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trans_92011-06-24 12:48 pm
8wings.livejournal.com) wrote in trans_92011-06-24 12:48 pm
Entry tags:
Block Out
She had secluded herself in one of the Library viewing rooms. A selection of films was cued up, chosen from multiple planets and genres: romance, drama, comedy, horror. And a few extra war movies.
Anwei sat on the too-warm flesh couch, leaning forward, her hands hanging slack between her spread knees. She stared at the veined floor between her feet, veins in her own forehead pulsing almost in sync. She had plenty of time; she was off-shift, and no one should come looking for her.
The doctors had asked her not to do this. Again and again the Vizsnunishne therapists had warned her: you cannot trust yourself. You cannot trust your own perceptions of what is real and not real, what is right and not right. Not now. Drugs are correcting your neurochemical balance; the therapy is going well; you are learning how to be sane. But for now, you need to work with Horanckk, you need to listen to him. He will tell you what you need. Don’t internalize him, don’t trick yourself; the real Horanckk will always be there. Always go back to the source.
And she had listened, no, she had leaned on him for years and years. Because his voice in her ear told her everything she needed to know, about every person she met, every situation she encountered. She could walk into a room and know who was newly-wed and who was terminally ill and who was a gambler and who was a lech. He was always there for her: reminding, cajoling, flattering, soothing. Any task she was assigned, he could help her; any mission she went on, he was there, telling her when to duck and run and pounce.
Now the voice in her ear was silent.
Maybe she had been wrong to lean on him. Maybe he resented it; resented having this broken woman perpetually patching the holes in herself with his words and presence and love.
Maybe he knew that it was wrong, and did not resent it, and let her keep leaning on him.
But...maybe that was not the right thing to do. For her. For either of them.
She started the first film, and watched too intently as the young would-be lovers met when his grof chased her chee-bird through a park. Again and again she paused, looking at their expressions, their gestures, replaying their words over and over again. She asked herself: what would Horanckk say about these two people? How would he tell me to react to this – laughter, fear, tears? What does this smile mean; how does that tone of voice change the words that are said? Is it right or wrong that he uses his computer skills to find out her name; is it good or bad that she refuses his courtship because she thinks he is poor?
Is that what I believe, though? Do I agree?
Slowly, painfully, she reached into her mind, and started to pull together memories, impressions, lessons. She did not pretend that his voice was back in her ear; instead she listened for a new voice, one that was inside her head and not outside. Her own judgment, her own morals: not the ones she had grown up with, but the ones she had chosen for her own, after. Her own voice.
Anwei sat on the too-warm flesh couch, leaning forward, her hands hanging slack between her spread knees. She stared at the veined floor between her feet, veins in her own forehead pulsing almost in sync. She had plenty of time; she was off-shift, and no one should come looking for her.
The doctors had asked her not to do this. Again and again the Vizsnunishne therapists had warned her: you cannot trust yourself. You cannot trust your own perceptions of what is real and not real, what is right and not right. Not now. Drugs are correcting your neurochemical balance; the therapy is going well; you are learning how to be sane. But for now, you need to work with Horanckk, you need to listen to him. He will tell you what you need. Don’t internalize him, don’t trick yourself; the real Horanckk will always be there. Always go back to the source.
And she had listened, no, she had leaned on him for years and years. Because his voice in her ear told her everything she needed to know, about every person she met, every situation she encountered. She could walk into a room and know who was newly-wed and who was terminally ill and who was a gambler and who was a lech. He was always there for her: reminding, cajoling, flattering, soothing. Any task she was assigned, he could help her; any mission she went on, he was there, telling her when to duck and run and pounce.
Now the voice in her ear was silent.
Maybe she had been wrong to lean on him. Maybe he resented it; resented having this broken woman perpetually patching the holes in herself with his words and presence and love.
Maybe he knew that it was wrong, and did not resent it, and let her keep leaning on him.
But...maybe that was not the right thing to do. For her. For either of them.
She started the first film, and watched too intently as the young would-be lovers met when his grof chased her chee-bird through a park. Again and again she paused, looking at their expressions, their gestures, replaying their words over and over again. She asked herself: what would Horanckk say about these two people? How would he tell me to react to this – laughter, fear, tears? What does this smile mean; how does that tone of voice change the words that are said? Is it right or wrong that he uses his computer skills to find out her name; is it good or bad that she refuses his courtship because she thinks he is poor?
Is that what I believe, though? Do I agree?
Slowly, painfully, she reached into her mind, and started to pull together memories, impressions, lessons. She did not pretend that his voice was back in her ear; instead she listened for a new voice, one that was inside her head and not outside. Her own judgment, her own morals: not the ones she had grown up with, but the ones she had chosen for her own, after. Her own voice.