A Pocketful of Mumbles
Feb. 25th, 2010 11:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
juxtaposieTitle: A Pocketful of Mumbles
Fandom: Percy Jackson
Day/Theme Feb 25th; hope like a drug in the blood;![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
31_days
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Thalia Grace, Thalia's Mother
It is 10:37 AM. Thalia sits close to the TV, the volume turned down almost to zero. If she is very still and listens closely she can hear everything just fine.
She’s unsurprised when, at 10:42, her mother’s bedroom door opens anyway, but considerably less so when the usual tirade – turn that damn thing down, I can’t hear myself think – doesn’t precede the woman into the living room. Craning her head around, she watches as her mother belts her pink bathrobe and flops down on the couch.
“’Mornin’ baby,” she says around a yawn. “What are you up to?”
There’s no suspicion in the question, just genuine curiosity. “Watching TV,” Thalia answers warily, eyes still trained on her mother.
“Turn it up a little,” her mom says. “You’re sitting too close. It’s not good for your eyes.”
Thalia wonders about the other things on her mother’s list of ‘Good for Kids’, but doesn’t argue. When she settles back against the couch, still on the floor, she’s sure to stay just out of reach.
They sit in silence, mother watching daughter, daughter dividing her attention between mother and TV. The cartoon seems unnaturally loud now, and Thalia starts to wish she’d just stayed in her room.
“You need a haircut,” her mom says suddenly.
Thalia shrugs even though she agrees. Lately – and only sometimes, when she first wakes up and her mind is heavy and clouded with sleep – she’s had trouble recognizing herself in the mirror. Her hair is longer than she can ever remember having it, skimming her shoulders in a dark, tangled cloud, bangs grown almost to her chin. She doesn’t like it.
“Are you doing anything today?” her mom asks, and when Thalia shrugs again, says, “Let’s go get it cut. We can get some lunch and go by the salon.”
“Okay,” Thalia says, suddenly hopeful. She’s been here before, on the brink of a promise that’s just waiting to be broken, just like all the plans and promises that came before it, but it never matters. When her mother smiles, and offers to take her out, to spend time with her, to stop the yelling and the drinking and everything, Thalia’s heart always manages to find a shred of hope to cling to. She can’t stop it. Maybe they won’t fight this time. Maybe she’ll keep her temper in check and her mom will only have a couple of mimosas at lunch. Maybe the day will be okay. Stranger things have happened.
More than an hour later – 12:02, the digital clock reads – she wonders why she bothered. She finished her cartoons and went into her room to get ready, and now that she’s come out again her mother is just pouring what has to be her second glass of wine. The half-empty bottle catches the sunlight on the kitchen table, green glass winking at Thalia as she stands silently in the arched doorway. Her mother is seated, chair pulled out of the sun’s rays, talking loudly on the phone.
“Oh, baby,” her mother says, covering the receiver with one hand. “You’re already dressed. Go outside for a little and I’ll come get you when I’m done.”
Thalia doesn’t go outside. She goes to her room, anger sizzling through every nerve in her body, and slams the door shut so hard her window rattles. She knows they’re not going anywhere, and she hates her mother more wholly and completely than she’s ever hated anything in the whole entire world – more than she hates her dad, who has managed to do her one favor, even in his absence: he has never made her a promise and broken it.
But Thalia isn’t mad at her mother; she’s mad at herself. She’s mad at herself for being stupid enough, childish enough, to believe that people can change, for allowing herself to hope, for even a fraction of a second, that she might, after all these years, be shown just once that she matters.
Not again, she swears, grabbing a pair of scissors off the vanity she’s been using as a desk. Not ever again.
She takes one look at the girl she sees in the mirror – the girl she almost recognizes, the girl who looks nothing like the drunk sitting at the kitchen table, and for the first time in her life she’s glad, so glad, that they’re so different. She grabs a fistful of hair, closes her eyes, and begins to cut.
Fandom: Percy Jackson
Day/Theme Feb 25th; hope like a drug in the blood;
31_daysRating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Thalia Grace, Thalia's Mother
It is 10:37 AM. Thalia sits close to the TV, the volume turned down almost to zero. If she is very still and listens closely she can hear everything just fine.
She’s unsurprised when, at 10:42, her mother’s bedroom door opens anyway, but considerably less so when the usual tirade – turn that damn thing down, I can’t hear myself think – doesn’t precede the woman into the living room. Craning her head around, she watches as her mother belts her pink bathrobe and flops down on the couch.
“’Mornin’ baby,” she says around a yawn. “What are you up to?”
There’s no suspicion in the question, just genuine curiosity. “Watching TV,” Thalia answers warily, eyes still trained on her mother.
“Turn it up a little,” her mom says. “You’re sitting too close. It’s not good for your eyes.”
Thalia wonders about the other things on her mother’s list of ‘Good for Kids’, but doesn’t argue. When she settles back against the couch, still on the floor, she’s sure to stay just out of reach.
They sit in silence, mother watching daughter, daughter dividing her attention between mother and TV. The cartoon seems unnaturally loud now, and Thalia starts to wish she’d just stayed in her room.
“You need a haircut,” her mom says suddenly.
Thalia shrugs even though she agrees. Lately – and only sometimes, when she first wakes up and her mind is heavy and clouded with sleep – she’s had trouble recognizing herself in the mirror. Her hair is longer than she can ever remember having it, skimming her shoulders in a dark, tangled cloud, bangs grown almost to her chin. She doesn’t like it.
“Are you doing anything today?” her mom asks, and when Thalia shrugs again, says, “Let’s go get it cut. We can get some lunch and go by the salon.”
“Okay,” Thalia says, suddenly hopeful. She’s been here before, on the brink of a promise that’s just waiting to be broken, just like all the plans and promises that came before it, but it never matters. When her mother smiles, and offers to take her out, to spend time with her, to stop the yelling and the drinking and everything, Thalia’s heart always manages to find a shred of hope to cling to. She can’t stop it. Maybe they won’t fight this time. Maybe she’ll keep her temper in check and her mom will only have a couple of mimosas at lunch. Maybe the day will be okay. Stranger things have happened.
More than an hour later – 12:02, the digital clock reads – she wonders why she bothered. She finished her cartoons and went into her room to get ready, and now that she’s come out again her mother is just pouring what has to be her second glass of wine. The half-empty bottle catches the sunlight on the kitchen table, green glass winking at Thalia as she stands silently in the arched doorway. Her mother is seated, chair pulled out of the sun’s rays, talking loudly on the phone.
“Oh, baby,” her mother says, covering the receiver with one hand. “You’re already dressed. Go outside for a little and I’ll come get you when I’m done.”
Thalia doesn’t go outside. She goes to her room, anger sizzling through every nerve in her body, and slams the door shut so hard her window rattles. She knows they’re not going anywhere, and she hates her mother more wholly and completely than she’s ever hated anything in the whole entire world – more than she hates her dad, who has managed to do her one favor, even in his absence: he has never made her a promise and broken it.
But Thalia isn’t mad at her mother; she’s mad at herself. She’s mad at herself for being stupid enough, childish enough, to believe that people can change, for allowing herself to hope, for even a fraction of a second, that she might, after all these years, be shown just once that she matters.
Not again, she swears, grabbing a pair of scissors off the vanity she’s been using as a desk. Not ever again.
She takes one look at the girl she sees in the mirror – the girl she almost recognizes, the girl who looks nothing like the drunk sitting at the kitchen table, and for the first time in her life she’s glad, so glad, that they’re so different. She grabs a fistful of hair, closes her eyes, and begins to cut.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-02-25 06:30 pm (UTC)It's just so heartbreaking to read those kinds of thought coming from a little kid. No one should be a cynic at that age.
no subject
Date: 2010-02-25 08:47 pm (UTC)AND THANK YOU, I'M GLAD YOU ENJOYED!
no subject
Date: 2010-02-25 08:02 pm (UTC)Loved the emotions that you played with here. She's such a strong character that actually doesn't get as much attention as she deserves in the fandom. Very nice snippet, but heartbreaking at the same time.
no subject
Date: 2010-02-25 09:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-27 08:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-28 02:00 pm (UTC)Very well-written piece :) And very easy to relate to.
no subject
Date: 2010-03-03 08:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-03-03 08:38 pm (UTC)My favorite line was “Okay,” Thalia says, suddenly hopeful. She’s been here before, on the brink of a promise that’s just waiting to be broken, just like all the plans and promises that came before it, but it never matters. Just-awww. Makes my heart break.
no subject
Date: 2010-03-03 09:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-20 10:14 pm (UTC)