And that was it all it took for Clarabel to practically s t u m b l e over into the blanket and Gisèleâs arms. A simple question and a simple action. Once again, she was close to tears, she was close to breaking like a china doll, and although she somehow kept herself together ( or picked herself up and glued herself back together so well, she didnât notice ) Gisèleâs offer of a solace made her practically collapse into the blanket and into the other girl.Â
"Iâm sorry for the rain." The words came out weakly as she closed her eyes, taking a few deep breaths trying to become more composed. Trying to keep herself {Â contained }, but the e x h a u s t i o n was simply too much. She tried to envision something else besides a storm, something else besides what was brewing inside that seemed to clearly reflect what she felt on the outside, but to avail.Â
( If her parents had seen her now,  if  they  had  seen  what  kind  M        E        S       S  their  d a r l i n g   daughter  was,  s    p    i    l    l    i    n    g  into Gisèleâs arms how  she   did,  what    would    they     think? ) Worthlessness,        monstrous,           an a n o m a l y             that they neither cherished nor wanted,                      and worst of all to them possibly - WEAK.          âIâm sorry," she murmured again, the apology r e p e a t i n g, coming out of her mouth like a sinner repenting for everything and anything they had ever done. The smell of cigarette smoke that clinged to Gisèleâs clothes was comforting, as it was everytime she smelt it â not that sheâd admit it. The closer she was to it, the easier it was to ingest the burning smell. After all, Clarabel Moreau was already crashing, why not b u r n as well?
In between the sorryâs she uttered, she had images of what it wouldâve been like if Gisèle hadnât been there. Alone. Sheâd be alone, though, sheâd probably need to be prepared for that fact for a very very long time. Staggered breaths and tears slowly creeped down her face, and then a flood followed, though she d e s p e r a t e l y tried to wipe it all away.
                    âHow â how do you do it? All of it?â
There was something incredibly humbling about being needed that Gisèle rarely experienced. It was more from lack of desire to than anything, however. Feeling were important, sure, but they messy, all tears and rage and emotions that she couldnât deal with. Clarabel, though. Clara was more i m p o r t a n t than anything, she sometimes thought.
Her immediate reaction was comfort, wrapping the much smaller girl in a tight embrace with the blanket cocooned around them, battle armour against whatever may come. Almost subconsciously, her fingers drifted to her younger cousinâs hair, stroking the long, damp strands as she hummed a childhood favourite â low and soft and soothing. La vie en rose.
L o n g minutes passed before she felt it prudent to speak again. Satisfied that enough had passed for Clarabelâs breathing to have calmed somewhat, she wove a pretty little painting with her voice, tone light and musing when she belatedly replied, âI love the rain. Even though itâs dark and depressing and squelchy here, it reminds me of when it rained in Paris in the afternoons and the city turned into a darkened, dampened version of its tourist self. Can you imagine it? Splashes of puddles and soaked tourists, thunder and the tower hazy in the distance? With the dust settled with the rain but the whole image delightfully grimy regardless? Itâs Paris when the artificial polish falls away and you see it for what it is. Dirty, g r i t t y, artistic, b e a u t i f u l. The r e a l Paris.â
There was a kiss pressed against hair, comfort for a child given far too late to have much effect, probably. Still, in the deepest recess of her heart, she hoped it could. She wouldnât couldnât give much, but she hoped the little love she could share would one day be enough to make a difference. To maybe, m a y b e prove family was not as bad as she knew it to be.
The question could not be ignored forever, however, nor did she wish to. If nothing, answers were something she hoped to always have. The mind; the only thing one truly owned.
âI donât,â she answered simply. Honestly. âHalf the time, Iâm not quite sure who I am; I just ignore it. Sometimes, I wonder if it is just easiest to be born normal. To be nothing the slightest bit above a v e r a g e. Sure, we are probably more enduring. Impressive, certainly. But doesnât it sound nice to live without the expectations?â
The word made her pause. Expectations. Obligations. Undoubtedly, they existed. Gisèle herself had received a note from Professor Sargon, threatening an upcoming assignment that loomed heavy over her head. It would not be easy, that she knew. And yet, that wasnât the only one. She was solitary recognized heir to the House of Rousseau (translate to French) and eldest of the Parkinsonâs, no matter how many women her father married and impregnated. Expectations were brought into her world before her own birth. But with Sargon, more than that had come. His had not come burdened with the sick decay that was family. It gleamed with promise.
She continued. "There are always going to be people you can rely on, but theyâre not necessarily gong to be your family. Not conventionally and not always. But they do exist. You won't always be alone. You aren't.â
