[Cool head, quick words and cutting thoughts were the essence of what Esmeralda desires to grow into as she evolves as both a doctor and a human being. Esmeralda prefers logic to emotions. It had taken her quite a bit of time to realize that emotions indeed even had a place in life. She had tried so long to keep her emotions pushed in the corners of her mind that it was often hard for her to express when there was something wrong with her. It came out as tumbling rocks down a cliff instead a steady stream of water.
Of all of the emotions that she’s felt, Esmeralda finds the most distaste with anger. She cannot find one use for the emotion in her or anyone’s life. She only sees the wars fought, the relationships destroyed, and bodies ruined by a too quick tongue or action. If only one found a moment to take a step back and look at the problem objectively. Esmeralda, the victim of anger once upon a time, can only empathize with those on the end of anger’s violence.
The anger that other’s swing around as if a threat to her almost becomes a joke sometimes. If she is feeling particularly brave or if the threat is empty enough, Esmeralda often finds herself laughing at the bulging red face and shaking finger of anger. For who could possibly harm her more than she had been harmed before? Esmeralda often thought that if she had survived sixteen years under the roof of her father she could survive anything.
She did survive an apocalypse.
Lex’s irritation rolls off of Esmeralda’s shoulder like rain as she nodded as an acknowledgment that she did want to help. She put the bucket in the corner before stepping closer to the water and beginning to washing off a plate as quickly and efficiently as she could.] They should get someone to build or find one of those industrial dishwashers they used to have in restaurants. That would make this task far more easy.
[What surprises her more than anything is how starved for interaction she is.
She’d had opportunities before, sure, traveling groups that she escorted with her hawk’s eyes and steady trigger finger. She hadn’t been necessarily cruel. But she’d had a task, and all her actions were rote, mechanical: bring up the rear, encourage the stragglers, comfort the crying and, if that failed, silence them.
Her warmth had been reserved for Christof, and even then it was a banked fire. Once he knew her, she didn’t have to be so demonstrative. She didn’t have to try.
When she had joined up with the clan that had brought her to Colony 22, she had offered no warmth. She had offered only her skills.
All of her skills had brought her here alive, but now they feel almost useless. There’s nothing for her to fight. There’s no one for her to lead. Safety is a warm blanket: it can comfort and smother in equal measure, and her limbs are weighted by it. She struggles against it in want of something to oppose.
But freed from the day-to-day struggles of trying to stay alive in a hostile world, she finds herself raised up in the hierarchy of needs. She’d never had time or inclination to feel anything like loneliness so acutely, but now she finds herself wishing for both company and comfort, even though she just as surely pushes it away.
The conversation turns idle, banal, and it’s easier to stomach, to hum in noncommittal response as she turns on the tap, the water running clear, hands waiting to take the plate from Esmeralda once it’s clean. It’ll be easier to like her once they’re working in tandem.]
Sure, but I think they like keeping us busy.
