(no subject)
[ after this ]
Last week Elaine heard a woman scream she was being treated like a dog. Elaine wanted to whisper in her ear that she didn't know what it was like to be treated as a dog; but Elaine said nothing. She walked past the argument with all her resentments bottled up inside.
The woman wasn't a werewolf. She didn't know what it was like to be treated like a dog.
Elaine knew what it was like to be treated like a dog by strangers, by relatives, by friends, by coworkers.
(By John.)
She knew what it was like to be the recipient of those disapproving glares, those off-hand remarks meant to remind her of one thing only: that she was a dog, that she was an animal, that she wasn't human. That woman on the street at least had a chance to find someone else who could treat her like a human being. What about Elaine? Where had she to go? To the sympathy of her fellow werewolves? That was certainly nice, but the only told her what they wanted to hear: that she was okay, that she was human.
She wanted to hear that come from the lips of regular humans.
(She wanted John to stop saying things like "Down, girl," in response to reactions she couldn't help.)
She wanted to have the privilege to look down on anyone she pleased, if she chose. That was the right of human beings, after all: to put themselves on a pedestal at the expense of others. While she could certainly look down on other beings -- vampires, ghosts, "bad" werewolves -- society had made it clear she wasn't better, couldn't be better no matter how nice she was, how law-abiding she was, how contributive she was.
Evidently it was too much to ask for at least one person to treat her with dignity. (Too much to ask John, at least.)
Going to work tonight's bound to be...awkward.