I'm sitting in the dark. Alone. Only you and a lamp provide me with company, diary.
Alone. No one helping me. Only I care about Robert, I guess. Only I give a crap what happens to him. Only me.
I approached the Weekendists this morning, eager to get to work. Sure, the mason said to wait 'til spring, but it's only a short ways off. Why wait? Surely there's something we can do now. Work on the foundation, maybe, or fetch some stone.
They shook their heads. What's the point? The mason knew what he was doing. Working now would only be inefficient. Apparently he even told them there might not be much point starting until the summer - spring rains would mess up the mortar if we decided to build on wet days, especially if he had to make it out of lime. Which was probable.
"SUMMER?" I howled, counting on my fingers. "But… that's… that's like three months away! Three! I thought you guys hated threes!"
"We don't hate three," one Weekendist replied. "It's just not a holy number. Though I suppose if you want to go the blessed route, we could begin in… two months?"
"TWO MONTHS!" I threw my floppy hat on the ground and stomped on it. "No way! I need to get Robert into a library NOW! You want two? Fine! We'll start in two hours! Two MINUTES! TWO SECONDS!"
They grumbled and turned away. Most, I already learned, had been contracted by Harold to help put up a bare-bones skeleton for the wall. Sure, help HIM build something, but not ME. ASSHOLES.
I didn't care. I was determined. I would set up a freaking library for Robert even if I had to do it myself. I went out to the build site, cleared a bunch of snow away, and began assembling a wall. Rocks are hard and heavy, they don't need freaking mortar to stay together.
So, yeah, maybe the wall collapsed.
I tried again. This time I packed snow between the rocks as I built. Who needs mortar when you've got snow? Packed snow turns to ice if it's cold enough. Ice can be mortar. Totally can be mortar.
Fell apart again. Cracked a bunch of the rocks, too.
I tried again. And again. And again. After enough attempts I'd earned myself a small crowd, watching nervously, NOT HELPING, as I struggled to build a library for my friend. For EVERYONE'S friend, who's been in BONDAGE for MONTHS.
They came to me. As the sun waned and night fell, they came to me, one by one by one.
"Dragomir, cease and desist," asked Edmund. "This we all must now insist."
"Your rhymes are crappy," I muttered.
"You're makin' a racket out here," complained Grylock. "Hurts my ears."
"Go plug 'em," I muttered.
"We need that rock for the wall, Mr. Mayor," murmured Harold, "so could you please -"
"I've got a better hat than you," I muttered.
"Dragomir? I made you some eel cookies," Mom asked politely. "Would you like one?"
"Eels are gross," I muttered.
"You made your mother cry, ya damned ingrate," Dad growled. "Now I gotta listen to her all night."
"Then go listen to her," I muttered.
"Aren't you hungry?" pleaded Bora. "I've got some great soup on the stove, 'n garlic bread's cookin' -"
"Garlic makes my nose bleed," I muttered.
"You're doing a great job, dad," said Grayson. "Keep it up."
"Fantastic," I muttered.
For the first time in hours and hours of pleas, I turned. Libby was watching me, all but her big, white eyes swathed in darkness.
"Come inside," she asked, more polite and vulnerable than I've ever heard her. "Please. I'm not mad anymore. Dunno why I was mad in the first place."
I turned back to my work, staring at my hands. They were slick with sweat, melted snow, and flecks of blood.
"Go away, Libby."
Eventually, she did.
Dragomir the Failure