[Summer was more over than it wasn't and Dylan was having her usual panic attack over the thought that she hadn't done as much with it as she felt she should've. At the very least, her dad had stuck to his word that he'd be able to spend time with them that summer and she'd basically dropped off the fact of the earth for a while in lieu of spending every single waking second with her family. Now that her dad was settled in to the point where it felt like he was never gone at all, he'd started slowly slipping the idea of finally visiting her mom into conversations over meals... and it reminded Dylan of what she had to do. She didn't want to think just yet on whether she could do it or if she even wanted to do it, to see her mom again after all this time and after seeing her in a pool of her blood with her wrists slit - her dad wasn't nagging for a reply from her just yet, though she was pretty sure he would soon enough. No, she needed to talk to the person she trusted most, the one she believed knew her so well, she would be able to tell what it was that Dylan really wanted to do when she herself didn't seem to have a clue, and the only way to start that talk was to start telling her what happened in the first place. Knocking at the door to the Woods' home, an overnight bag slung over her shoulder (this was going to be a long talk and she didn't want to go home after it), Dylan didn't wait for a reply before going in, considering the house pretty much her home away from home. She called out with a sing song voice, walking around the house.] Lotta, wheeere are youuu?
Finn, The Mama’s Boy
TASK: You must tell one of your mother’s that you caught the other one cheating.
Finn lay on his bed staring the the ceiling. He knew what he had to go, except the physical force of getting up to actually be able to walk downstairs seemed to be enough of a challenge let alone saying what he knew he had to say. Shutting his eyes he did everything he could to stay calm, but the anger at everything was too much. What had he ever done to Ruby Grant to make her write those horrible things about him? What had he ever done to deserve this? He couldn’t think of any conclusion apart from just the cold hard fact that life was really just a shitty mess and it would be a whole lot fucking easier if everything was a math equation. Maybe that’s why he liked math and chemistry so much. They didn’t change, they weren’t unpredictable – no matter how hard to how confusing it was there was always a conclusion, a formula, and explanation to the problem. But, life wasn’t an equation. It was a shithole filled with lying mother’s and sadistic bitches.
The door slammed and the sound jolted him away from the frustrating thoughts, and instead sent a wave of nerves up his. It was his mother. Julia was away from the weekend. She was probably arriving home from what felt like the 7000th wedding cake tasting or dress fitting. He wasn't involved in it at all, his mother had tried but seeing the wedding made him think about the photos that used to hang up on the walls of his parents. A happy heterosexual couple. Not some fucked up family that left a kid to deal with an even more fucked up divorce. She hummed a tune as she headed down the hall to her room, pausing outside Finn's room, hovering like she always did with some insane hope that maybe Finn would one day let go of his anger at her and actually talk to her, before continuing on down the hall. He guessed today was finally the day as he hopped up from his bed, every part of his brain fighting it, and walked down to the master bedroom.
He knocked on her bedroom door, "Uh Mum," Finn mumbled "I need to talk to you about something. Ms Vanderbilt turned around and her face lit up. It was rare Finn would say much to her apart from strangers' small talk, and it was certainly never of his own accord. Slightly flustered she replied, "Sure, Finn, Sweetie, Anything - I'm your go-to-gal." She tucked her hair behind her ears and patted a spot next to her on the bed. Finn held back the grimace as he sat down, his heart beating so loud and his hands so clammy he was surprised he was even able to formulate a sentence. “It’s about Julia.” He took a deep breath, “I know I have no real way of proving it, or even getting you to believe me, but, but I think – No, I didn’t think, I saw - I saw Julia kissing someone else.” He could see the look on his mother’s face as the words tumbles from his lips and it broke his heart, but there was no going back now. “It was about a week ago and I was walking home from Theo’s and I saw her with, with a man. I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want to hurt you, but I don’t want you to marry someone like that either.” Each lie that came out sent a feeling of guilt and dread that he wanted so badly to remove, to be rid of but more just kept spilling out. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t want you to find out like this.” He swallowed, seeing the tears in his mother’s eyes, stabbing himself felt like a good option at this point. “It’s okay Finn, not your fault. I, I just – can you give me some space?” he nodded and closed the door as he left, not wanting to hear her sobs. Although he was angry at his mother and what she had lead him to believe, Finn still loved her. It wasn't just the fear of what people would think, and whether he would still be accepted, or even properly find his place at all if people knew, but it was out of love and protection of people would say about them. He knew about the hateful words people said, and the things they did and though he wished the divorce had never happened and everything was good between his parents, he didn't want his mother to hurt because it wasn't. She didn't deserve that. The only person who deserved to be hurt was Ruby Grant. She'd preyed on innocent people and Finn didn't care what it took anymore. He wanted revenge. He wanted to hurt her so she knew what it was like, what it was like to feel hurt, broken, helpless, because that’s how he felt and he would stop at nothing to make her feel that too.
SONG OF PERFORMANCE & PERFORMANCE: Dream by Priscilla Ahn
I was a little girl alone in my little world who dreamed of a little home for me.
This routine was entirely hers. It would have been easier to reuse a routine Violet had already memorized and performed, if it wasn't illegal in the dance competition circle. It was her best kept secret, a dance she had started choreographing herself years ago when she needed, more than anything, an outlet that was hers and not her mother's. Throughout the years, Violet had finely tuned her movements, adjusting the turns and techniques. It was everything she had, everything she could pour into her own work.
It made her even more nervous than usual, knowing that this routine was so close to her and her identity. This routine was her, the very core of her being. It was personal and intimate and it was supposed to have been meant for her eyes and her eyes only - until a threat had forced it into the poem and given Violet no choice but to show her most private self to strangers. It was blackmail, and Violet didn't like it, but it still brought her to her knees, kicked her in the stomach and forced her to get back up to go through it all over again, because it knew that she would keep doing it. She had no choice; her career as a dancer would be tarnished if people began seeing her performances as a result of the partner, and not her own. They didn't understand that chemistry was an added boost, something Violet created to entice the judges to pay attention to their movements with more favor. But the talent? The work? It was hers.
What would people think if they believed Ruby Grant, an anonymous name who believed Violet's success was solely due to her creating relationships with her partners? And what was wrong with that? It was for dance. It was strictly professional. Anyone who wasn't a dancer wouldn't understand, and she didn't expect them to; she just expected them to stay out of her world when they clearly wouldn't understand any of it. It was why she stuck to herself most days: who would accept the hours she chose to work instead of going out like all of her peers? They all poked fun and mildly scolded her about being stressed, but it was her life. This was her life, this was what she did, this was dancing.
They called her name and she rose to her feet. Her stomach was a mess and her heart was still conflicted and for the first time, every part of her screamed to run away from the stage, but as usual, Violet had no choice - she kept going.
I played pretend between the trees and fed my house guests bark and leaves and laughed in my pretty bed of green.
The song was a beauty, slow and wistful and full of the grace Violet tried to put into the way she extended her arm, leaned back and lifted her leg, trying to divide her attention equally to the emotion and the technique the dance required. But as she turned across the stage and kept a smile pasted on her lips, she lost herself in the music and she could feel herself losing the crisp lines for a second as she poured her entire heart into the routine, unable to find the distinction between the dance and herself. But it didn't matter, it never did in the few minutes of a song; there was nothing but Violet and the music, Violet's body pouring out in front of everyone, spilling the most pressing desires of the heart onto the stage. This was her performance, and this was what her mother hated most of all.
But this was also what she lived for. The beauty and the grace and the dignity, the outlet that dance gave her, the fullness of a pirouette and the sweep of her arm. The judges disappeared from her vision and the applause was barely audible as Violet unbound herself and released everything she had been hiding from the world. Her routine, her secret longings, herself.
All of it was in the open. And all of it was at risk of being snatched from her and ground underneath someone's toe but right now, Violet was free.
I had a dream that I could fly from the highest swing; I had a dream.
The applause seemed to vibrate through the stage, and as Violet smiled and held her position, she was overcome with a gratitude she had never felt before. This could have been her first performance, for all of the things that rolled within her now. Was this how it felt? To perform entirely on your own and know that everything that had happened, was completely yours to own? The routine, the dancing, the emotion and the hard work? Did this justify all of the sweat and tears and blood, all of the times she had felt little and alone? Did it excuse all the judgement she had received, from her own mother, from her peers, from herself? Was this worth it?
She took a bow and took a deep breath as she exited the stage, wanting to burst into seams. She thought it was. It must be.
Long walks in the dark through woods grown behind the park, I asked God who I'm supposed to be.
"Second in genre, Violet Farris."
"Top ten over all, Violet Farris."
Good try, Violet Farris. Her placement screamed 'decent effort but no real success.' And although she had expected as much, the sting couldn't be helped, and she was forcing herself to take deep breaths to calm the weight of failure that was slowly coming upon her, waiting for someone to take her aside and tell her exactly what had happened and why she had failed - but no one was there. Her mother wasn't there. She would have to bear the weight herself, and suddenly this entire task was too much. Ruby Grant was too much. The rush of the performance had worn off and all that was left was the worry, all of the positivity drained out of her with the message "You weren't good enough" being screamed at her.
Was it still worth it? She sat backstage, head in hands, numb and changed into more comfortable attire, face still made up and hair still tightly wounded and slicked back. Violet had looked the part, but every time she tried to go about this alone, she fell and scraped her hands and slipped. Would it be better to go back to pas de deux? Wouldn't it be easier? To ease into the routine she knew, of having a boy to hold her straight and keep her technique on point, a boy she would establish chemistry with, let go of at the end of the night?
This was exactly what Ruby Grant must have wanted, and she had gotten it. Her entire soul felt crushed, in a way that was totally different than her previous failures. This performance had been entirely her own. Everything she had in her, everything she had to give, hadn't measured up. If that wasn't good enough, what ever would be? A partner? She wanted to dance, she wanted to succeed, but what if she wasn't talented? What if she wasn't good enough? What if this path was a dream that would never bear fruit, and Violet would be left with nothing in her cupped hands? Dancing was all she had. She didn't know how to do anything else, didn't know who else to be. She was Violet Farris, the dancer.
She wasn't sure what she was going to do anymore. But for now, the only thing she could do was do the next thing: getting up and walking out, with no one waiting for her.
The stars smiled down on me,
God answered in silent reverie.
I said a prayer and fell asleep.
I had a dream
That I could fly
From the highest tree.
I had a dream.
Now I'm old and feeling grey.
I don't know what's left to say
About this life I'm willing to leave.
I lived it full and I lived it well,
There's many tales I've lived to tell.
I'm ready now,
I'm ready now,
I'm ready now
To fly from the highest wing.
Mellowed down by the soft tones and nude colours of the room, Orson stared at the woman across from him that was writing a notes down on her notepad. Her chestnut hair was pulled tightly in a bun, making the wrinkles that had been etched on her face with age and stressful nights over work more visible. He couldn’t see what she was writing down on the page, but could hear the quick and acute scratches of a fountain tip pen hitting paper; it left him uneasy.
“I believe that you wanted to see me because you have some questions regarding a friend of yours that are concerning you.”
He stared at her for a moment before the gears in his mind regained momentum again, reminding him what the purpose of the task was and the chosen execution. Leaning back, a relaxed countenance masked his face, a perfect portrait that he wanted to paint of himself that would balance his worry, but not too worried that it was actually much more personal then he would ever like to delve into.
Licking his lips together and sighing deeply, Orson rubbed the nape of his neck with one hand before slouching in the seat just a little; even while lying had become so natural to him before, something about his position made it impossible to stop the subtle tingling in his face and in stomach.
“My friend,” Orson began. “I think he might have a problem, some compulsive behaviour.”
Dr Selvey pursued her lips together so that a little “Oh” sound gently breezed out of her lips. She cocked her head to the side and adjusted the glasses that were falling down the brook of her nose, taking great interest in how squirmish the boy in front of her suddenly seemed.
“Yeah, it might be a big thing,” he chimed, hoping that she wasn’t aware of the little quiver at the last word. What was this? This feeling of nervousness that he hadn’t felt for three years at least? Stepping on the tracks and taking these risks were nature to him; why did this plague of emotion and doubt suddenly have to appear now?
“He lies, a lot. I’m afraid he might be a compulsive liar or pathological liar or have something wrong with him,” the issue felt uncomfortable on Orson’s tongue, but somehow the words and conditions didn’t cause as much terror when he spoke them out loud as compared to the numerous times they haunted him in thought. “I don’t know, but it’s hard to stop him.”
The voice of logic in a splatter paint of masked emotion spoke up. “Do you think he lies to manipulate? In some cases, the difference between a pathological liar and a compulsive liar is that the former lies to manipulate and deceive, usually not in the simple ways we think of.”
Orson pondered the question for a moment, a look of confusion crossing his face. Of course he lied to manipulate - wasn’t that the whole point? But the way Dr Selvey was basing her question and the negative undertones evident in her voice, it just didn’t fit him. She was talking about scamming and exploiting and hurting people - that had never been Orson’s intention.
Swallowing, he nodded and found the courage to let his voice go on. “I don’t think he lies to manipulate. Not in that way. he isn’t a sociopath or anything related to that. He’s a good guy at heart, really. He never wanted to hurt anyone . . . though I guess that may be sort of inevitable now,” Orson added in a soft breath, once again reminded of the fact that it would be impossible to come clean because of the number of lies forming a net underneath him. He comes clean, and everything unravels.
Feeling a small bead of sweat trickle down the back of his neck, Orson continued as Dr Selvey nodded, urging him to go on. “He can’t control it. It’s not his fault, but the situation is just too big now. Maybe at the start . . . he could have stopped, just give it up after the first few lies before everything spiraled. Now, it’s impossible to just pull back all the strings of lies he’s thrown out without hurting people in the process.”
Dr Selvey didn’t fail to notice the few times how uneasy her visitor seemed to be, stopping his sentences, biting his tongue to stop himself from letting out something too personal and the few times his hard expression cracked, revealing a tense and distressed soul underneath. She wondered how long he was planning to keep this up. Twinkling eyes and a genuinely good heart may have distracted other people, but it was her profession to study and examine the acts of human nature. And no matter how much he wanted to, Orson couldn’t cover up the human within him.
“You mentioned the beginning, do you possibly know why his lying started?” the expert inquired, leaning back and crossing her arms over her chest, observing him.
“Yes,” Orson responded before realizing that the words had left his lips too quickly, too surely. Clearing his throat, he exclaimed, “His dad was a good for nothing dirt bag, really. He shouldn’t have been upset when he finally left for good a couple years ago, I mean, that’s what jerks like him do. But it got to him - more than people thought it would.”
And so, the heavy concern and careful thinking he had planned and that was previously weighing on his chest lifting with every word, Orson delved deeper and deeper. Explaining the urges, the inner workings, the psychotic need of acceptance and likeness that had driven him to the point in the first place. Just a few pieces of the mirage he had entered with were flushed away as the sentences strung on and on.
Being partially caught up in the roar of confession and commotion that followed, he didn’t notice that one slip up; that one time a ‘him’ had accidentally turned into an ‘I’. It was quickly forgotten and buried underneath the other spiraling thoughts but still there.
She hadn’t recommended any specialist or pill, hadn’t given him a diagnosis that said he was crazy or compulsive or anything, she hadn’t even erased away the lies Orson was obviously telling her and just carried on. No, all she had recommended were further counseling sessions, with the person of question of course, which left him feeling more conflicted than ever.
During the drive back home, things felt different. Not like he’d suddenly had a huge revelation and would halt lying immediately; not like the world had been lifted off his shoulders and things were put back into perspective; not like Ruby Grant made him entirely exposed and opened himself; not like he felt even worse for deceiving the people he knew were bound to hate him if any of this ever came to light. Just . . . different.
And as he’d come to his mother gazing lazily over magazines and trying to figure out how that new app worked, replying afterwards to her questions with a smiling, Yeah, I had a great time, he still didn’t know why.
He had always hidden them well enough. First, in a cardboard shoe box under his bed that his mother had never bothered looking for because she didn’t believe those childhood antics would ever continue over the age of twelve. Afterwards, the growing collection was moved behind the family photo album (God knew that anyone would rather stab themselves than try and relive those painful memories). Now, they were stashed in the bottom drawer of his desk, beneath final report cards from ages ago and old homework assignments.
A strong feeling of worry and panic rose in Orson’s chest as he flicked through the leaflets and brochures and business cards gathered over the years, the same ones he had invested all his doubts into before hastily pushing them away. Among them were names of therapists, medical centres, pharmacists, psychologists - anyone and anywhere that he thought could provide him with some answers. Most papers and articles he hadn’t laid eyes on for years, but their weight settled familiarly in his hands. Looking through them now seemed fruitless, ridiculous. He didn’t have a problem. No, his habit of lying, of threading words around everyday like it was something as simple as taking a breath - it was a skill, not a problem. Crazy people went to psychologists and therapists, people who couldn’t control themselves and didn’t understand the full extent of the damage they were creating. But not guys like him.
Denial seemed to flood every marrow of his bones and there was no way to relieve it.
Scheduling the appointment and getting out was simple enough and nothing unusual. The medical center that offered therapy and counseling was outside of Harwich, a town with a name that sounded like it belonged on a British Soap Opera. The woman on the other side of the telephone was almost moved to tears by the timidness of his voice and the sorrow his chosen lies carried. Yes, of course one of their specialists could set aside some time for his questions about a friend that had previously been suicidal but was now back on the bumpy to road to recovery, facing a few challenges along the way. It was a serious matter and not one to lie about lightly, Orson knew, but it was just this once. Telling his mother that him and a few friends were just going to the town over for a premiere by a local film company hardly mattered to her, and it was fine since she had to stay at home and finishing sorting out the wardrobes anyway.
With his car parked outside and the familiar weight of the key nestled in his pocket, Orson shuffled into the waiting room outside the counseling section of the medical center - met by many curious glances by the nurse behind the desk as well as a few of the other patients waiting. It was ever rarely that Orson felt as nervous and apprehensive as he did now, not able to let go of the lump in his throat and the air of cool he usually carried hard to catch. But he’d have time, right? Time to clear his head and re-evaluate what he wanted to say and-
“Orson Walker,” he heard his name called up by a high voice of a woman in scrubs, motioning to the now half open door that stood on the other side of the room, “Dr Selvey is available for you.”
Giving the nurse a genuine smile with the same charm of his customary persona, the curly haired teen stood up with a sigh and made his way over to the office masked in endless questions that resonated in his mind.
Twenty Eight Atlantic was busy tonight. Brielle watched people kiss cheeks, touch mouths, lean in towards each other and shaking their hair away from their face so they could drink in more of each other. Parents wiped the mouths of their children with a napkin and font eyes, and they pushed the napkin away and made faces but Brielle saw the smile on their faces as the cloth rubbed them clean, the simple pleasure of being cared for not lost on even the smallest of beings. She couldn't help but stare as her long slender fingers fiddled with the edge of the napkin at the table, waiting to be placed on her lap - as soon as her parents arrived. She was early. She wanted to see them come in and swell with pride that they hadn't let her down. In the midst of her excitement and her joy at them even agreeing to come, Brielle couldn't ignore that this possibility existed, of them not showing up.
But they wouldn't. They had never agreed to come to anything Brielle had planned before, and they wouldn't let the first time be a disappointment. They wouldn't do that to her. Brielle smoothed down the skirt she wore and folded her hands, trying to be the picture of perfection, a lady with manners and poise - the girl her parents would want for a daughter. No giggles for today, the animated motions of her hands as she spoke, the laughter that burst from her chest without warning. Tonight, she was Brielle Cochran, a daughter to two successful adults. Someone who had been raised to carry herself with dignity and pride, and not the girl who didn't know how to act appropriately and went around like a bumblebee looking for the perfect flower.
Tonight, she would be a daughter.
7:20pm
Were her parents usually early to their plans? Were they right on time, or did they run late often? She didn't know her parents at all, she realized. Brielle's fingers drummed on her thigh as she waited, waited, waited. The clock wasted away but she refused to let go just yet. She wouldn't stop believing. What was she without her optimism?
7:30pm
Any time now.
7:50pm
... Right?
8:20pm
Brielle grabbed at her bag and took out her phone, looking through her texts and call history. Her phone wasn't on silent, and it was working just fine - so where were they? Where were the texts and the calls saying they were going to be late? Where were they? She bit down on her lip and threw her phone into the bag, telling the waiter - yet again - they were just running late and she would wait a few minutes more. He gave her a pitying look before nodding his head and she pretended not to see. They were just late. It was fine. They would get here eventually.
8:40pm
"Ma'am, I'm afraid you've been holding this table for over an hour and there are guests who are complaining."
It was the same damn waiter. She shut her eyes and tried not to cry, to quell the ache all over and to quiet the brokenness inside of her. She knew exactly what time it was, and she knew just how long she had waited; she didn't need the reminder of how the night had ended on such a twisted note. "I... I don't have a ride home," she finally whispered, opening her eyes and looking down at her lap, still void of the napkin she had been so excited to place over her skirt. The waiter cleared his throat uncomfortably and Brielle looked up at him, eyes wide and imploring, begging him for a solution he couldn't give. Bring me my parents, she wanted to beg. Bring me my mommy, my daddy. Bring me the family I should have. Bring me what's supposed to come so easily in life: a father who protects you, a mother who listens to you, people who love you unconditionally, teach you patiently, raise you carefully. Bring me what should be everyone's birthright.
"I will ask other employees if.. if they are getting off their shift soon, if you aren't... uncomfortable with that," the waiter tried.
Wrong answer; it wasn't what she wanted him to offer. But it would do. "I don't have any other option," she said honestly, smiling up at him. She hoped she had covered her sadness, but she could see from the waiter's eyes that she hadn't.
So what. She was tired of hiding her sadness. She was so goddamn tired of pretending. She was so, so tired. When an older woman came to take Brielle home, she let her, rising from her seat quietly and saying nothing on the way home, ignoring the curious and concerned glances the stranger gave her. It was so easy for strangers to care. It was so easy for people who didn't know her well to give a shit about her. But the people who knew her best, who had been with her since the very beginning, left her outside in the pouring rain. Did they know something the world couldn't see? Was she damaged? Broken?
She nodded her head in thanks to the woman who had brought her home, and didn't watch the car speed away. She didn't pay attention to Lollipop, who popped up on the couch beside Brielle and tried to cuddle for once. She curled up into a ball and refused to cry. She wouldn't.
All she wanted right now, was to sleep it all away. Sleeping Beauty had been a princess too, hadn't she? And her parents had gone to sleep with her. Her parents had been there when she woke up. So had a prince who had fought through hell to get to her without even knowing who she really was, only a name to believe in and hope for. What happened after she woke up, though? Did the prince realize she wasn't as wonderful as he had wanted to believe? Did her parents resent the girl for making all of them fall asleep? Did they decide nothing had made the princess special besides the sleep she had brought unto the entire kingdom?
The girl sat on the steps of leading to the top floor that were directly in front of the door, divided by a few meters of carpet, straggling shoes and an empty plastic bag. The house was dimly lit and the only light sources were the streetlamps flooding in through the windows and a side lamp that rested on a side table in the living room. She had lit it up, slightly amused by the way it created shadows of her movements on the walls.
Nearly an hour had passed since she’d sat down on the stairs just after midnight - her huge lug of a step-father snoring upstairs - and almost seven hours had passed since she had retreated to her bedroom in a mixture of surrender and success. She might have been victorious in some ways but was still left feeling like a nervous wreck inside. It had taken her a bit to calm down, unbuckle the heavy brick attached to her chest that obstructed her breathing and just relax. Now, however, she was afraid the same pricking at the corner of her eyes and punch in the gut that would reappear during the second part of her tragedies - all in the name of one anonymous author.
Silence floated around the room eerily, Agatha able to count the steady repetition of her breaths, before the sound of metal shafts of the door handle clicked open and she perked up, waiting. Christine Gundersen entered, not exactly as quiet as mouse, but her back was hunched in exhaustion and the air she carried related to the timidness and uncertainty. Even through the bleak lighting, Agatha took a good long, glance at her mother - the first in three consecutive days. Almost Impoverished and stress stricken, her clothes seemed to hang off her thin and knobby joints limply and her hair looked the creation of a bird in search of a nest, brown locks unruly and tangled.
Shifting the door back shut and making sure it was locked, the teen stood up while she watched her mom, arms crossed over her chest defensively. “Mom,” she called out, the word sharp and final. Only just noticing her daughter there, the older woman turned, and that’s when Agatha saw the dark bags under her puffy eyes; the visible image of weariness in her expression leaving her jaw to drop, opening her mouth slightly.
“Mom,” Agatha continued, skipping the last two steps down to be face-to-face with her acquaintance. “I . . . I wanted to talk to you.”
At hearing those words, the older woman pulled her jacket tighter around herself, only holding eye contact with Agatha for a second before diverting her glance downwards. While her voice was steady and low, her countenance bordered on highly irritated. "No, please, now isn't a good time. You shouldn't even be awake."
A new urgent sense of despair rising in her, Agatha stood in front of her mother, strategically blocking her way upstairs. She gripped to the clothed arms in front of her tightly, needing someone solid to grasp onto in the midst of a storm. Voice shaking now, she spoke, "No mom please, I just wanted to see you, it's been so long and . . ."
"Agatha!" the word were cried out with more force with Christine rising her arms and shaking off the hands on her abruptly. A small part of Agatha recoiled back in pain. Was this what they had come to? "Agatha,” she repeated in a similar shrill tone. “Please, get out of the way.”
The fact that a pleasantry was added to the beginning of the sentence did nothing for her, she still felt as frantic as ever. The shorter brunette tried to hold back the reincarnated tears that pricked at the corners of her eyes, a sudden fluttering hitting her chest as she notices her mother was trying to sidestep her, intent on getting upstairs. Agatha had never really cared before, never had the same desire as other children did to develop a strong, unbreakable bond with their mother. Never before had she paid the woman that birthed her into this world any attention or heed. But now, it was different; she couldn’t pinpoint why, but it was certainly different. A small part of her felt like a young child again, demanding the worry and engrossment from her mother. Just this once.
Just this once, she needed to be reassured.
Between short and acute gulps for air and blurry eyes, Agatha muttered, “Mom, look at me. Please, for once can you . . . For once, can you just look at me!”
Christine Gundersen had been able to shove past by now, a little rougher than should be considered gentle, and listened to her daughter’s laments as she mounted tiredly up the stairs.
“I never see you anymore, we can’t even look at each other properly in the morning because of the rush of, well, everything. Please mom, I’m not your friend or boyfriend or housekeeper . . . I’m your daughter. Do you remember that sometimes? That you have a daughter? Or is just easier to leave when you pretend I don’t exist.”
At this, the dark, scrawly woman on the stairs stopped dead in her tracks. The moment after she’d said it, Agatha wanted to take it back, bite off her tongue and hide in a closet and try to tame this siren that had suddenly made an appearance to make its desires widespread and known.
The sudden silence following such loud booms was jarring, slashing each of them like a knife. Having released all the emotion inside of her, Agatha finally let the tears fall for the second time that day. She leaned back against the wall, her body wracked with sobs and failing to stop the meek pants that left her lips. Within moments her legs felt like they might buckle underneath her and her mind collapsed to the mental and emotional exertions. It was through misty eyes and the darkness of the lamp blinking out that she was the figure approaching her, letting herself fall into the embrace of her mother’s familiar perfume. Right now, those arms wrapped around her in a hesitant hug had never felt more like a god-sent gift.
Theodore, The Child;
Do something to grab the attention of your parents. Break curfew, break something in the house, anything. And then see if they actually notice.
Theodore opened his eyes only slightly, and that in itself was enough to cause him certain distress. Cleo had closed the curtains before she left, he remembered that much; and yet, somehow the sunlight still managed to creep through the gaps and onto the posters and photographs stuck to the wall opposite. The room seemed to be spinning, forcing it to look much different to the room Theo was used to waking up in every morning. But as it slowed, he quickly realised - this isn't my bedroom. The colour, the softness of the duvet, the pictures on the wall, the dream catcher, the books, dvds, the cleanness: this was Jackie's room. Once deciding that much, usually, the teen would likely have jumped up and rushed back into his pit, where he felt comfortable living among tangled game controllers, left over pieces of food and of course, his beloved sock pile. But the alcohol seemed to have relaxed his mind, and on that afternoon he did not care. The fact that he was laying wrapped up in his sister's strange fruit patterned quilt set failed to phase him, and instead of questioning further, Theo lay back down, pulling the pineapple printed sheet over his head. He might have fallen back asleep too, had the door not opened and broken whatever weak string of concentration he had.
"Jackie? Sweetie? Are you unwell? Why aren't you out with your friends in this weather? Hone- Theodore?!"
"Mother nooooooooooooooooooo." The teen groaned in response as the safety of the blankets was taken from him. First, he tried pulling them back but to no avail against the grip of Elizabeth Pratt. His next defence was simply burying his face in the pillow, that smelt fresh and flowery, lingering with the scents of his sister's various sprays and hair products. The smell had somehow become comforting to him, and was a good deal more welcoming than the scent of dog and pizza that had attached itself to his own pillows.
Liz sighed, frowning as she gazed down at the strange mess her son was in. It took a few moments for her to ask what he was doing. While mid day napping was something the youngest of the Pratt household was known to do, it was not nearly as common for him to be found in his sister's room at all, let alone bundled up in her bed. Needless to say, Jackie would not have been pleased if she were the one to find him. "Teddy, sweetheart.. What on earth are you doing in here? I don't think your sister would be too pleased if she walked in."
With a loud groan and a humongous amount of effort, Theo sat up, dragging his hand through the knots in his dark hair. "I was tired-" He said, opening his explanation. He was stopped however, with the voice in his head reminding him that this was his task. He would gain little recognition for simply taking a nap in his sister's bed. To succeed, Theo needed to own up to the drinking, to the mess he had made. But he could not, for he was not given the chance. The words were still forming on the teen's tongue as a rage filled shout echoed around the house.
