ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤIT’S THE SILENCE THAT ALERTS HER FIRSTㅤ[ a thick, metallic hush of newness ] & it rolls across the digital air like something freshly exposed to this twisted parody of a world. Queenie lifts her head from where she’s been rearranging the cushions of her ever-growing pillow fort [ carefully, almost reverently; fluffing comfort is a sacred rite, ] & turns toward the source. Even before she sees the newcomer, she can feel her: that unmistakable tremor, the static cling of confusion clashing against denial, wrapped in the thin veneer of silly cartoon physics. Queenie allows the moment to bloom slowly, eventually standing tall in her scarlet robe with the fuzzy black-spotted trim, the weightless flutter of her detached hands smoothing out the wrinkles of her fabric. The poor thing is trying so hard not to unravel… she thinks,
There she is: the new arrival. All eyes & teeth & tension wound too tightly into a rubbery little frame, [ Queenie recognizes that posture; or she’s seen it too many times now; ] she approaches gently, her robe trailing behind her like a crimson tide. Her voice is warm & sweet; lived-in & steady, the way a hearth might sound if it could speak, “Hello dear,” she says, welcoming a guest to a home rather than to a purgatory, “I’m Queenie. I imagine none of this is making much sense yet, & I’d love to tell you it gets easier, but that unfortunately wouldn’t be entirely true...” her gloved hand reaches out, “You’re not alone, even if it feels that way…” She smiles with her mismatched eyes; there’s a subtle strength in her presence, a gravity that pulls in rather than pushes ( she’s glad to have gotten to the little jester first before Jax did ) “You don’t have to talk; not right away. But when you do, I’ll listen. If you’d prefer to scream, we have some very accommodating pillows. Though I will warn you, the striped one bites...” a chuckle at her own words…ㅤ/ㅤ@jestcrmask !
