trans_9 | An Unexploded Shell Inside a Cell [Open]

She thought her life would be different by now, but she's a prisoner again. Voluntary, she guesses, which makes it a little bit different than the first time. At least she can blink on her own this time. Not that she's using her body to do much good.

Ironically, she almost always looked better when she was a more total prisoner. Without her makeup and hair clips and changes of clothes to arrange herself into some approximation of health, without even a mirror to confirm her suspicions, she looks a wreck. Dark circles line her reddened eyes; her hair is unbrushed and falls in tangled clumps over her face; chapped, bloodied lips and fingernails bitten down to the flesh speak to her uneasy transition back into captivity.

Eva's given up all attempts to look 'okay'. She ripped a man's face open with her bare fingers. She's been a long road away from 'okay' for a while now, but she spent too long mistaking her anger and stubbornness for strength and resilience to recognize it. She's wised up now.

She really wants a drink right now. Instead she has some books - selected poems by Pablo Neruda and an anthology of poetry by women poets in the Andes - and a pillow and blanket. She's curled up on the cot with the former book in her hand, but drifting in and out of sleep. Her breath comes lazy and heavy as she alternately reads, dreams, and watches the door to the brig with heavy-lidded eyes, looking for nothing.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

For a long while, she doesn't say anything, trying with no success to tune out the awkward, painful silence. What can she say? "I'm okay now." "It won't happen again." "These were exceptional circumstances."

Lies. She knows she'd do it again. That's the sickening part - were she given the chance to do it over, she probably still wouldn't stop. Even knowing that inflicting pain didn't make her feel better. Even knowing she'd have to turn herself in and go to a cell. Something dark and leaden in the pit of her stomach says 'next time will be different, next time will bring you peace'.

Next time you can lose yourself entirely and stop caring about any of it.

She can't look at him, but she does snake an arm through the bars and leave her palm face up, hoping for some contact. She's trying to be an example for him, to raise him well so he can live his life as the best he can be. To be happy. And she is far from the example of happiness. Though then again, so is he.

"Honey-" she stops, realizing she doesn't have an excuse to make. Not one worthy of saying out loud, at least.

"I turned myself in because I'm trying to own my bad decisions."

Marco wasn't really a touchy-feely kinda guy. Even towards his mother, he just wasn't really the kind of person who sought out contact: he liked his distance. Still, after pausing for a moment he reached out to grab her hand.

He still didn't really know what to say. Or even what to think, about all of this. After the war, after he'd saved her things were supposed to go back to normal. Or at least something like normal.

Having to go meet his mother when she's locked in jail for torture was not normal.

"Owning things is overrated," he said, attempting to crack a joke. It ended up just falling flat. "You should totally just sell them on the next planet instead."

"You know, there are certain planets where I could make good money selling intangibles. I think the Iskoort on XaXing would pay their weight in gold for some good vaguely-defined intangibles," she says, trying to elevate the mood a little again. It's difficult. You don't ever really forget you're in a jail cell poking holes in your son's unrealistic hopes.

What did everyone expect from her? What does she expect from herself? What is she supposed to do when she painfully, when she inevitably fails to meet those high standards?

It's been five years. She should be better by now. She should be the mother he wants her to be, the mother he remembers from his childhood.

"I'm sorry about all this."

"The Iskoort? Sure, if you can convince them that your bad decisions are the most unique bad decisions ever. And no offense Mom, but you've still got nothing on Visser Three," Marco said, smiling weakly.

Maybe if Marco had been how he was before the Melting Clock went and zapped away three years of his life, he'd have been better prepared. Then, he'd have had a few years to get used to Eva as she was now. But now it felt to him like she hadn't really been free that long at all, and most of that was when they were still fighting the way, back home. And mentally, he hadn't really gotten past that distant idea that after the war, things would be different.

It didn't help that even now, they were still in a war.

He shifted a little, uncomfortable about having his own mother apologising to him. "Well, you know if you really want to make things up, you could try not going around doing things like resigning from your job. How am I supposed to hold my wild parties at Cassie's house if you're not working?"

"Yes, but I'm a much better salesperson than Visser Three. He's like one of those informercial types - all yelling and repetition and very little substance." She clears her throat and does her best Billy Mays-esque impression. "And if you submit to Yeerk infestation in the next twenty minutes, you get one free decapitation with your next purchase!"

She forgot all about the time he lost. Looking at him now, the subtle shifts in body language, the worry written indelibly on his face, she's amazed that she was so oblivious. How could she be so blind to her own son? How can he be so blind to her?

In a way, it suddenly strikes her how much Peter helped keep them together after the war. For all his weaknesses and pettiness, he kept her grounded. And her grounded was much better than her jailed.

"I'll give you an early notice whenever I'm about to hold an extra-long book club session."

"Ah, so Visser Three is the ShamWow guy. Except he gives you the decaptitations for free anyway, even if you don't sign up," Marco said, shifting again. They were all saying the right words, doing what they usually did and covering up all the awkward with jokes and humour. And yet the air was still a little tense.

His mother had suddenly because a whole lot scarier, and he still didn't know how to deal with that.

"Mom, wild parties aren't probably wild if you know about it beforehand. You're meant to learn when you come home afterwards and find the place totally trashed."

"Well. He's about as loud as the ShamWow guy." She snorts a bit, having made one of the greatest understatements of the day. She'd almost made a joke about two free torture sessions with every purchase, but somehow it seems like the wrong time to make light of such things.

Even if she wants very badly to make light of such things.

"I thought I was supposed to come home right at the height of partying and you were supposed to stammer out that you don't know where all these people came from, and possibly they're robbing our house. With streamers and alcohol."

An Unexploded Shell Inside a Cell [Open]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject