddy. Just a slip of a girl she’d a’been, if she t’weren’t just under 18 hands high - 5’ 10". Rail thin. Nose just a little too pointed. Deepest, darkest blue eyes that could pierce your heart with a glare and freeze rubbing alcohol, or smile and melt away a pained feeling. Standard issue brown hair. A laugh that lilted across the room….

- -

I’m drunk, snockered, pickled, corked, blinded. If I had two eyes I’d be cross-eyed. Ugly, maudlin, sobbing, smashed. But not drunk enough. I still feel.

Moxie! Where is that house-elf. Oh, how long have you been standin’ ther’?”

Nevermind. Another of Ogden’s Best.

Of course young master is i-beni- inebrenti- inebriated. But not enough! Another, Moxie, please. Please, dear. My heart hurts somethin’ fierce. At’sa good girl.

U’d only do this at The Fastness. Mellennia old family wards and a battle trained staff of house-elves I treat as well as they let me. Ye don’ buy loyalty, ye earn it.

- -

Oh, drat. Must’ve dozed off a bit. Oh, Constance. Why’d we…? Why could’n’ve we gone ahead?

I know, dear heart. The mission.

- -

In 1943 Constance and I had gone through a number of advanced training courses, SOE training with the Muggles, and the American Wizarding Volunteer espionage training.

No one spoke French like Constance did, except for me. We’d both had au pairs from the same village in France who’d raised us from wee babes. That’s how we met – in the service with Dumbledore’s Dare Devils. Only took those with native language skills for countries all over the continent.

Both our French au pairs came from the village of Cahors in south central France, in the former county of Quercy, on the Lot River. It had existed since long before Julius Ceasar’s conquest of Gaul. It had been a strong center of the Gaulish equivalent of Druidic activities since the fourth century B.C. There had been a good deal of experimenting with longevity spells back then, and Grindewald had a research facility there.

All local resistance dried up there in January of 1943, and Grindewald began going there on some sort of regular basis. We were assigned to go in, infiltrate and see what had been developed, destroy all we could, but only after ascertaining if the research had succeeded, and if the information had been removed.

Oh, Constance.

I proposed marriage and three days before the blessed event Constance found out that if we’d wed, she’d be removed from the assignment.

For a woman who never swore, it was an amazing display of pyrotechnic profanity she hurled at me. It took me twenty hours of constant pleading, shouting, screaming, crying, and a good bit of snogging in the end to convince her to only postpone the wedding, not cancel it.

I had a terrible premonition.

Of course we succeeded.

Of course we were caught just as we destroyed all the research and were about to Portkey all of the bound research personnel back to our base in England.

Of course… I lived… though badly… hurt.

O... course… Constance… didn’t….

Grindewald had thrown up Anti-Apparation wards as he entered the building and saw what we were about. I fought him off for the minute she needed to send the researchers on. In the end I was badly wounded by some of his mischief. Constance activated a five second delayed Portkey and laid it on top of me. She let go of it for just a sec to fire off a hex.

The Killing Curse hit her in the chest and knocked clean over me. I missed touching her foot to bring her body back by an inch, maybe two…

- -

I had nothing to bury.

Her body was never found.

- -

It’s not the courage to say, “Hullo,” I lack. I’ve talked to this new lass of mine for years before she expressed an interest. Proper lady she is, though not in the lords and ladies manner. Sweet. Caring. Lovely. Much too good for me. But she’s made it clear enough even for a thick old warhorse like me. She’s asked me out, and Lord love me… I accepted.

- -

It’s not the courage to say, “Hullo,” I lack.

- -

It’s the courage to say, “Goodbye.”

- -

I need another bottle.
Friday, November 18th, 2005
8:23 pm - Just a Walk in the Park - Yeah, Right

I was discharged from St. Mungo’s in the spring of 1982 with a magical eye and a peg leg. Healer Dilklein seemed to think I needed to, believe it or not, exercise to learn to use my new prosthesis as a leg, and then to recover and/or recreate my former agility. I was just a young sixty-six at the time, but I realized I needed to follow his advice.

I trained very hard, and at about the time I could do everything I’d been capable of before the loss of my leg, except walk quietly on a wooden floor, I realized I’d become one of those blooming fanatics about physical training.

So now I take a daily constitutional. You young’eens never seem to recognize the word. No, it’s not a colonial governmental document. It’s a daily jaunt for your physical constitution’s wellbeing. Don’t they teach the King’s, er Queen’s English anymore?

Three days a week, if at all possible, you’ll find me going over a course I’ve laid out on my family’s estate, The Fastness. Endurance, agility, strength training, and a number of surprise nasties that pop up to help me maintain constant vigilance.

Sunday is usually my day of rest, but the other three days I make my way surreptitiously through Muggle territory. I go to the Darlands Nature Reserve, Hampstead Heath, or Richmond Park. In these constitutionals I do break a generous sweat, but I also practice stealth and deception. Muggles are not all over at the time of day I go, but there are enough to make avoiding them a major part of the rigors of the effort.

Each of these three locations have six Apparation points I’ve mapped out, and I roll a pair of dice each morning to decide where to go. One die is marked 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, and 3. That one decides which of the three I visit. The second regularly marked die determines which of the six points in the park chosen that I start from.

Randomness is a major security factor. Constant vigilance.

Now I just said that Sunday is usually my day of rest, but because of other activities, I had missed two regular days this past week. I was such a splendid day that I had a go outside, and the dice sent me to Hampstead Heath. ‘Twas fate perhaps. There, I found myself avoiding a long string of running Muggles. By making my way through shrubbery about ten or twelve feet back from an established trail, I was able to make my way unseen past a group of runners stopping briefly for one to retie her trainers. Just as I reached the point where I was about to exit my go-around, I heard the obvious pop of Apparation.

Of course I rolled and came up firing a set of Stunning Spells, but they missed, if you can believe it. Before I started in on a set of Bludgeoning Spells, I heard my name called, and saw the lad dodging my spells had his hands raised to prove himself no threat.

A moment later, I recognized young Macmillan. I wracked my brains and there in its deepest recess, I recalled my old friend and comrade at arms, Col. Archibald Macmillan. I remembered his blue eyes cloud over as he talked about his orphaned boy. Now, what is the wee lad’s name again? Ernie! Of course, the poor lad lost his mother at birth.

I’d heard of the first rate job he’d done on the diplomatic mission protecting the lives of our delegates, and saving the life of the representative from Byelorussia. It’s not the kind of work that usually receives medals, but he should have one just the same.

But who ever asks for my opinion? I give it just the same, but no one listens.

The rest of the morning turned into a fine visit with young Ernie, his Muggle stepmother, and, of course, Archibald. Mrs Catherine MacMillan through all intends and purposes, is the very heart and soul that pulled father and son out of loneliness, bless her! She is not a bad cook either, bless her even more says the bachelor! I even had a pint or two with Ernie and his dad.

- -

I must be becoming soft, or slow witted, or both. No one gave me a ruddy shoulder to cry on when I first killed another, but those were different times. For some reason, I can’t seem to stop caring for these young’eens in Potter’s generation.

I feel like we’re in the eye of a storm. Voldemort is gone, and with him the ‘quality’ of evil shall we say. No one has or will ever be as bad as he was, God willing. But I feel in my bones that the ‘quantity’ of evil is about to increase. Voldemort and fifty to a hundred Death Eaters is one thing, but what about the rest of his escaped lot? Lucius Malfoy, Pettigrew, Snape, Bellatrix Lestrange – what if each of these recruits a hundred each?

Sends shivers even down my peg leg.

It’s these lads, and the young lasses that will fight them. And I’ll be there too. But their shoulders will carry the bulk of the fight.

Oh my giddy Aunt Morgana. I feel like a grandfather ten times over and ten times again.

Saturday, November 5th, 2005
10:43 pm - Someone asked for my bio, blast-it-all
I never can remember who said it. And I'm probably not quoting it exactly right, but some Muggle once said, "Tis a fool who believes the price for freedom can be paid only once, and only once in blood."

Well, that's my bleeding life, as honorable and as miserable as it's been. I can't seem to stay away from a fight, and every fight is for the freedom of the world. I'm a bleeding living melodrama.

I'm good for nothing else I 'sppose. Bloody Grindelwald. Bloody Voldemort. Twice. The bloody ones who slipped away. May they all slow roast on a spit in Perdition with a dementor turning the crank.

Merlin's housecoat, why can't we just kill them all in one last battle so I can die in peace?

I miss Constance.



Hmm? Oh, yes, my biography. Don't you know that if I write it about myself, it's an autobiography?

Yes, well, I was born in 1915 at the Moody family estate, called The Fastness, just east of Fingringhoe, a little village south of Colchester. (I know I only look to be sixty or so, but I am eighty-seven in this, the year of our Lord, 2002.) The Muggle maps of the area just east of Fingringhoe show it as a Danger Zone for whatever purposes suit their fancy - but the wards, disillusionments, and other dissuaders we've erected over the millennia do the job, even correcting Muggle cartographic efforts. My family's lands date back over nine hundred years before Hogwarts.

In 61 A.D., Celtic Queen Boudicca, led her army to sack and burn the Roman city of Londinium (now known as London of course). Then Roman Governor Gaius Suetonius Paulinus returned the favor and defeated her armies, and finally put down the last Celtic uprising incited by the evil version of Druids in England at that time. It wasn't what you think of as druidism today.

My ancestor fought along side the other wielders of magicae as it was known then, with the Romans, following in the footsteps of Willen the Great Olivehander that discovered, developed, and brought magik to England in 382 B.C. His was magic as we know it now, which was then opposed to that particularly nefarious flavor of druidic sorcery.

He was Alastoria Moddia. The family name was conferred along with the land grant. Moddia comes from the Latin word modicus, for unnoticed or undistinguished, and the Latin word diabolus, for the devil.

In short, the 'one who goes unnoticed like a devil,' a spy.

After years of spying on Boudicca and her forces in their very capital of Colchester, my many times great-grandfather, Alastoria, was given our family estate as a writ of spoils for his personally dangerous services rendered.

Since then many a witch and wizard has carried or carries the patronym, 'Moody,' and they wear it proudly, but my immediate family owns the original Moddia lands.

Through out the centuries Moodys have been bankers, solicitors, Ministry officials, and administrators of all types and professions. Most of them have been either Hufflepuffs or Ravenclaws, or the occasional Gryffindor who was braver than was good for him.

But because of my great ambition, I was a Slytherin.

As a wee lad, I sat on my grand-da Crawford Moody's knee and heard stories of the Great Alastoria, my namesake, fighting Druids, Celts, and Boudicca herself, so he said. He told me of the Moodys over the centuries that'd ended up fighting when they had to, and many times dying, when a Dark wizard arose to wreck havoc among peace-loving magical folk and Muggles alike. Grand-da Crawford had fought in the last vampire war, and lost all of his closer friends from his Hogwarts days. He'd even had to destroy his best friend who'd been bitten. He regretted that they had not been trained for the fight, and were ill prepared when called upon to do so in those dark hours.

My mother said that my paternal grand-da was a bit touched from his wars and what he'd seen. I'd on occasions hear him scream out his torments in his nightmare-burdened sleep.

I was sorted into Slytherin because of my unalloyed resolve to rid the world of every last Dark witch or wizard - every last one of them. I was determined to be as well trained at defeating Darkness, as was possible in wizardkind.

Right off I found myself opposing my housemates who were Dark Arts devotees. I learned the value of constant vigilance long before the end of my second year. I was made a Slytherin prefect, as I was one of the few who wanted to keep the despicable ones in my house in line, much less the only one who could do it. I also did my time as Beater on the House team - first string the last three years.

My grades would have been better if I hadn't spend so much time avoiding being attacked, in my own house, but N.E.W.T.s marks of O's in Defense, and Charms, and E's in Transfiguration, Potions, Runes, and Arithmancy, easily saw me into the Auror Academy and into the Auror Corp. upon completing my training in 1936.

As a newly minted Auror, I was loaned to the Far East for two years - mostly in Hong Kong and China, a bit in Singapore, and one particularly nasty day and a half in Tokyo. Then I did a one-year rotation in the States at our diplomatic mission.

I arrived back in England in the autumn of 1939, just in time to spend the next six years fighting the forces of Grindelwald in all of his many efforts around Europe. I was there at the final battle in the spring of 1945, when Dumbledore took his head. On my torso, left leg, and mind, there are a number of scars people can't see, from those war years in general and that fight in particular.

I miss Constance.


Oh, yes, well, I spent the lonely years between '45 and the first rise of Voldemort going to the office, marking my time, and stopping anything Dark that reared its ugly head.

I daresay that my reputation for being fearless came from my reckless abandon in a fight. You see I didn't care about myself, so to speak. If only she'd... well, "spilt potions," as they say. I made sure I was constantly vigilant for the sake of my fellow Aurors, and I wasn't suicidal. I always wanted to win each fight and see justice done, even though the prison sentences never did seem to be justice enough for me.

No, I didn't want to be killed; I fought death as hard as I fought evil. But if I were..., well... but I guess my devil-may-care attitude gave me the edge in each fight, as some said, mostly my detractors mind you. But I were to die... Constance....

Then Voldemort and his Death Eaters appeared on the scene, pretty much a fully developed nefarious cadre, as they started their first war. In my previous experiences, any self-styled Dark lord would start off talking and recruiting. Then our contacts with the seamier side of life, mostly mine, would tip us off, and we'd crack down on them before they'd become a force major.

Not Voldemort. He had an instantly substantial presence with his trained Death Eaters, creating fear and destruction right from the start. We in the Auror Corp. found ourselves almost always one or two steps behind their more serious efforts. Oh, we'd catch a single Death Eater or three from time to time, mostly the stupid ones. Two minutes of interrogation and it was clear Voldemort wouldn't trust these with important information any farther than he could Banish them with a feather duster.

As that war entered its third year, Voldemort himself increased his activities - doing his own killing more and more, but letting his Death Eaters attack in groups while his assaults were of a more personal nature.

I was so frustrated. It began to dawn on me that there had to be someone tipping them off from inside the Ministry of Magic - maybe more than one. We were always a day late and a Galleon short when it came to arriving in time to do anything other than Scourgify the mess.

That's when Albus Dumbledore owled me one day about meeting him for lunch at a small Muggle pub in Frodingham, just north of Scunthorpe, in Lincolnshire. I arrived early to scope out the place for traps and attacks, and Albus was already sitting there at a corner table. He'd cast his own wards, and a beer was waiting for me with a whiskey chaser. Even let me sit with my back to the wall. I wasn't preparing my own food and drink yet, but I performed all of the analytical charms I knew to ensure my safety and confirm his identity. He told me about the time during the Grindelwald war that I tripped over my tied together shoestrings. Only Albus and I, and Alan McGonagall, God rest his soul, knew about that. 'Course Dumbledore tied them together.

That day in Frodingham Dumbledore told me about the Order of the Phoenix. That night I was inducted into the Order. Finally, I was with a secure group of witches and wizards who seriously wanted to fight the Dark without our hands being tied behind our backs.

And fight we did, a magnificent, heroic, determined, and losing battle. Two-thirds of the time I fought Death Eaters with the Aurors, but accomplished more in the one-third of my time as a member of the Order of the Phoenix.

And still Darkness slowly crept over the land. Years passed, people died - Order, Auror, and innocent - and too few Death Eaters.

In the summer of 1978, Albus called a meeting of the Order. That night I met Lily and James Potter, Remus Lupin, and Sirius Black. Liked the first two well enough, right off. Hesitated on Lupin slightly, and definitely needed the scion of that Dark Black family to prove himself. All four of them did confirm their commitment to the Light in spades. Each year Albus had introduced a new batch of a select few of his recent graduates into the Order. Those four were the best of any new crop of members he'd recruited.

I also met Pettigrew that night. He was a non-entity, and how I wished sixteen years later, that I'd talked Albus out of making him a member. But that night I had my eyes solely on Black, and forgot about that pathetic little sycophant altogether once Black had proven his worth.

The things I dream in my nightmares.

Then the Potter seniors were murdered, the wee tike, Harry, became a vanished hero, and at the Ministry, Barty Crouch gave me full reign to hunt down all the Death Eaters I could find. I was in my element. Karkarov and Bagman were disappointments in their sentencing, but nowhere near as hellaciously frustrating as Lucius Malfoy, Nott, Goyle, and Crabbe going completely free.

Then I lost my eye and my leg failing to capture the Lestranges and Crouch, Jr. In the process I got six others killed, and spent seven weeks in St Mungo's recovering. Fortunately, my backup team did capture those four. It's a long story that I might tell you later if I wax nostalgic one night. You'll never get me that drunk.

I miss Constance.

Five months after reporting back to duty with a wooden leg, a magical eye, and no tolerance for anyone touching my food or drink, I was out of the Auror Corp. on my bum.

I had the temerity to suggest that Malfoy had lied at his trial, and we needed to keep track of his going-ons - him and the rest that professed to be acting as Death Eaters solely because of the Imperius Curse. The new Minister, Fudge himself, came down on me for suggesting such a thing. You see, Malfoy had just made his first large donation to Fudge's favorite charity of the day, and I pushed all the wrong buttons with my proposal. I just might tell you more about Fudge's 'charities' some time as well.

I decided to resign from the Auror Corp. in protest, hoping to make a spectacle of it in the Daily Prophet, and that conniving bast_, that dubious gentleman, Fudge, threw me a glorious retirement ceremony. The utter cheek. Though the retirement stipend does come in handy.

Then he made sure that every story that could be printed in the Daily Prophet and refer to me in a derogatory manner, did so. He's the one who gave me the moniker, "Mad-Eye," which I actually must thank him for someday.

Even I admit I became more paranoid during my forced retirement, but paranoia can be a healthy thing. If I'd been more so, perhaps I might not've spent nine months stunned unconscious in my own trunk.

That week before going off to Hogwarts to teach, I'd stayed at my house in town, and the protections weren't as strong as those at The Fastness. Constant vigilance, my backside.

Voldemort was resurrected - may Pettigrew forever dance as a three-legged rat in Hell to the tune of a feline fiddler - and the next two years became even more exciting for the Order of the Phoenix. Chasing Death Eaters, patrolling Hogsmeade and Hogwarts, guarding Potter, as if that were possible, and dying in ones and twos.

Then Dumbledore was murdered. I really want one last good duel - with Snape, may he forever not quite correctly mix the potion for hemorrhoids for the Devil, and have to inspect his failures.

Lupin, Professor McGonagall, and I began sharing leadership of the Order. I could've hexed Potter's ears off when he showed up with his story of the Horcruxes; the Order should have been with him throughout the search. Minerva had told me of the prophecy, and we could have provided invaluable assistance to him and the so-called Ministry Six, but at least he wasn't going to face Voldemort with only his five friends.

I went into that last battle to distract Voldemort and his minions long enough so Potter and company could kill Nagini and make it to Godric's Hollow while He-Who-Should-Have-Been-Smothered-As-An-Infant was still there. I knew full well I would die in this fight. In my estimations before hand, we would be outnumbered by four to one, but I was wrong, it was nearer six to one. I was determined to buy the time required with my life if need be.

The fight was fiercer than anything I'd seen, and too many good witches and wizards died that day - Aurors and Order members - but the butcher's bill was not as high as I'd expected, thank the good Lord in Heaven above. Though our death numbers were lower than I'd anticipated, almost everyone had been wounded, well more than half of us seriously wounded.

Many of us spent days and weeks at St. Mungo's, which is a long time in a magical hospital. Potter was there for a week, and Lupin a month. I stayed five weeks, because I not only lost my left hand, but I had seven broken ribs, a punctured lung, three crushed vertebra, a shattered elbow, a broken leg and wooden stump, numerous damaged internal organs, and a cracked skull. I also had enough cuts and scraps to make me look like a jigsaw puzzle.

In that fight many of the Death Eaters came after me in particular, and my fellow Order members concentrated on them, as they concentrated on me. Clever trap if you're not the bait.

Even to this day, there was a satisfaction that I cannot quite describe when I remember Potter dropping those destroyed bit of evil in front of Voldemort. The fight went out of every Death Eater there when old Tom Riddle became unnerved at the boy/man standing before him. And I thought for sure we would capture them all.

But a few escaped. And we've yet to find one solid clue as to their whereabouts.

But there's something in the wind, or perhaps in the sewers.

These last years as triumvir with Lupin and McGonagall have been rewarding and quite often boring. Minerva has the school, Remus has his Werewolf Affairs Office with the Ministry, and I have a position in an unneeded, quasi-official at best, society of spies and warriors - none of whom check in anymore. Oh, I consult for the MLE on occasions, but too often life's too tedious by half.

Oh, I was there at the Auror Academy when Dawlish challenged Potter to a duel. The man was a fair Auror, and had made all O's on his N.E.W.T.s, as he loves to remind us, but mostly he'd been Fudge and Scrimgeour's bodyguard. You don't improve your dueling skills in that position.

Dawlish is the one who escalated the duel beyond the basic rules of engagement for training. When he used that Cutting Hex on Potter and cut his arm, I stopped the instructor from interfering. In less than a minute, Dawlish was bleeding in four places, tied and gagged, and stunned to silence.

The number of people who think Potter's reputation is hokum never ceases to amaze me. The man fought Voldemort five times as a lad, and finally killed him. Does no one realize what that means? I wouldn't want to fight Potter even if I could cheat, and believe me, I'd cheat.

The only bit of real excitement I've had since the latest final battle, was going with Lupin to assist on a hit wizard assignment gone bad. Got there just in time to help that lad, Finch-Fletchley, but the call came in too late to save his partner, Cheshire. Justin's a fine young hit wizard; he's got the instincts for it, but he's now suffering the 'coldness' I had in my eyes in '46 and '47. Got to spend some time with him somehow, when no one suspects what I'm doing of course.

No one from the Order checks in much as I said, but that confounded Tonks shows up to 'consult' on my apparel and takes me clothes shopping on occasions. In his will, Dumbledore left her a tidy annual allotment, and the only way she can collect it is to spend a provided one hundred Galleons a year on improving my wardrobe. I am so going to Incendio his backside when I crossover. But I do receive compliments and looks of shock from my so-called friends when they see my new dress mess and daily mufti.

Surely I wasn't that big a fashion faux pas, was I?

- -

I miss Constance. She died in 1943. Not one day has gone by that I haven't thought of her, and tried to make a deal with God to take me instead of her.

But now, I find myself so oddly sad about Constance in a heretofore, unfathomable way.

Now... it seems... why, I mean... after fifty-nine years - could it be so long?

Now it seems... that there might be... some one... else... in my life.

Am I being unfaithful to you, my Constance?

Could I have... happiness? Finally? Shouldn't it've been with you?

- -

- -

But there's something in the wind, or perhaps in the sewers.


current mood: Mind your own business.

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