[locked narrative post]
Clutching her cat close for comfort, Dessa stepped through the portal and into Lyndon. Fucking Lyndon.
"Goddamn you, Roy," she murmurs, shaking her head and taking a step forward toward her house.
As she walks, she starts remembering things. Good things. Good memories. It's impossible for her to believe, but everything's over. She was a fool, such a fool. They were probably lies, she muses. Lies about loving her beforehand. Maybe she was just an alternate. Why else would he just turn on her so fast? And turn on her he had - slapping her around, choking her. It's insane, how blind she'd ben. But she really, really thought they loved her.
And oh, God. Ori, why would you do this to us? Is a good fuck worth all this?
Entirely too soon, her feet bring her to her own doorstep. Dessa hesitates, just staring at the door, painted beige, with the crack in the paint just to the left of doorknob. Her cat starts purring and jumps down from her arms. Dessa smiles sadly and lets her go.
Time for the game-face, Dessababe. She freezes- no one but Roy or Ori ever called her that. Calling herself that, even in her own thoughts, merely brings painful memories.
Deep breath, Des. This is it. Oh, God. Reluctantly she reaches out and grasps the doorknob. No fear. No turning back.
There is no response from the house.
There are people inside, to be sure, but nobody hears the door open. Cautiously she walks further into the house, holding her breath. Equally cautiously she walks upstairs heading to her room. Expecting it to be exactly the same, she finds that it was a big mistake. The walls had been freshly painted and all her posters removed. Instead of being her room, her former sanctuary, the room was impersonal, belonging to a stranger.
The young woman stares aghast, but before she can respond in full she hears a sharp intake of breath. "Dessa..."
Slowly she turns to see her mother standing in the doorway, face ashen.
"H - hi mom," she says nervously, sucking her lip, painfully conscious of the bruising on her neck and her ripped shirt.
Mary Lakefield just stares at her lost daughter, appalled at her injuries and not wanting to know what her mother and father will say.
"You...should change your shirt."
Dessa looks down and shrugs wryly. "I didn't have time."
"What happened? Where have you been?" a sharp, older voice snaps. Dessa and her mother give identical winces. "Hi, Gramma."
Ruth stands behind her daughter and scowls at her wayward, slutty, sinful excuse for granddaughter. "Make yourself presentable," she hisses. "Your grandfather should not see his only grandchild's brassiere."
Dessa flushes and drops her head in shame. Maybe moving home was a mistake, but loving Roy was a mistake too. What else can she do? "Yes ma'am."
Dessa turns to change her shirt.
"Goddamn you, Roy," she murmurs, shaking her head and taking a step forward toward her house.
As she walks, she starts remembering things. Good things. Good memories. It's impossible for her to believe, but everything's over. She was a fool, such a fool. They were probably lies, she muses. Lies about loving her beforehand. Maybe she was just an alternate. Why else would he just turn on her so fast? And turn on her he had - slapping her around, choking her. It's insane, how blind she'd ben. But she really, really thought they loved her.
And oh, God. Ori, why would you do this to us? Is a good fuck worth all this?
Entirely too soon, her feet bring her to her own doorstep. Dessa hesitates, just staring at the door, painted beige, with the crack in the paint just to the left of doorknob. Her cat starts purring and jumps down from her arms. Dessa smiles sadly and lets her go.
Time for the game-face, Dessababe. She freezes- no one but Roy or Ori ever called her that. Calling herself that, even in her own thoughts, merely brings painful memories.
Deep breath, Des. This is it. Oh, God. Reluctantly she reaches out and grasps the doorknob. No fear. No turning back.
There is no response from the house.
There are people inside, to be sure, but nobody hears the door open. Cautiously she walks further into the house, holding her breath. Equally cautiously she walks upstairs heading to her room. Expecting it to be exactly the same, she finds that it was a big mistake. The walls had been freshly painted and all her posters removed. Instead of being her room, her former sanctuary, the room was impersonal, belonging to a stranger.
The young woman stares aghast, but before she can respond in full she hears a sharp intake of breath. "Dessa..."
Slowly she turns to see her mother standing in the doorway, face ashen.
"H - hi mom," she says nervously, sucking her lip, painfully conscious of the bruising on her neck and her ripped shirt.
Mary Lakefield just stares at her lost daughter, appalled at her injuries and not wanting to know what her mother and father will say.
"You...should change your shirt."
Dessa looks down and shrugs wryly. "I didn't have time."
"What happened? Where have you been?" a sharp, older voice snaps. Dessa and her mother give identical winces. "Hi, Gramma."
Ruth stands behind her daughter and scowls at her wayward, slutty, sinful excuse for granddaughter. "Make yourself presentable," she hisses. "Your grandfather should not see his only grandchild's brassiere."
Dessa flushes and drops her head in shame. Maybe moving home was a mistake, but loving Roy was a mistake too. What else can she do? "Yes ma'am."
Dessa turns to change her shirt.