He might as well have written it on his forehead in sharpie. She can see it, and her jaw clenches, and her finger tips start to really hurt from how hard she presses them against the mug. That doesn't make her stop.
There were so many ways they excluded her, so many parts of their lives that she just wasn't welcomed in. Sometimes she could slip in, hold a clip board, watch them get to do the fun part. All it amounted to was watching missions progress with Dad, until she stopped asking to attend at all.
(Maybe he stopped allowing her to come, first: she's blocked it out, to save her heart just a little.)
"Yeah," she says, and though she wants to spit it at him, she can't make her voice do much but be slightly less flat. It feels like he's hit her, thrown her clear across the room, because having to puzzle out what he means, when it's clearly not what she meant, leaves her reeling. Of course he saw missions like games, early on: of course even training was. He had a power. It was easy for him.
Somehow, she finds the courage to add more: "There were games too, you know. When you would play tag, or hide and seek on Saturdays." The schedule didn't matter as much for her, as long as she was where Dad wanted her to be, when he wanted it: her free time was spent the same as her work time, always practicing, always picking away at one composer's life work or another, while she could hear them running throughout the Academy, laughing, calling out to each other.
no subject
There were so many ways they excluded her, so many parts of their lives that she just wasn't welcomed in. Sometimes she could slip in, hold a clip board, watch them get to do the fun part. All it amounted to was watching missions progress with Dad, until she stopped asking to attend at all.
(Maybe he stopped allowing her to come, first: she's blocked it out, to save her heart just a little.)
"Yeah," she says, and though she wants to spit it at him, she can't make her voice do much but be slightly less flat. It feels like he's hit her, thrown her clear across the room, because having to puzzle out what he means, when it's clearly not what she meant, leaves her reeling. Of course he saw missions like games, early on: of course even training was. He had a power. It was easy for him.
Somehow, she finds the courage to add more: "There were games too, you know. When you would play tag, or hide and seek on Saturdays." The schedule didn't matter as much for her, as long as she was where Dad wanted her to be, when he wanted it: her free time was spent the same as her work time, always practicing, always picking away at one composer's life work or another, while she could hear them running throughout the Academy, laughing, calling out to each other.
They never called out for her.