the bible didn't mention us, not even once
Though her mother always insisted on tucking her into bed, it was Tony who would sneak into her room after dark and read to her, the sound of his voice often the only way to lull her to sleep. When she was at her youngest, he read from Grimm's fairy tales, barring none of the gory details, but she didn't mind. They were more interesting that way. After a while, he worked his way into Greek mythology, sharing with her the tales of gods and goddesses who fell at the hands of their own greed and conceit, of battles waged and lessons learned (or not). He read to her the classics - Stoker's Dracula, the works of Oscar Wilde, the plays of William Shakespeare. He shared with her the ideas of great philosophers and brilliant scientists. It was Tony who educated her in every way that counted, and years later, when he could read to himself no more, Effy would return the favor.
She worries about him. In truth, she never stopped, but it got worse after he left. It was only a year after the accident - too soon, her mother argued, but Tony insisted that it was time. It was a rare occurrence that Effy agree with her mother, and she couldn't bring herself to admit to it aloud. She couldn't beg Tony to stay; he wouldn't have, anyway, and then he'd be leaving her, too. It was better if she didn't try, better if it wasn't personal. She worries about him still, and there's nothing Effy can do about it. She can't even call him. She can't even hear his voice.
The rec room is the best she can do tonight, standing before the bookshelf in hope that it may cooperate. It doesn't matter what she receives, as long as it's one she's read before. As long as she can hear the words echoing in her mind in his voice. One hand hovering over the shelves, Effy closes her eyes and, with a deep, steady breath, pulls out the nearest volume. Sartre's Nausea.
A small, satisfied smirk dances across her lips. "Perfect," she breaths.
She worries about him. In truth, she never stopped, but it got worse after he left. It was only a year after the accident - too soon, her mother argued, but Tony insisted that it was time. It was a rare occurrence that Effy agree with her mother, and she couldn't bring herself to admit to it aloud. She couldn't beg Tony to stay; he wouldn't have, anyway, and then he'd be leaving her, too. It was better if she didn't try, better if it wasn't personal. She worries about him still, and there's nothing Effy can do about it. She can't even call him. She can't even hear his voice.
The rec room is the best she can do tonight, standing before the bookshelf in hope that it may cooperate. It doesn't matter what she receives, as long as it's one she's read before. As long as she can hear the words echoing in her mind in his voice. One hand hovering over the shelves, Effy closes her eyes and, with a deep, steady breath, pulls out the nearest volume. Sartre's Nausea.
A small, satisfied smirk dances across her lips. "Perfect," she breaths.