a search for salvation | Marlene & Arabella
Little Whinging, Surrey April 27, 1979 { @mvgicless }
Softness was a gift; that much, Marlene had always been acutely aware of. There was something to be said, for the ability to keep your edges from growing jagged and coarse, broken glass reconstructed in an awkward way, never to be quite the same again. It was something she herself had never found much luck in. As a teenager, while girls her age were going through puberty, falling in love for the first time and finding new beauties of the world, Marlene was discovering alcohol, salvation for the increasing familial reminders that she had so little to offer, in comparison to her beloved brother. To be gentle and loving wasn’t something that Marlene had ever had much luck with; with Marcus, certainly - and Cedric, on the rare instances she could see him - but that were outliers in an otherwise increasingly lonely life. It hadn’t always been that way; but oh, if things didn’t change when the ideology of hell became a living reality.
She had sought out Arabella on a whim, impulse speaking out over pride, winning a battle in an otherwise never-ending war. The woman had always been somewhat of an enigma for Marlene, not only for her place within the war - especially as a Squib, a sort that her mother and father had always seen as a tragic sort, the fuckin’ judgmental pricks - but because she was strong. It didn’t take a genius to realize that, nor to recognize that Marlene McKinnon, while full of snark and quick comebacks, was not. Paranoia and grief were a vicious cocktail, one that had produced the shell she had become. She missed the capacity to feel love, the way she had once been not quite so afraid of letting vulnerability show. Respect radiated toward those who could still maintain that - even if there was certainly jealously tainting it, as well.
Even with her conflicting emotions, battling it out in the back of her mind, Marlene couldn’t bring herself to regret this decision. As it was, regret wasn’t something she allowed to fester, not in ways she’d admit. She sat, denim-clad legs crossed, situated comfortably on the ground. An almost enamored sort of smile had snuck its way onto her face, hazel eyes watching the tiny creatures crawling around her legs. They were beautiful, the kneazles; she had never seen one in close proximity (or truly, most magical creatures, it seemed), but they were mesmerizing. “We never had any pets when I was little; Mum was convinced they would ruin her house.” The remark slid out easily, a roll of her eyes accompanying the words. “Always wanted one, though. I’m actually a little jealous you get to do this every day.”