Log; Sitting Like a Princess Perched in Her Electric Chair; Felicia
who: Felicia
what: Memories and musings; a Sigil in quarantine
where: In Rafael's custody [either at his house or his sisters', idk]
She pressed her hands together. From her position on the new bed, Felicia could see the sun climbing great and terrible over the windowsill which faced her from the opposite wall. Early morning light scattered across her new room’s rich wooden floorboards; the gold dapples were like a disease which crept closer and closer to her as the sun rose higher and higher in the sky. Felicia watched the spots with a wide, dread-filled gaze-once the light touched her, she knew she would get sick or die. Sunlight was not like moonlight, which gave the benefit of shadows and gentle silver; it would burn someone like her, who belonged in the dark.
Her fingers twisted into themselves, weaving a sieve between her hands as she inched back on the mattress. Unable to keep from whimpering a bit as her back came into contact with the wall against which the bed was braced, Felicia bit her lip. Don’t cry, she thought, not moving her eyes from the golden flecks. Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry.
“They have been nice to me,” she told the room at large, keeping her voice soft for fear of disturbing some invisible force. “And I’ve been good, Papa. I’ve been good for the people who are kind to me. So I won’t die, will I?”
Of course, there was no answer, but Felicia wouldn’t have been surprised if one had come.
Satisfied that the dots of sunlight would not advance without fair warning, she sank into a sitting position, hugging her slightly stubbled legs to her chest. The laptop she normally used to occupy her free time was long since gone; Felicia couldn’t remember whether she had left it at her old apartment by her own free will or by Rafael’s suggestion. She couldn’t help but wonder how Lena and Noll were faring, though she knew it was bad for her to do so; she had bid them goodbye, just as she had done with her parents, and that was that. But she still missed her parents sometimes, particularly her father, at whose feet she could remember sitting and pretending to read the newspaper as he rifled through papers and placed important phone calls.
“That’s an Italian newspaper, Felicia.” Her papa’s voice is tired and slightly amused. Felicia looks up from her Economics brief.
“Yo se, Papa. I can understand some of it.”
“Oh, really? Well. Isn’t my little one smart.”
A thrill runs up Felicia’s body to settle in a smile on her lips, and she looks up at her father eagerly. “The words are the same, some of them. Portuguese is harder.”
“You’ll learn. Portugal is a good country, and I’m popular there. I think you actually may have an aunt to the south. Maybe you would like to meet her one day?”
“Maybe.” Felicia crosses her legs pretzel-style. “Can I make you a crown from the paper, Papa?”
“I would rather you read me some Italian, but if you want…who taught you such a thing, anyhow?”
A smile. “Ana did!”
“How did I guess?” And the man smiles too.
The memory left Felicia worse for wear. Her hands were still once again, though her mouth was not; teeth grinding against the cuticles of her fingers, she found that the sun-spots had settled onto her toes. As she fought back a sob, Felicia fell onto the mattress, twitching and shivering like a distressed animal. “Papa Papa I’m sorry where are you Papa…” Is he looking for me? she wondered distantly. Is he looking in Portugal, where he’s popular?
“I’ve been good,” she whispered. The wall she faced was far too blank; she felt as though it could suck her in, and she drove the heel of her hand into it agitatedly, not thinking of her father, of her mother, of her best friend, of the boy who might have been a prince. She thought instead of newspapers and plane tickets, dried flowers and a sad, ruined house. And lastly, she thought of cookies, and an S lurking just beneath the bandages winding about her neck.
what: Memories and musings; a Sigil in quarantine
where: In Rafael's custody [either at his house or his sisters', idk]
She pressed her hands together. From her position on the new bed, Felicia could see the sun climbing great and terrible over the windowsill which faced her from the opposite wall. Early morning light scattered across her new room’s rich wooden floorboards; the gold dapples were like a disease which crept closer and closer to her as the sun rose higher and higher in the sky. Felicia watched the spots with a wide, dread-filled gaze-once the light touched her, she knew she would get sick or die. Sunlight was not like moonlight, which gave the benefit of shadows and gentle silver; it would burn someone like her, who belonged in the dark.
Her fingers twisted into themselves, weaving a sieve between her hands as she inched back on the mattress. Unable to keep from whimpering a bit as her back came into contact with the wall against which the bed was braced, Felicia bit her lip. Don’t cry, she thought, not moving her eyes from the golden flecks. Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry.
“They have been nice to me,” she told the room at large, keeping her voice soft for fear of disturbing some invisible force. “And I’ve been good, Papa. I’ve been good for the people who are kind to me. So I won’t die, will I?”
Of course, there was no answer, but Felicia wouldn’t have been surprised if one had come.
Satisfied that the dots of sunlight would not advance without fair warning, she sank into a sitting position, hugging her slightly stubbled legs to her chest. The laptop she normally used to occupy her free time was long since gone; Felicia couldn’t remember whether she had left it at her old apartment by her own free will or by Rafael’s suggestion. She couldn’t help but wonder how Lena and Noll were faring, though she knew it was bad for her to do so; she had bid them goodbye, just as she had done with her parents, and that was that. But she still missed her parents sometimes, particularly her father, at whose feet she could remember sitting and pretending to read the newspaper as he rifled through papers and placed important phone calls.
“That’s an Italian newspaper, Felicia.” Her papa’s voice is tired and slightly amused. Felicia looks up from her Economics brief.
“Yo se, Papa. I can understand some of it.”
“Oh, really? Well. Isn’t my little one smart.”
A thrill runs up Felicia’s body to settle in a smile on her lips, and she looks up at her father eagerly. “The words are the same, some of them. Portuguese is harder.”
“You’ll learn. Portugal is a good country, and I’m popular there. I think you actually may have an aunt to the south. Maybe you would like to meet her one day?”
“Maybe.” Felicia crosses her legs pretzel-style. “Can I make you a crown from the paper, Papa?”
“I would rather you read me some Italian, but if you want…who taught you such a thing, anyhow?”
A smile. “Ana did!”
“How did I guess?” And the man smiles too.
The memory left Felicia worse for wear. Her hands were still once again, though her mouth was not; teeth grinding against the cuticles of her fingers, she found that the sun-spots had settled onto her toes. As she fought back a sob, Felicia fell onto the mattress, twitching and shivering like a distressed animal. “Papa Papa I’m sorry where are you Papa…” Is he looking for me? she wondered distantly. Is he looking in Portugal, where he’s popular?
“I’ve been good,” she whispered. The wall she faced was far too blank; she felt as though it could suck her in, and she drove the heel of her hand into it agitatedly, not thinking of her father, of her mother, of her best friend, of the boy who might have been a prince. She thought instead of newspapers and plane tickets, dried flowers and a sad, ruined house. And lastly, she thought of cookies, and an S lurking just beneath the bandages winding about her neck.