Participants:
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| Scene Title | Ghosts With A Negative Age |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | It's not the easiest morning for a young girl who finds herself both captive and captive audience. |
| Date | August 12, 2011 |
In Dreams
She still loved the piano. It never waxed and waned like other interests. And with such things that you come to love in life, she leaned on the music when her heart was broken. The song she played spoke more clearly of her loss than she could really articulate any other way.
Mostly because she had always tried so hard not to become her mother. When her children hurt her, she yelled. She got angry. She hated. Tania had never understood how she could hate her own son that much and for so long. with her own children, Tania never yelled. It was cool deliberation and gentle chiding from her. Their father would take care of it, if more than that was needed. She never showed them if she got mad, she would merely be… disappointed. She never hated. She loved her girls, perhaps to a fault. Keenly aware of how lucky she was to have been able to have them at all, they'd always felt like a gift.
So much more the sting when her oldest left them. She knew all too well the danger the girl was walking into. She'd come ever so close to yelling when she found out what was happening. But she reminded herself, she was not her mother.
She could never hate Diana. But sorrow sometimes felt like it would eat her up from the inside out. Worry make her quiet and still. She fought hard against letting bitterness settle over her. Vera, the younger, was still there, and it was heartening to see her. To be able to hug her. To hear her laugh. But she would not be her mother. She would not lean on Vera as she had been leaned on in her place.
So she leaned on the music. Letting it work to heal, letting it ease the sorrow. She played everyday. She composed, doing what artists had always done, she turned hurt into her muse. It would calm, in time, she had to hope.
She was not her mother, but she did, perhaps, understand her a little better.
Her eyes flutter open, her brow furrowing in a touch of confusion for not waking up at home in bed, as there tended to be with these dreams that felt just a little too real. But the space of a blink orients her. When she shifts, she notices the sticky feel of the blood on her legs, and she sits up, pulling the sheet off her in a panic. So much blood. It colors the sheet below her a deep scarlet, and climbs up the fabric clinging her her back.
She knows what it means. So do the people monitoring her.
In the moment, she doesn't remember she's not supposed to know, and hands come up to cover her face as tears sneak over the brim of her eyes. Hopefully, they'll just take it as her being afraid. Most people would be, if they didn't know where it came from. But in truth, she feels the sting of the loss of two beautiful girls and the guilt for secretly, in her heart, not wanting this one at all. Like she made it happen.
And the weight of knowing this means their virus works, that she was part of making it work.
She lets them do their job, moving her around, checking her vitals, getting through their examinations, and tries not to feel too violated during the whole ordeal. For once, she's glad Sasha and Logan aren't anywhere near here. Her dignity's suffered enough as it is. They speak to her, she answers only when she must, mechanically.
How do you feel? Sick.
Is there any pain? No.
Are you comfortable? Enough.
She knows, when they leave her eventually, that they're still watching, but she can't help curling up and sobbing against her knees. They can't think her stupid enough not to figure out what it all means. All the little signs and this rather glaring one. When she can't cry anymore, she just lays there, staring over at the wall and trying not to feel haunted. Trying not to think of the faces behind the glass making their notes about her in clinical sterility.
Subject shows signs of extreme emotional impact.