Esther Coleman (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
beingdifferent) wrote2014-08-27 04:24 pm
beingdifferent) wrote2014-08-27 04:24 pm
Twentieth little lie ♰ These are the memories that keep me awake in the night
[Forward-dated to flood's end]
[For the first time since she destroyed her room, Esther has toys. They’re little, cheap, plastic; miniature cars, figurines, rainbow ponies, superheroes, toys that squawked or played music or changed into something else when you pushed a button. She has perched on the deck’s railing, resting the pile of them in her lap, and tosses them off the ship one by one.]
I’d like to forget that ever happened, please. Don’t remind me.
[Private to Jean]
[When others leave, Esther has normally been able to shrug it off. Rorschach’s disappearance had made her feel resentful, unwanted; but while she had respected him and he her, they weren’t exactly friends. Ned was a friend. Before him, she didn’t even believe she could have one.
It hurts. When he’d gone she’d cried, then scolded herself for it; it was selfish to be upset when someone she cares for is going home, a real, good home. She simply pushed down the feeling, trying to ignore it, but she knows as well as anyone that it doesn’t work. She needs someone else, someone who cares.
And she had someone, now. Ned had taught her how to.]
May I come see you again?
[For the first time since she destroyed her room, Esther has toys. They’re little, cheap, plastic; miniature cars, figurines, rainbow ponies, superheroes, toys that squawked or played music or changed into something else when you pushed a button. She has perched on the deck’s railing, resting the pile of them in her lap, and tosses them off the ship one by one.]
I’d like to forget that ever happened, please. Don’t remind me.
[Private to Jean]
[When others leave, Esther has normally been able to shrug it off. Rorschach’s disappearance had made her feel resentful, unwanted; but while she had respected him and he her, they weren’t exactly friends. Ned was a friend. Before him, she didn’t even believe she could have one.
It hurts. When he’d gone she’d cried, then scolded herself for it; it was selfish to be upset when someone she cares for is going home, a real, good home. She simply pushed down the feeling, trying to ignore it, but she knows as well as anyone that it doesn’t work. She needs someone else, someone who cares.
And she had someone, now. Ned had taught her how to.]
May I come see you again?