Esther Coleman (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
beingdifferent) wrote2014-02-18 10:07 am
beingdifferent) wrote2014-02-18 10:07 am
Entry tags:
Eleveth little lie ♰ This room's gonna be my grave and there's no one who can save me
Spam
[There is nothing that can undo the damage that's been done.
Since Bond's (violation) revelation Esther's clung to what little privacy she has left. As soon as she was given permission to return to her cabin she'd barricaded herself in. The formerly pretty little room is in a shambles now, littered with torn books, ripped clothing, smashed toys, shredded drawings, and broken furniture. She herself fares little better: for days she's been locked in alone, wrestling with tides of rage, fear, and sadness, knowing she can't return to the other passengers. Rorschach's occasional appearances go mostly unacknowledged, and when he checks in on her she says nothing of consequence. Why should she? There's nothing to say.
What she did was perfectly sensible. Someone had power over her; she neutralized the threat. And it's not as if Bond didn't deserve to die. There is some meager comfort in knowing she's hurt him as badly as he's hurt her, but it's nothing compared to the reaction that is sure to face her when she goes out again. A quick overview of Bond's post humiliating her confirms what she suspects. There's astonishment, fear, gloating, revulsion, rage - all the normal emotions a freak inspires.
And they wonder why she said she was a child.
After she reads the messages she destroys her communicator, then smashes it again when it reappears. Then again and again, until she becomes so impatient with the Admiral's game that she shoves it into the back of a drawer. She buries herself in her Bible, refuses food, sleeps too much, ignores the flood announcement and all its effects. But she has to come back out sometime, when the hunger and the impotent anger become too much.
So she puts herself back together. A sponge bath, styled hair, a fresh dress. Makeup, again. Ribbons tied just so around the scars on her wrists and neck. By all appearances a child again. And why not? What are they going to do, accuse her of lying?
The first stop is the mess hall, where she ferrets out a meal and eats in relative silence, staring at the others passing through and minding their own business. When she feels their eyes on her too keenly she slips out and makes her way down to the art room, where she settles down at the piano and flexes her fingers. Then she touches them to the keys and begins playing Prokofiev's sonata no. 7, third movement; appropriately angry, fittingly difficult and treacherous.]
[There is nothing that can undo the damage that's been done.
Since Bond's (violation) revelation Esther's clung to what little privacy she has left. As soon as she was given permission to return to her cabin she'd barricaded herself in. The formerly pretty little room is in a shambles now, littered with torn books, ripped clothing, smashed toys, shredded drawings, and broken furniture. She herself fares little better: for days she's been locked in alone, wrestling with tides of rage, fear, and sadness, knowing she can't return to the other passengers. Rorschach's occasional appearances go mostly unacknowledged, and when he checks in on her she says nothing of consequence. Why should she? There's nothing to say.
What she did was perfectly sensible. Someone had power over her; she neutralized the threat. And it's not as if Bond didn't deserve to die. There is some meager comfort in knowing she's hurt him as badly as he's hurt her, but it's nothing compared to the reaction that is sure to face her when she goes out again. A quick overview of Bond's post humiliating her confirms what she suspects. There's astonishment, fear, gloating, revulsion, rage - all the normal emotions a freak inspires.
And they wonder why she said she was a child.
After she reads the messages she destroys her communicator, then smashes it again when it reappears. Then again and again, until she becomes so impatient with the Admiral's game that she shoves it into the back of a drawer. She buries herself in her Bible, refuses food, sleeps too much, ignores the flood announcement and all its effects. But she has to come back out sometime, when the hunger and the impotent anger become too much.
So she puts herself back together. A sponge bath, styled hair, a fresh dress. Makeup, again. Ribbons tied just so around the scars on her wrists and neck. By all appearances a child again. And why not? What are they going to do, accuse her of lying?
The first stop is the mess hall, where she ferrets out a meal and eats in relative silence, staring at the others passing through and minding their own business. When she feels their eyes on her too keenly she slips out and makes her way down to the art room, where she settles down at the piano and flexes her fingers. Then she touches them to the keys and begins playing Prokofiev's sonata no. 7, third movement; appropriately angry, fittingly difficult and treacherous.]
Spam
[Of course she's not okay, it was a stupid question. But he doesn't know how to push this, knows if he were in her position he wouldn't want to be pushed. Doesn't really want to know, even. He's got his own problems.
He forces a smile and then ducks his head down and heads for the door with his tray loaded with things that don't perish easily.]
Spam
What's your name?
Spam
Spam
Thank you, Gary.
Spam
Spam
Spam
Anyway.
Spam
Spam
Spam
Would you like to sit down for awhile?
Spam
Spam