[ It doesn't feel like she's acting because this is an utter failure to keep her act together; all the filters between her true emotions and those she presents burned away by the truly inescapable bottom line that she does not know where her daughter is. She's a mess, a trainwreck of uncut emotion as a few more ringing sobs tumble out of her.
And he doesn't quite believe her-- she can tell by the way he speaks. But his arms feel so good closing and closed around her, and he's trying so hard to be kind. A kindness Sally had learned to lick off of knives because no one bothered to offer it on a spoon. For a second she feels viciously conflicted, torn between curling inward and punching him right in the fucking ribs. She won't, she knows that, but it doesn't stop her from hovering over the possibility.
On the one hand, how dare he not take her word for this? But on the other, she already understands the chemical fuckery that's happened to him-- to them both. And she doesn't doubt for a second her ability to convince him, when her wits have returned, that having a baby isn't nearly as impossible as he's thinking. Right Now just isn't the moment. Right now she'd just like to stop crying.
Also, if she did punch him in the ribs, it would probably ruin this not at all terrible hug. Wrestling down the impulse for violence leaves her feeling ferociously lonely and fucked up so instead, her arms latch around his ribs and her fingers make fists in the fabric of his shirt. A minute or so slinks away like this. But there's too little payout in this catharsis already, and Sally knows she can't cry this feeling out. Not in minutes, hours, or days. It doesn't take her very long to start working expertly at swallowing those sobs, but they jailbreak her control once or twice before she finally manages to speak up again. ]
M'sorry [ For thinking about punching him, but he doesn't know that, so she adds:] your shirt... it's wet
[ She peeks upwards and her eyes are pink and puffy; the silver-blue of her irises are especially bright, like polished sovereigns in the rain. ]
You think I'm mad and you still let me make a mess of you
[ An attempt at friendly teasing? Or maybe mocking him a bit is the consolation prize she gets for avoiding actual violence. It's probably both. ]
no subject
And he doesn't quite believe her-- she can tell by the way he speaks. But his arms feel so good closing and closed around her, and he's trying so hard to be kind. A kindness Sally had learned to lick off of knives because no one bothered to offer it on a spoon. For a second she feels viciously conflicted, torn between curling inward and punching him right in the fucking ribs. She won't, she knows that, but it doesn't stop her from hovering over the possibility.
On the one hand, how dare he not take her word for this? But on the other, she already understands the chemical fuckery that's happened to him-- to them both. And she doesn't doubt for a second her ability to convince him, when her wits have returned, that having a baby isn't nearly as impossible as he's thinking. Right Now just isn't the moment. Right now she'd just like to stop crying.
Also, if she did punch him in the ribs, it would probably ruin this not at all terrible hug. Wrestling down the impulse for violence leaves her feeling ferociously lonely and fucked up so instead, her arms latch around his ribs and her fingers make fists in the fabric of his shirt. A minute or so slinks away like this. But there's too little payout in this catharsis already, and Sally knows she can't cry this feeling out. Not in minutes, hours, or days. It doesn't take her very long to start working expertly at swallowing those sobs, but they jailbreak her control once or twice before she finally manages to speak up again. ]
M'sorry [ For thinking about punching him, but he doesn't know that, so she adds:] your shirt... it's wet
[ She peeks upwards and her eyes are pink and puffy; the silver-blue of her irises are especially bright, like polished sovereigns in the rain. ]
You think I'm mad and you still let me make a mess of you
[ An attempt at friendly teasing? Or maybe mocking him a bit is the consolation prize she gets for avoiding actual violence. It's probably both. ]