theatrical_muse Prompt #200: Zadie Smith, White Teeth quote.
You hear girls in the toilets of clubs saying, 'Yeah, he fucked off and left me. He just couldn't deal with love. He was too fucked up to know how to love me.' Now how did that happen? What was it about this unlovable century that convinced us we were, despite everything, eminently lovable as a people, as a species? What made us think that anyone who fails to love us is damaged, lacking, malfunctioning in some way? And particularly if they replace us with a god, or a weeping Madonna, or the face of Christ in a ciabatta roll--then we call them crazy. Deluded. Regressive. We are so convinced of the goodness of ourselves, and the goodness of our love, we cannot bear to believe that their might be something more worthy of love than us, more worthy of worship. Greetings cards routinely tell us everybody deserves love. No. Everybody deserves clean water. Not everybody deserves love all the time.
***
For all that she never doubted any of those who claimed to love her, romantically, platonically, and those odd cases somewhere in between, Rose sometimes wondered how it was that no one ever called her on the things she knew she did wrong. The truth was, sometimes she could as selfish as anyone, as jealous, as unable to be as understanding as this life required of her. Some days she questioned her own sanity, namely how she'd kept it for as long as she had. For all that she found it easy to love him, the truth was that Byron was not an easy man to love. And the Doctor was... the Doctor, and though they'd both given their hearts to another, there were those little unwilling pieces that couldn't truly be given at will. Sometimes she thought she somehow did them both a disservice by not being able to be somehow more than she was.
As much as she seemed it, Rose was not perfectly understanding. When Byron wasn't with her, she didn't try to guess at where he was, because that line of thought led nowhere good. But she wasn't stupid, blind, or naive. He hadn't lied to her about his nature, about who he was, and she didn't truly think she was going to change him. She was one mortal girl out of who knew how many others, and though he'd set her apart by choosing to marry her, there were times when she truly resented the imbalance inherent in their relationship. She was all his but he'd never be all hers, not even if she'd thought to try to impose rules upon him. She never would; so long as they didn't exist, they couldn't be broken. It was almost selfish, the way she protected herself, though she was fairly certain he never guessed at her reasoning. Aislinn likely did, and though they never spoke of it, it helped Rose to know that someone else had been at this game a lot longer, was more used to the delicate balance. Every time Rose thought, even for a moment, that she couldn't stand it any more, she reminded herself that she had more control over her emotions than a bloody faerie. It was unkind, but it helped her cope. Surely a small private unkind thought was worth it in the end.
Anything was worth it to keep this life. That's the decision she'd come to years ago, even before she and the Doctor were separated. Even before she truly had to leave her old life entirely behind. That, too, had been a selfish choice: at times thoughts of her parents truly hurt, because however attractive the alternative, the truth was that she'd abandoned them without much of a second thought. There was a brother she'd never know. Her parents would grow old and die one day, and she would never know it. She wouldn't be there to say her last goodbyes. Her mother would miss her for all of her days, and hold out hope that she would see her daughter again, because she'd seen the impossible enough times for hope to always remain an option. Rose knew this and felt guilty for it, but never enough to wish she'd chosen differently. The Doctor had needed her; she'd convinced herself of that so that it would seem less selfish than the reverse option. The truth was, she was fairly certain the Doctor would've moved on just fine; she was the one unwilling to let it go. And for what? Sometimes she thought her presence did more harm than good. He, too, would grieve her one day, and she wondered if she were setting two people up for heartbreak by her unwillingness to stop loving either.
Perhaps one day one of them would notice. Perhaps they already had, and made their own allowances for her. She was young, she was mortal; those characteristics served her well as often as not. Maybe one day they wouldn't, and the other shoe would fall. Or maybe it never would, because none of these small crimes made her any different from any other human who had ever loved. They only made her human.
***
For all that she never doubted any of those who claimed to love her, romantically, platonically, and those odd cases somewhere in between, Rose sometimes wondered how it was that no one ever called her on the things she knew she did wrong. The truth was, sometimes she could as selfish as anyone, as jealous, as unable to be as understanding as this life required of her. Some days she questioned her own sanity, namely how she'd kept it for as long as she had. For all that she found it easy to love him, the truth was that Byron was not an easy man to love. And the Doctor was... the Doctor, and though they'd both given their hearts to another, there were those little unwilling pieces that couldn't truly be given at will. Sometimes she thought she somehow did them both a disservice by not being able to be somehow more than she was.
As much as she seemed it, Rose was not perfectly understanding. When Byron wasn't with her, she didn't try to guess at where he was, because that line of thought led nowhere good. But she wasn't stupid, blind, or naive. He hadn't lied to her about his nature, about who he was, and she didn't truly think she was going to change him. She was one mortal girl out of who knew how many others, and though he'd set her apart by choosing to marry her, there were times when she truly resented the imbalance inherent in their relationship. She was all his but he'd never be all hers, not even if she'd thought to try to impose rules upon him. She never would; so long as they didn't exist, they couldn't be broken. It was almost selfish, the way she protected herself, though she was fairly certain he never guessed at her reasoning. Aislinn likely did, and though they never spoke of it, it helped Rose to know that someone else had been at this game a lot longer, was more used to the delicate balance. Every time Rose thought, even for a moment, that she couldn't stand it any more, she reminded herself that she had more control over her emotions than a bloody faerie. It was unkind, but it helped her cope. Surely a small private unkind thought was worth it in the end.
Anything was worth it to keep this life. That's the decision she'd come to years ago, even before she and the Doctor were separated. Even before she truly had to leave her old life entirely behind. That, too, had been a selfish choice: at times thoughts of her parents truly hurt, because however attractive the alternative, the truth was that she'd abandoned them without much of a second thought. There was a brother she'd never know. Her parents would grow old and die one day, and she would never know it. She wouldn't be there to say her last goodbyes. Her mother would miss her for all of her days, and hold out hope that she would see her daughter again, because she'd seen the impossible enough times for hope to always remain an option. Rose knew this and felt guilty for it, but never enough to wish she'd chosen differently. The Doctor had needed her; she'd convinced herself of that so that it would seem less selfish than the reverse option. The truth was, she was fairly certain the Doctor would've moved on just fine; she was the one unwilling to let it go. And for what? Sometimes she thought her presence did more harm than good. He, too, would grieve her one day, and she wondered if she were setting two people up for heartbreak by her unwillingness to stop loving either.
Perhaps one day one of them would notice. Perhaps they already had, and made their own allowances for her. She was young, she was mortal; those characteristics served her well as often as not. Maybe one day they wouldn't, and the other shoe would fall. Or maybe it never would, because none of these small crimes made her any different from any other human who had ever loved. They only made her human.