Okay, coders and people with technical jobs use the Rubber Duck method to get themselves unstuck, by talking through shit until they find the error and correct it themselves yeah?
Imagine if you could create anything, anywhere, forever (and time's a lose concept to you anyway bc archangel/seraphim)...
But when things go wrong, in your heard, your life, your marriage, your journey as a parent... what do you do?
Your only potential therapist is a Sin, who you feel a weird sibling attachment to and it'd be like asking what a HelluvaKissnTug was of your parent, rather than Voogle it like the rest of the degenerates out there. Probably not even Incognito mode...
You hear about humans talking to inanimate things.
As an angel in the garden, you used to talk to animals and trees and such, but in hell... what grows and thrives is... Other. It's not the sympathetic listening thing you once resonated with. Some of the things might even dare to try and kill you, the creator... it wouldn't succeed, but the audacity is just, WOW.
but you hear about... the Rubber Ducks.
You miss ducks, but anything down here might get eaten in 0.0005 of a second if you dared create it... and let's be real, anything living you make comes out... tainted. Which is why you worried so much about Charlie when you were spinning her into being from the hopes and dreams you had left in your broken, betrayed heart... and that of your wife.
But inanimate? That could work.
You make the first one, generic and bright yellow. It squeaks. The noise brings a moment of joy. It's enough to spark something.
You talk to it, and feel silly for doing so. then wonder why? The servants are long gone, there's no one to worry after your clearly fucked mental health now.
So... you start to talk to the Duck. You name it. You talk through everything that has happened, even in languages beyond speech and sound because that's how ancient you are...
You speak about your emotions, and losses, the way breezes stirring through the curtains of your bedroom and stir the faintest trace of her perfume... and how occasionally shifts in hell make the chimes in Charlie's room jingle. How you recall the way she'd coo and reach for them...
You laugh and sob and yell at the duck. And it listens.
You start to worry the duck might be getting tired of you, might need a friend... and then, as you're partway through designing duck #2 you wnder if you've gone a little mad attributing personality and mental health concerns to a rubber object.
But then, there's two of them... and that number depresses... you make a tiny third and wow does that hit hard... so you just start making more. Different shapes and colours and forms.
And at some point you lose sight of the ducks as a distraction, as a little family that needs more... and you fall into the thrill of creation again. Nothing like your original powers... but a creation all of your own. Full of fuck ups and misfires, of a spring in the wrong place or a weirdly painted eye that pisses you off too much to finish that day...
You still talk to the original. The name known only to you. It and its happy little family sits in a place of respect and oversight at your workshop, keeping a calm eye over your frenetic work.
And it fills a void that you refuse to acknowledge.
