mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved
When Lynette was ten years old and already figuring out that the world didn't have to be exactly as her mother told her it was, she bought her sister Lucy a doll. It was small, blonde, dressed in some garish pink outfit, made of shining plastic. They named it Ellen. Ellen went everywhere with Lucy for years after, and Lynette never told anyone that in order to get the last two dollars to pay for it, she had to steal from her mom's purse while her mom was drunk. She never told anybody about the nauseating feeling of guilt she got every time she saw it, or the worry that some day her mom would take her into the back room and tell her she'd seen her - before she ever read Orwell, Lynette knew all about omnipresence and fear and how the terror was bonedeep. On the day Lynette graduated high school, she slipped two dollars back into her mom's purse and walked out the white door without a sound.
She didn't know why she was thinking about that doll now, feeling preoccupied as she rummaged through the clothes box, wondering if it would help or harm to keep muttering the mantra of 'jeans, size six' over and over again. For sisters who didn't see each other from one end of the year to the other, Lynette and Lucy were still close, even though freedom had sent them running to opposite ends of the country like bolting colts shown open pastures. The clothes box seemed to be picking up on this, as it kept giving her clothes that the younger woman would wear, but Lynette wouldn't be seen dead in - floaty stuff, long skirts and pashminas. She tried to imagine tending her garden or fixing up the house in those outfits, regarding something pink and cashmere with the suspicion it deserved.
When Lynette was thirteen, there was a boy in the neighbourhood who used to meet her from school and carry her books on the walk home. Her mom didn't know about that either, until Lucy let a excited squeak on hearing about her big sister's first kiss, and suddenly their mom was in the room and yelling the place down, and Lynette didn't look at another boy until she was eighteen. Lucy would bring her notes from Robert for a while after Lynette stopped taking that route home from school, but she never read them.
A moody look passed over her face and she dug with more venom into the depths of the clothes box, still searching for the elusive jeans. The bookshelf had given her Kerouac the night before, that was the problem. On The Road, that was 3am outside in the garden with a flashlight at sixteen, knowing her mother was passed out somewhere and wouldn't notice her empty bed. It was trying to imagine what on earth freedom was like, wondering if she'd ever meet the fabulous yellow roman candles she was being promised were out there, getting to the ending, thinking of Dean Moriarty. Rereading it in her quiet island bed, with no company except for the sugar gliders - well, she hoped it was only sugar gliders - scuffling in the roof, she'd felt the same curiosity, testing the bounds of imprisonment, no longer mentally constricted but physically so. She'd wound up putting it down and staring out the window for a while, wondering which was worse - to be bound by silence or bound by sea.
Her hand closed around denim and she sat back triumphantly, pulling the quarry after her, and made herself smile. Time to go see people and wake up, remember what was good about the island. Remember who she was now.
Lynette Scavo, aged forty-three and three quarters, was putting Lynette Lindqvist back where she belonged. Really.
she will be Making An Effort to talk, so expect a lot of smiling and distraction-aimed small talk. I am so slowtimed it's vaguely unbelievable at the minute thanks to exam revision, but I'd welcome distraction as much as Lynette would :)
She didn't know why she was thinking about that doll now, feeling preoccupied as she rummaged through the clothes box, wondering if it would help or harm to keep muttering the mantra of 'jeans, size six' over and over again. For sisters who didn't see each other from one end of the year to the other, Lynette and Lucy were still close, even though freedom had sent them running to opposite ends of the country like bolting colts shown open pastures. The clothes box seemed to be picking up on this, as it kept giving her clothes that the younger woman would wear, but Lynette wouldn't be seen dead in - floaty stuff, long skirts and pashminas. She tried to imagine tending her garden or fixing up the house in those outfits, regarding something pink and cashmere with the suspicion it deserved.
When Lynette was thirteen, there was a boy in the neighbourhood who used to meet her from school and carry her books on the walk home. Her mom didn't know about that either, until Lucy let a excited squeak on hearing about her big sister's first kiss, and suddenly their mom was in the room and yelling the place down, and Lynette didn't look at another boy until she was eighteen. Lucy would bring her notes from Robert for a while after Lynette stopped taking that route home from school, but she never read them.
A moody look passed over her face and she dug with more venom into the depths of the clothes box, still searching for the elusive jeans. The bookshelf had given her Kerouac the night before, that was the problem. On The Road, that was 3am outside in the garden with a flashlight at sixteen, knowing her mother was passed out somewhere and wouldn't notice her empty bed. It was trying to imagine what on earth freedom was like, wondering if she'd ever meet the fabulous yellow roman candles she was being promised were out there, getting to the ending, thinking of Dean Moriarty. Rereading it in her quiet island bed, with no company except for the sugar gliders - well, she hoped it was only sugar gliders - scuffling in the roof, she'd felt the same curiosity, testing the bounds of imprisonment, no longer mentally constricted but physically so. She'd wound up putting it down and staring out the window for a while, wondering which was worse - to be bound by silence or bound by sea.
Her hand closed around denim and she sat back triumphantly, pulling the quarry after her, and made herself smile. Time to go see people and wake up, remember what was good about the island. Remember who she was now.
Lynette Scavo, aged forty-three and three quarters, was putting Lynette Lindqvist back where she belonged. Really.
she will be Making An Effort to talk, so expect a lot of smiling and distraction-aimed small talk. I am so slowtimed it's vaguely unbelievable at the minute thanks to exam revision, but I'd welcome distraction as much as Lynette would :)