Meadow: A Sopranos Fanfic

Scones is spelled PTSD. Scones.

That was tougher than I was expecting it to be, Meadow thought to herself. Ugh, it was like scraping chalkboard while pulling someone's teeth. But it had to be done.
The leather interior of the sedan was cool to the touch, and she tried to focus on that as well as the trees quickly whizzing by on the long road ahead of them, but her thoughts kept bringing her out of the little peace she could muster and back into darkness.
There was a feeling deep within her, just behind her eyes, the need to keep moving forward and not give in for a second to her real thoughts out of fear that they might swallow her up whole. Like a shark that needs to keep moving, she commented internally to herself.
Meadow would never know how this same analogy had once been used to describe her father, and it had been made by the the same person she had just terrorized and manipulated in the same way he had.

She couldn't say she was getting used to hurting people by proxy, but there was a switch to this thing within her, something that must only compute for people who have been to war or killed to protect a family member, otherwise everyone would have it. The feeling could almost be considered alien, this thing; a foreign entity that had invaded her mind and body (psychosis?) after the death of her father and nested itself in her psyche completely unbeknownst to her, as if it were there solely to consume and take over her. The funny thing is she was lying to herself, it could almost be considered alien, yes, if it weren't so damned familiar.
We all go to the battlefield for the first time scared and helpless, but if you're lucky to make it home after the war, you feel as if the things that once bothered you and now infuriate civilians aren't even on your radar. Like hurting people when you really need to be hurt for your personal benefit, for example.
This thing within her was unseeable by seeing eyes, the ability to give a simple nod in the right direction and send someone to their death, this was where she, Meadow Soprano, now lived. In a place reserved for the soulless.
Her mind was suddenly flooded with memories of days working at the law center near Columbia, helping people in need, closing the gap for the impoverished and beating the devils of society which had oppressed those that were incapable of fending for themselves back into the darkness.
And now she was one of them; a devil. She didn't like it, but she could deal with it... if she only kept moving.

Benny was quiet, which she appreciated dearly, despite the fact that the conversation would have been a welcome distraction from her dark thoughts. She had too much going on in her head to listen to anything her consigliere had to say anyway.
Making Benny Consigliere had stemmed from his evolution as a soldier during the days when he was just Chrissy's mentee, all the way to his handling of his run-in with Phil Leatardo, actions that got him his button. Then his work to help ease Silvio's transition to power after coming out of his coma, and finally moving up the ranks by becoming known as a strategist during the closing battles with Butch and George. No one knew she had chose Benny, and no one could know just yet, so he kept playing his part well, acting indignant in front of Little Paulie and Patsy and uncle Paulie.
God, if uncle Paulie finds out that Benny is my Consigliere I think he'll kill him and probably me next. This is getting crazy, enemies in every single face I see; how could Anna do this for so long? How did dad??

She checked her watch which read 11:05 am. She had until 3pm to get to Albany, find the number and come home, all the while somehow discouraging  a long talk with the person she had been estranged to for nearly 3 years, not counting the 4 years she spent in Italy with nearly no communication except for the rare Skype calls back home. That, sadly, was the story of her life when it came to her and her mother, always at odds, never quite understanding each other; always wanting to, always thinking 'why am I being such a bitch to her?' but never putting any real effort into stopping herself from feeling these feelings of frustration.
But now was different, wasn't it. Her mother was not the same. Her mother was a living, breathing train wreck of a human being and while she could say the same about herself, no, her mother was so broken that nothing could possibly put her back together again. She would need to be treated with kid gloves.