Pop and lock
I think this one is a dance move.
That thing, before, where I said I
Would stop using phrases I don't
Know the meaning of?
That was bullshit.
==-==-==
The first time Auntie Mary had exacted vengeance for the name Nevada and Vanessa had concocted for her, Nevada had actually cried.
Admittedly, he'd been fourteen- young enough to still be familiar with tears- and going through a bizarre series of events that most young men underwent in a rather more sensible, and less injectable, fashion. Still, it was embarrassing, and the humiliation had only grown greater when Meredith had actually, honest to god, apologized. The woman had always been distant and cold, verging on callous. Seeing her asking forgiveness had been beyond uncomfortable.
These days, though, he'd much rather be called Poppy. Poppies were red, or white, or pink. Meredith was Red. He'd never heard of a White. But he knew for a fact that Pink lived somewhere in Scandinavia and worked almost entirely with trauma victims, carefully maintaining a clinical detachment to encourage their minds to heal rather than dissolve. He envied that resolve.
When Vanessa started getting sick, though... well, he knew what to do. He might not have the frigid strength of Pink, whoever he was, but damn it all. If he had to be Violet, then so be it. He wouldn't stay. He would make himself hate her, make himself loathe Vanessa to her core, until the disease abated.
It took a long time, before Meredith stopped trying to reach him. She always seemed to know where he was on his birthday, sending postcards like clockwork to let him know. Vanessa would be fine. He could at least visit...
But no. Nevada refused. To his knowledge, no one but Vanessa had survived his wrath. He wasn't going to risk her, just so he could be selfish.
It was a lucky fact, the way his mind warped around his protection of her. She became something to envy, a responsibility that could not be shirked, a pain, a thorn in his side.
She became an immovable weight, and for that, he hated her.
It was her saving grace.
That thing, before, where I said I
Would stop using phrases I don't
Know the meaning of?
That was bullshit.
==-==-==
The first time Auntie Mary had exacted vengeance for the name Nevada and Vanessa had concocted for her, Nevada had actually cried.
Admittedly, he'd been fourteen- young enough to still be familiar with tears- and going through a bizarre series of events that most young men underwent in a rather more sensible, and less injectable, fashion. Still, it was embarrassing, and the humiliation had only grown greater when Meredith had actually, honest to god, apologized. The woman had always been distant and cold, verging on callous. Seeing her asking forgiveness had been beyond uncomfortable.
These days, though, he'd much rather be called Poppy. Poppies were red, or white, or pink. Meredith was Red. He'd never heard of a White. But he knew for a fact that Pink lived somewhere in Scandinavia and worked almost entirely with trauma victims, carefully maintaining a clinical detachment to encourage their minds to heal rather than dissolve. He envied that resolve.
When Vanessa started getting sick, though... well, he knew what to do. He might not have the frigid strength of Pink, whoever he was, but damn it all. If he had to be Violet, then so be it. He wouldn't stay. He would make himself hate her, make himself loathe Vanessa to her core, until the disease abated.
It took a long time, before Meredith stopped trying to reach him. She always seemed to know where he was on his birthday, sending postcards like clockwork to let him know. Vanessa would be fine. He could at least visit...
But no. Nevada refused. To his knowledge, no one but Vanessa had survived his wrath. He wasn't going to risk her, just so he could be selfish.
It was a lucky fact, the way his mind warped around his protection of her. She became something to envy, a responsibility that could not be shirked, a pain, a thorn in his side.
She became an immovable weight, and for that, he hated her.
It was her saving grace.