Here's the full-length version of Afterwards; I hope to goodness it is an improvement, and not merely a 'director's cut'. I do wonder about some of Lucille's rantings (He was gone. He could not be gone...) But there were cuts I did keep, and sections that got largely rewritten; it's not just a blind copy of the first draft, which is one reason why this has taken so long despite the fact that I've already done it once!

Afterwards

She could not find Thomas. And the world was breaking apart.

She was not certain who she was, or what had happened. Sometimes it seemed she could not think clearly at all, as if parts of her had ebbed away into the great emptiness outside as she played and left behind only a tenous knot of hatred and desire and need, twisting together like smoke. The house moaned about her — Home, she remembered, home and yet a burden — but the fire that flickered forever in the hearth, translucent over dead ashes, did not gutter or blaze up to the long-drawn breaths of the east wind, and the notes of the piano beneath her hands woke no answering vibrations in the air.

There was no reply at all, no presence anywhere. She was utterly alone.

Thomas. She had not known what she needed; the name welled out of her from some place deeper than memory, deeper than thought itself, spinning together wavering strands into a sudden focus of panic and loss.

Thomas— Thomas! She whirled up in panic, knowing now what it was she could not find. He was gone. He could not be gone. They could not take him from her. She could not be left here by herself for always. He could not leave her. He had promised. She had made him promise.

Here's the heavily shortened version of my 'holiday' fic for competition purposes, reduced from 6000 words to 3800; it will be interesting to see how a full version stands up alongside it!

I really don't like the title 'Monsters', not least because several of the original references to this theme have now been excised. So I ideally need a new title and a summary overnight...

Afterwards

She could not find Thomas. And the world was breaking apart.

She was not certain who she was, or what had happened. It was as if parts of her had ebbed away to leave only a tenuous knot of hatred and desire and need, twisting together like smoke. The house moaned about her, but the notes of the piano beneath her hands woke no answering vibrations in the air. There was no reply at all, no presence anywhere. She was utterly alone.

Thomas. The name welled up from some place deeper than memory, spinning together wavering strands into a sudden focus of panic and loss.

Thomas— Thomas! She could not be left here by herself for always. He could not leave her. He had promised. She had made him promise.

Having written one one-shot for "Crimson Peak" in an evening, I then felt that in order to be fair I ought to do a Thomas-PoV piece to counterbalance Alan's view of Thomas (especially as I actually found Thomas by far the more compelling character!)

It actually turned out a great deal more difficult than I was expecting; basically, when you get down to it, Thomas Sharpe kills people. Or at least, he seduces them for their money and then stands aside while his sister gets rid of them for him. So it's pretty awkward to try to write a story from his point of view without its coming across as a whitewash.( Read more... )