Lucy Carrigan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
radicalize) wrote2007-10-11 12:25 am
radicalize) wrote2007-10-11 12:25 am
Entry tags:
With every mistake, we must surely be learning.
The rhythmic whirring of the washer had Lucy, curled up in a ball on top of it, half-asleep, her head pressed against her knees. The quiet defeat of this place had taken a lot out of her in the time she'd been there, more than seemed reasonable, and the gentle rocking had been the only thing to relax her for a long five days. There was no reason, not really, to wash the clothes she'd arrived in - New York in winter was hardly a tropical island, she'd never wear her heavy coat or her turtleneck, and she was still wearing the nearly-sheer tank top she'd work underneath (revealing the bruises on her arms, beginning to fade), though paired now with a long skirt from the clothes box, one that reminded her of the bus trip with Doctor Robert and only made her long more for home.
With no reason to fight, she was getting more and more restless, the stillness enough to drive her mad, she was sure; "safe" or no, Max was still being shot at in some jungle, Jude was in jail if not dead, everything was left wrecked and there was nothing she could do. Even when it had seemed useless, being able to act had given her a sense of security, a sense of importance, futile as the efforts may have been. It was something, not just sitting complacently like the rest of this population seemed to be doing; the idea of there being "another you" at home was little solace, or the war ending in those few years' time she'd been told (a few years wouldn't save Max, wouldn't bring him home, wouldn't bring back the countless of other people who, she was sure, were still dying by the second).
It was a train of thought she couldn't seem to avoid, apparently, and there, perched on the washing machine, which really didn't help the situation, her eyes had gone red and watery before she could even realize it. She slid to the floor, ending in a crouch, spine pressed against the cold metal of the washer and rubbed one hand over her face to brush any tears away, then combed the fingers back through her loose blonde hair. "It's gonna be alright," she murmured to herself, a cold, melancholy echo of Jude's shouting at her back in New York, tilting her head backwards, hands still tight in her hair by the back of her skull. "It's gonna be alright."
With no reason to fight, she was getting more and more restless, the stillness enough to drive her mad, she was sure; "safe" or no, Max was still being shot at in some jungle, Jude was in jail if not dead, everything was left wrecked and there was nothing she could do. Even when it had seemed useless, being able to act had given her a sense of security, a sense of importance, futile as the efforts may have been. It was something, not just sitting complacently like the rest of this population seemed to be doing; the idea of there being "another you" at home was little solace, or the war ending in those few years' time she'd been told (a few years wouldn't save Max, wouldn't bring him home, wouldn't bring back the countless of other people who, she was sure, were still dying by the second).
It was a train of thought she couldn't seem to avoid, apparently, and there, perched on the washing machine, which really didn't help the situation, her eyes had gone red and watery before she could even realize it. She slid to the floor, ending in a crouch, spine pressed against the cold metal of the washer and rubbed one hand over her face to brush any tears away, then combed the fingers back through her loose blonde hair. "It's gonna be alright," she murmured to herself, a cold, melancholy echo of Jude's shouting at her back in New York, tilting her head backwards, hands still tight in her hair by the back of her skull. "It's gonna be alright."