Aida's nightmare
So! Since I was poked about it and other folks are partaking, I figured I'd throw my own up. It's not terribly scary or whatnot, but...well, it is for her.
At the end of the short entry hall, Aida stops, looking around the small room that held so much of her young life. She steps in, sets her bag down, straightens. She doesn't say anything; she doesn't have to. Simply standing in that doorway says everything.
Failure.
Her father is nowhere to be seen, but her mother is there -- she smiles. There's something smug in the expression. Satisfied. "Aida," she says, voice sickly sweet. She rises. "It's so good of you to visit. I didn't think we'd see you for another few years yet."
"I'm not visiting, Adelaide." The hardest words to ever be spoken. Her own voice. Flat.
Mock surprise on her mother's face. "You're not visiting? Then why are you here?" Concern -- concern that these eyes understand as false. Feigned.
"I've come back." It is Aida's admission of defeat; she may not say those specific words, but that's what it means.
There is happiniess and smugness and pleasure in her mother's expression, threaded beneath the worry and the sympathy she offers to her oldest daughter. The baby screams off in the corner, and that triggers Adelaide's brightest smile yet as she glides to her feet, leaves the room. Leaves Aida alone to care for the screaming child.
Night; another room, another hallway -- Seria's. Comfort; the only solace she'd ever had. This, this room is empty.
Rolling over in the small cot, the dread hangs thick over the young woman, traces of sleep keeping her clutched tight. Aida tries to hide from it at first by burrowing deeper beneath her blankets, sure at any moment that she's going to hear a screaming child. It doesn't come.
She eventually lifts her head.
Oh.
At the end of the short entry hall, Aida stops, looking around the small room that held so much of her young life. She steps in, sets her bag down, straightens. She doesn't say anything; she doesn't have to. Simply standing in that doorway says everything.
Failure.
Her father is nowhere to be seen, but her mother is there -- she smiles. There's something smug in the expression. Satisfied. "Aida," she says, voice sickly sweet. She rises. "It's so good of you to visit. I didn't think we'd see you for another few years yet."
"I'm not visiting, Adelaide." The hardest words to ever be spoken. Her own voice. Flat.
Mock surprise on her mother's face. "You're not visiting? Then why are you here?" Concern -- concern that these eyes understand as false. Feigned.
"I've come back." It is Aida's admission of defeat; she may not say those specific words, but that's what it means.
There is happiniess and smugness and pleasure in her mother's expression, threaded beneath the worry and the sympathy she offers to her oldest daughter. The baby screams off in the corner, and that triggers Adelaide's brightest smile yet as she glides to her feet, leaves the room. Leaves Aida alone to care for the screaming child.
Night; another room, another hallway -- Seria's. Comfort; the only solace she'd ever had. This, this room is empty.
Rolling over in the small cot, the dread hangs thick over the young woman, traces of sleep keeping her clutched tight. Aida tries to hide from it at first by burrowing deeper beneath her blankets, sure at any moment that she's going to hear a screaming child. It doesn't come.
She eventually lifts her head.
Oh.