Cruel Summer

Chapter 28

A/N: Sometimes the girls have just gotta have some time together. So I introduce to you my fave friendship in this book: Meg, Marge, and Sandra!! WOMEN, AM I RIGHT?! As always haha, let me know what you think!

Chapter Text

December 7, 1944

When Meg finally arrived back in London, Sandra Westgate in tow, Marge wasn't quite sure what to expect. She had had a quiet week to herself with baby Flo, who was absolutely one of her best friends now. They had bonded— true story .

But the minute that the door unlocked and Marge's gaze landed on the two battle-worn and weary women, Marge had half a mind to start crying on the spot. Sandra's luscious locks found in the photos in the apartment had been butchered off, and she sported nearly a dozen bruises across the face and collarbone. Her eyes had an empty sort of expression in them, one that made Marge just want to take Sandra in her arms and hug her as gently as she could.

And Meg? God, the sight of her made Marge's heart ache . Because where Meg's usual vibrance had been, there was now a sort of empty shield up. She too had bruises across her face, and the way that she moved supported some sort of limp. Sandra's arm was supporting Meg's weight—and it was clear that every single step was agony for the woman.

For a moment, it was all Marge could do to just stand there. And then she set Flo down and she rushed forward, gently taking Meg and Sandra's coats. She looked between the two of them in worry. "It's late, so dinner's already over, but I can put on some tea or coffee—"

"Coffee sounds lovely, darling," Sandra's voice was devoid of emotion.

Meg's attention slowly turned onto the young blonde, so full of life and love and just exuding spirit. "How was Flo for you?" Her voice came out as a slight croak.

"Oh she was just a darling. Hardly cried, but she missed her momma," Marge reassured her. "She's sleeping right now."

Slowly, Meg gave a nod. "Thank you, Marge."

"I'm glad you found your friend," Marge said in a softer tone. "And that you both made it back."

"Me too," Meg barely managed to get the words out. And then she was crossing into the living room and sinking onto her knees to take a look at Florence in the bassinet. An ugly sort of sob was tearing its way up her throat and she was doing her best to keep it out. To keep the emotions shoved so far down that she didn't have to think about the things that she had done.

There sleeping peacefully in the bassinet was her angelic daughter. Her daughter—who was being raised by a damn monster . The things that Meg did in that house, the things that she had been forced to do to ensure that their sins would burn with those men—they were unforgivable. She knew she was damned as well as she knew her own name.

How could she ever possibly deserve Florence? How could she ever possibly protect her in any way, shape, or form? She wasn't enough to even protect herself. She was going to fail Flo, like she had failed everyone else in her lifetime.

It was a crushing feeling, the sort of thing that came with being like a can of soda. She had never thought of herself as breakable and fragile, but she was certainly thinking about it now. Why was she—why did this keep on happening to her—

Something rustled in the room and when Meg blinked, Marge had come to sit by her, "Honey, you're practically shakin' like a leaf," Marge murmured in a soft tone, handing her a blanket.

Meg hadn't realized that she was visibly shaking. But now that Marge had brought attention to it, she didn't know how to make it stop. When her fingers brushed Marge's, she nearly flinched at the contact, quickly taking the blanket and wrapping it around herself—as if it could somehow block out the thoughts that were raging inside of her head.