I Only Dream of Thunder
Title: Tangerine and Peaches
Word Count: 674
Summary: In which Edison sees a specialist.
Note: Post-canon.
The hallway is long, tiled, with just enough shadow to look like it goes on forever and just enough flickering lights to look like something out of a horror movie. It's my favorite hallway in the building, long and quiet and lined with empty rooms that, in my imagination, are utilized for all sorts of fun things. Lobotomies. Shock therapy. Bloodletting. But every time I wander close enough to the walls to peek through the square windows in the doors, I see only boxes, dusty extra cots, janitorial supplies.
Everything here is a disappointment.
Her office is at the end of the hall. Like her, it is an afterthought, tucked away in the only space they could find, segregated from the others by spontaneity and lack of seniority. I bet she has to park in the visitor spaces, her car quivering out in the public lot under the arching trees that drop acidic sap to eat away at the paint. I bet she eats alone in whatever lunchroom the professionals share, huddled in the corner like the new kid at school, picking at a bologna sandwich and contemplating the virtues of locking herself in a stall in the bathroom and downing the bottle of Tylenol she stole from her mother's purse.
By the time I'm deposited onto a plastic chair outside her door, I've decided that we're a lot alike.
She is all smiles when she calls me inside, a smooth face wrapped in clear skin and a suit that is expensive but not pretentious, shoes that are trendy but comfortable, hair just-so with handfuls of product that smell like tangerines and peaches. It makes my eyes water, for just a moment.
"Thank you for coming to see me," she says in a voice that is silk and satin, velvet and over-washed cotton, comfortable and gentle. It wraps around me, swaddles me, drapes over my arms and legs and eyes until all I can see is tones and pronunciation. She has an accent, I realize, barely-there. Not just a professional, a specialist, I decide. Professionals don't have that lilt, that cadence, that sweetness. They've seen and heard too much, now.
"What are you?" I ask her. My hands are sliding up and down my arms, trying to brush her voice away. Can't let it get too comfortable. Can't let my skin get used to her touch.
"What do you think I am?" she responds.
"You're a decoy."
"And why do you say that?"
"You're here to trick me into talking."
"You don't have to talk about anything you don't want to."
"But you want me to."
"I would like you to, yes, but only at your own pace." She leans forward, her body language as smooth as her voice, an intoxicating mix of long-fingered hands and manicured nails and a dainty silver bracelet with sparkling stones.
"I'm not going to talk about it." I feel drugged, dazed, confused. I have to close my eyes and shake my head to get away from her body, from the feel of her, the sight of her, the smell of her. The press of the overstuffed armchair makes me nauseous. I want to stand up but that will just bring a ward runner through the door. My palms sweat. My throat burns.
"That's alright," she says, the coo of a mother singing a lullaby. "We don't have to go there. We can start simple."
"What's simple?" I asked.
"Why don't you tell me your name?"
My eyes slide open like windowshades. The dim light in the room is blinding. The aura around her assaults me, but beneath it the scent of her hair is still there. Tangerines. Peaches. My eyes water again, my chest heaves with sobs.
Lock it down. Lock it away. Don't think, don't think, don't think. It's not what you think, it's not anything, it's just -
I am nineteen years old, in an empty kitchen, looking for a measuring spoon.
"My name is Edison," I tell her, and smile, sweetly.
- click -
Word Count: 674
Summary: In which Edison sees a specialist.
Note: Post-canon.
The hallway is long, tiled, with just enough shadow to look like it goes on forever and just enough flickering lights to look like something out of a horror movie. It's my favorite hallway in the building, long and quiet and lined with empty rooms that, in my imagination, are utilized for all sorts of fun things. Lobotomies. Shock therapy. Bloodletting. But every time I wander close enough to the walls to peek through the square windows in the doors, I see only boxes, dusty extra cots, janitorial supplies.
Everything here is a disappointment.
Her office is at the end of the hall. Like her, it is an afterthought, tucked away in the only space they could find, segregated from the others by spontaneity and lack of seniority. I bet she has to park in the visitor spaces, her car quivering out in the public lot under the arching trees that drop acidic sap to eat away at the paint. I bet she eats alone in whatever lunchroom the professionals share, huddled in the corner like the new kid at school, picking at a bologna sandwich and contemplating the virtues of locking herself in a stall in the bathroom and downing the bottle of Tylenol she stole from her mother's purse.
By the time I'm deposited onto a plastic chair outside her door, I've decided that we're a lot alike.
She is all smiles when she calls me inside, a smooth face wrapped in clear skin and a suit that is expensive but not pretentious, shoes that are trendy but comfortable, hair just-so with handfuls of product that smell like tangerines and peaches. It makes my eyes water, for just a moment.
"Thank you for coming to see me," she says in a voice that is silk and satin, velvet and over-washed cotton, comfortable and gentle. It wraps around me, swaddles me, drapes over my arms and legs and eyes until all I can see is tones and pronunciation. She has an accent, I realize, barely-there. Not just a professional, a specialist, I decide. Professionals don't have that lilt, that cadence, that sweetness. They've seen and heard too much, now.
"What are you?" I ask her. My hands are sliding up and down my arms, trying to brush her voice away. Can't let it get too comfortable. Can't let my skin get used to her touch.
"What do you think I am?" she responds.
"You're a decoy."
"And why do you say that?"
"You're here to trick me into talking."
"You don't have to talk about anything you don't want to."
"But you want me to."
"I would like you to, yes, but only at your own pace." She leans forward, her body language as smooth as her voice, an intoxicating mix of long-fingered hands and manicured nails and a dainty silver bracelet with sparkling stones.
"I'm not going to talk about it." I feel drugged, dazed, confused. I have to close my eyes and shake my head to get away from her body, from the feel of her, the sight of her, the smell of her. The press of the overstuffed armchair makes me nauseous. I want to stand up but that will just bring a ward runner through the door. My palms sweat. My throat burns.
"That's alright," she says, the coo of a mother singing a lullaby. "We don't have to go there. We can start simple."
"What's simple?" I asked.
"Why don't you tell me your name?"
My eyes slide open like windowshades. The dim light in the room is blinding. The aura around her assaults me, but beneath it the scent of her hair is still there. Tangerines. Peaches. My eyes water again, my chest heaves with sobs.
Lock it down. Lock it away. Don't think, don't think, don't think. It's not what you think, it's not anything, it's just -
I am nineteen years old, in an empty kitchen, looking for a measuring spoon.
"My name is Edison," I tell her, and smile, sweetly.
- click -