Day Five-Hundred-Twelve: It's quietude... a little too quietude

So that's my relationship with Plato. What about Libby?

Yeah. Libby's not doing so well.

When Libby and I first got married, she wassssss grouchy. Very grouchy. She could joke, yes, and she had her happy days, but most of our interactions were less-than-cordial. And, frankly, I kinda got used to it. A Libby who's not at least a bit grouchy isn't really Libby. She's kind of a douche like that, and I love her for it.

When Grayson came along, it all changed. He had a calming effect. He brought out the best emotions in her, turning her into a big ball of joy… but only when he was around. When he wasn't, or if his honour was called into question, Libby's rage asserted itself. She became the ultimate defensive mother. And now, I know, it's because Grayson himself was messing with her head. And mine.

I couldn't convince her of his maliciousness. She would never stand for such accusations. I knew that if I even tried, he would claw into her even more. She had to see him for the monster he was. And now, in the midst of the battle, she has. She's seen him.

I'm told she kicked the crap out of Grayson. He's since disappeared. Nobody has a clue where he went, but I'm pretty sure it's… away. Because Libby, well, the old Libby is kinda coming back, only she's saddled with the worst case of regret, remorse and outright sorrow that I've ever seen in a person. She loved that boy with all her heart.

He was, is, a monster. In his own way, Grayson is just as bad as Kierkegaard, or The Baron, or June, or Doc, or… bad people. The bad people of history. I might even say he's worse, because Grayson wields love like a weapon. And I don't think he knows any other way of using it.

Grayson. Gods. I pray he doesn't come after us. The last thing Libby needs is an appearance by our twisted son.

All this is to say that Libby is a mess. She spent three days in utter stillness after the battle, only moving to use the latrine or to fetch herself water. She refused to eat. On the fourth day she went into the latrine with a razor, and when she came out… no hair. I like the look, and I think it was cathartic for her, but…

The silence. Libby's mute. She hasn't said anything in weeks. I know she CAN speak, she just… won't. All she does these days is toil away on our pet project, hammering together wood and pieces of metal in the dark, below Pubton. (We can thank Plato for carving a hole through the living room floor and into the ground for us. No clue how he did it, and I'm not sure I want to ask.)

I bring her food. Small presents. Gifts of goodwill. My kisses and hugs. She takes them all, but she won't offer any comment, not even a tiny smile. She just accepts things, nods, and goes back to her hammer and nails. Libby needs time, I know that, but I have to try anyway. It's my duty as one of the worst husbands in the world.

Work continues. I'll discuss the project when the project is done. Right now I'd rather write about other things. Lord knows I have no shortage of topics.

Sincerely,

Dragomir the Wanderer