who: @reginadalys where: daly family home when: 2016, just after regina’s promotion in the capulets
If she tries hard enough in moments between movement and inaction, she can occasionally summon up the exact feeling of the first time she’d broken her arm. There’d been more than one occasion, but the original occurrence had been the most traumatic -- bone through the skin and all, cleaved right in two. It’d been nasty, and now she has a nasty scar sitting just above her elbow that she bears with contended pride. She has no true reason to feel so proud of something that she did not earn in any meaningful way, but it’s an indication that something at least had happened. At first it had been numb, as if nothing was wrong, and then the sharp and distinct shock of pain had settled in, and it hadn’t left her for nearly two weeks after, even with her left limb in a sling. It’d been awful, yes, but the way her companions and parents flocked to her in an effort to comfort had been wonderful. She’d been twelve, maybe thirteen, and fawned over for the first time in a while. All eyes turned towards Catherine and Regina shifted so instead they laid on Grace, with dark hair a mess and face blotchy from tears.
She does not know how to put to words the indication that she craves that sort of attention, but she does, and it’s as real and as raw as the rest of her body. As real and raw as the head on her shoulders. And right now, in the light of Regina’s newfound advancement, as speedy and efficient as the middle Daly child herself, Grace Daly finds herself hungry.
She’s not stupid. She knows the sensation is unfounded, this jealousy broiling just underneath her ribcage, something a little like indigestion, an uneasy queasiness. But it’s still there, and Grace hates languishing in inaction. She’s got to do something to get rid of it. It can’t just exist without her wanting it to be there. So after dinner she kicks her chair out from the table and follows Regina out to the hallway, slipping out of the conversation held between Catherine and their father, some discussion about the future, and settles herself next to her sister. She sees out of the corner of her eye a plea, blatant begging on behalf of her own parents, can almost hear their voices. ( Let it be, Grace, Leo warns, his voice low. But he never takes action to stop her. Why is that? ) The door to the dining room shuts and then she is left alone with Regina. Just the two of them, in solitude, a sliver of light from the city radiating through the windows. The light from the lamp on a nearby table paints Regina in gold-yellow and makes her look more alive than she usually does. Grace debates on asking her if they should go outside for a minute, get some fresh air. Wonders if they should spare everyone the embarrassment.
No, Grace decides, she will not. She grins, all languid, all teeth, no warmth, and places a hand on Regina’s shoulder. With anyone else this would be a motion indicating congratulations, praise, approval. “So,” she starts, chewing for the right words, “how are you feeling?”