Post by Baby Jenks on May 9, 2016 20:43:46 GMT -5
It was the same dream as before. She was outside, playing, poking at something she found. The stick kinda squished when she did it, and the something made funny squeak noises. Sorta furry but not fluffy. It wasn't a cat because it didn't meow. No wings so it wasn't a bird. Definitely wasn't a dog, and she would know because dogs were her very favorite. No long ears so not a bunny.
*poke*
"Angelina, NO!"
A hand grabs her own, taking the stick away and breaking it. She looks up through a fringe of dark bangs to see her older sister leaning over her, snapping the stick over a bony, grass stained knee.
"He was squeakin'."
The angry 7 year old plants her fists on her narrow hips. "Coz you were HURTIN' him. He was squeakin' coz you were hurtin' him. That's not nice, Angelina."
"Why you always care if I'm nice?"
"Coz being nice is important. You don't need to hurt people or animals."
The scene flickers, changes. Someone is talking, but she can't hear the words clearly through the black sackcloth bag over her head.
"The older one, Alexa? She's going to the North facility. Extra training up there for someone like her."
"NO!"
"JENKS."
Her eyes snap open, nose to blackheads with Rodric - but strangely glad to see him.
"Th'hell did you wake me up for?" Her indignant question is drowned out by what sounds like a sea lion choking to death on tapioca, her body bending double as the coughs wracked her sturdy frame.
"I brought you medicine. I don't know if it's the right kind, but it's what we've got."
"What's this 'we' shit, white man?"
He blinks, staring at her with actual concern. "Do I need to take you to emergency?"
"NO. No doctors. I'm fine." She waves her hands feebly at him.
"You're... well, you're white, so..."
She groans thickly through a mucous clogged throat. "I knowwwwww. It's a thing people say to just say things to other people. Like. People things. That say stuff."
He stares at her.
"What were you dreaming?"
"Fever dreams. Don't mean anything."
"You sounded scared."
"You gonna give me some medicine or stand there trying to psychoalanyzetize me?"
The rustle of his plastic shopping bag answers her question as he hands her a box of cold remedy. Leaving her to puzzle through the workings of adhesive and cardboard flaps, he digs out the small box of tissues (with the box crunched in on one side) and a jug of orange juice (what crunched the tissue box), setting them on the wooden table.
"You know you got a match comin' up, right?"
"Nah but I got a lighter. I thought you gave up smoking or did you bring me weed?"
Rodric laughs, a surprisingly pleasant sound coming from the scruffy fellow. "No weed, you're sick."
"Fine, DAD."
"If you were mine I'd kill myself. Take your pills."
"I - I can't - it won't -"
He looks over to see her still fiddling with the paper-plastic-foil maze that medicine companies love to confound the ill with.
"You know, Terrence isn't gonna give you a break out there." He hands her the pills and orange juice.
"I don't expect him to."
*poke*
"Angelina, NO!"
A hand grabs her own, taking the stick away and breaking it. She looks up through a fringe of dark bangs to see her older sister leaning over her, snapping the stick over a bony, grass stained knee.
"He was squeakin'."
The angry 7 year old plants her fists on her narrow hips. "Coz you were HURTIN' him. He was squeakin' coz you were hurtin' him. That's not nice, Angelina."
"Why you always care if I'm nice?"
"Coz being nice is important. You don't need to hurt people or animals."
The scene flickers, changes. Someone is talking, but she can't hear the words clearly through the black sackcloth bag over her head.
"The older one, Alexa? She's going to the North facility. Extra training up there for someone like her."
"NO!"
"JENKS."
Her eyes snap open, nose to blackheads with Rodric - but strangely glad to see him.
"Th'hell did you wake me up for?" Her indignant question is drowned out by what sounds like a sea lion choking to death on tapioca, her body bending double as the coughs wracked her sturdy frame.
"I brought you medicine. I don't know if it's the right kind, but it's what we've got."
"What's this 'we' shit, white man?"
He blinks, staring at her with actual concern. "Do I need to take you to emergency?"
"NO. No doctors. I'm fine." She waves her hands feebly at him.
"You're... well, you're white, so..."
She groans thickly through a mucous clogged throat. "I knowwwwww. It's a thing people say to just say things to other people. Like. People things. That say stuff."
He stares at her.
"What were you dreaming?"
"Fever dreams. Don't mean anything."
"You sounded scared."
"You gonna give me some medicine or stand there trying to psychoalanyzetize me?"
The rustle of his plastic shopping bag answers her question as he hands her a box of cold remedy. Leaving her to puzzle through the workings of adhesive and cardboard flaps, he digs out the small box of tissues (with the box crunched in on one side) and a jug of orange juice (what crunched the tissue box), setting them on the wooden table.
"You know you got a match comin' up, right?"
"Nah but I got a lighter. I thought you gave up smoking or did you bring me weed?"
Rodric laughs, a surprisingly pleasant sound coming from the scruffy fellow. "No weed, you're sick."
"Fine, DAD."
"If you were mine I'd kill myself. Take your pills."
"I - I can't - it won't -"
He looks over to see her still fiddling with the paper-plastic-foil maze that medicine companies love to confound the ill with.
"You know, Terrence isn't gonna give you a break out there." He hands her the pills and orange juice.
"I don't expect him to."
