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June 11, 2017 (later):
It might all be nonsense -- she's thought of that. She's found Jack and Rapunzel and Cinderella and the Girl with the Cape in story books, and none of it has been quite what she expected. None of it has been a perfect match. There's no reason to think that her own story has somehow survived intact, down to the last detail. Maybe it's been mangled and twisted over the years. Maybe there have been mistranslations.
Maybe people changed things on purpose. It's not as if 'a Baker's Wife lies, swindles, and cheats her way through a magical Wood, gets the child she wants, and lives happily ever after' is the sort of tale people would want to tell their children. Stories are supposed to teach lessons, and lessons are supposed to be things like 'behave yourself -- or else.' They're supposed to teach children how to be good, not practical, or satisfied.
She hadn't gone into the Woods to be good.
But no matter how hard she tries to convince herself that it's all some sort of ghastly editing choice, she can't quite believe it. She remembers how it had felt, standing at Sam's window and looking straight down. The terror that she was about to fall had been sudden and visceral and familiar in a way she had refused to examine. Now, she knows why.
She wishes--
--no. No more wishes. Look where the last one got her.
God, if she can just hold herself together until she gets back to her apartment, then... she can't think about what then. She just has to get there without making a scene, without being the madwoman everyone else tries to politely ignore. Oh, don't mind me, I just found out that I'm technically dead, that's all.
She feels as if she might laugh, or be sick, she doesn't know which. She has to stop for a moment and grab the back of a bench to steady herself, her other hand pressed to her midriff, as if to make sure she isn't literally falling apart.
But she isn't. She's fine. She's fine.
It might all be nonsense -- she's thought of that. She's found Jack and Rapunzel and Cinderella and the Girl with the Cape in story books, and none of it has been quite what she expected. None of it has been a perfect match. There's no reason to think that her own story has somehow survived intact, down to the last detail. Maybe it's been mangled and twisted over the years. Maybe there have been mistranslations.
Maybe people changed things on purpose. It's not as if 'a Baker's Wife lies, swindles, and cheats her way through a magical Wood, gets the child she wants, and lives happily ever after' is the sort of tale people would want to tell their children. Stories are supposed to teach lessons, and lessons are supposed to be things like 'behave yourself -- or else.' They're supposed to teach children how to be good, not practical, or satisfied.
She hadn't gone into the Woods to be good.
But no matter how hard she tries to convince herself that it's all some sort of ghastly editing choice, she can't quite believe it. She remembers how it had felt, standing at Sam's window and looking straight down. The terror that she was about to fall had been sudden and visceral and familiar in a way she had refused to examine. Now, she knows why.
She wishes--
--no. No more wishes. Look where the last one got her.
God, if she can just hold herself together until she gets back to her apartment, then... she can't think about what then. She just has to get there without making a scene, without being the madwoman everyone else tries to politely ignore. Oh, don't mind me, I just found out that I'm technically dead, that's all.
She feels as if she might laugh, or be sick, she doesn't know which. She has to stop for a moment and grab the back of a bench to steady herself, her other hand pressed to her midriff, as if to make sure she isn't literally falling apart.
But she isn't. She's fine. She's fine.
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Date: 2017-06-14 01:04 am (UTC)From:Or maybe it isn't. She'd thought Sam's situation was unique -- and it probably is, at least as far as the time-related oddness is concerned -- but he's not the first to lose a partner and find themselves raising a child alone. Jesse had said he'd met several people in similar shape. Given the City's general penchant for awfulness (or is this meant to be a mercy?), maybe there are dozens of people here who don't have anything waiting for them back home.
Her gaze goes from incredulous to assessing, and she wonders with a sudden, desperate curiosity whether this woman really does know.
"You know the feeling?" She doesn't sound like herself. "Just found out you've died, have you?"
She regrets the words even as they're falling out of her, lifting one hand in apology as the other pinches the bridge of her nose. Stupid. "Sorry. I shouldn't have--ugh." She exhales sharply, but there isn't enough oomph behind it for it to become a laugh, or a sob.
no subject
Date: 2017-06-20 11:35 am (UTC)From:It's never nice to feel like someone is diminishing the suck in her life, she should have known better. She needs to be less of a Rebecca and more of a Paula.
"It's okay. It sounds like you're having a really shitty day. Um, the thing is I don't know how to make it better? I don't know how to make people undead. I do know the directions, like I said, so we can... if it helps to talk while we walk, or even if you just need someone to stand next to you."
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Date: 2017-06-20 05:21 pm (UTC)From:"No, it's--I'm sorry," Greta says again, letting her hands drop. The offer to stand next to her is somehow all the more touching for its absurdity. The last thing she wants to do is stand here, with or without company, but this woman's apparent willingness to do just that is unexpectedly kind. "If... if you wouldn't mind walking with me, I'd appreciate that very much."
There, see, she hasn't entirely misplaced her manners. "I'm Greta," she adds, hesitantly offering her hand. A proper introduction feels absurd, too, and part of her wants to forego it. Maybe it would be better if they didn't know each other's names; once she's seen to her apartment, they could both get on with pretending this whole thing never happened. But she's already been rude, and she has enough to worry about without adding more of that to the mix.