until i'm ready, let me be
Well, here is a visit she did not expect.
Earlier that morning Amalia had received a letter addressed to her and written in an unfamiliar hand. She hadn't thought much of it, assuming it to be from someone inquiring about when the bakery would re-open, or wishing her well. She'd left it at her bedside as she went about her morning, the strange routine of the infirmary harrowing in how natural it had all become. Wake up, stretch. Sit up, eat. Spend three hours trying to move her feet (she's gotten her toes to wiggle, a minor miracle!). Eat again, despite her lack of appetite.
Open up a mysterious letter and learn in the span of three minutes that a) she has a father, b) he's an asshole, c) she has siblings, and d) she's not supposed to tell anyone.
Spend the next hour staring blankly at the note, her mind reeling without any ability to formulate anything resembling real thought, except:
What the actual Voice-cursed fuck.
So you can imagine how she feels when the next person to walk into her room is none other than Samuel fucking Wordsworth, official errand boy for the Voice and, apparently, her half-brother.
It takes her a minute to do anything other than stare intently at Sam, the letter still open in her trembling hands, her expression a tangled mix of indignation, disbelief, guilt, and pure befuddlement. His greeting passes right over her head like so much hot air: there's only one thought that she can hold onto with any success, bouncing and ricocheting through her brain, a bullet fired in an enclosed space. Her voice is raw when she finally says it, flat and accusatory, pointed and quiet.
"Did you know?"
Earlier that morning Amalia had received a letter addressed to her and written in an unfamiliar hand. She hadn't thought much of it, assuming it to be from someone inquiring about when the bakery would re-open, or wishing her well. She'd left it at her bedside as she went about her morning, the strange routine of the infirmary harrowing in how natural it had all become. Wake up, stretch. Sit up, eat. Spend three hours trying to move her feet (she's gotten her toes to wiggle, a minor miracle!). Eat again, despite her lack of appetite.
Open up a mysterious letter and learn in the span of three minutes that a) she has a father, b) he's an asshole, c) she has siblings, and d) she's not supposed to tell anyone.
Spend the next hour staring blankly at the note, her mind reeling without any ability to formulate anything resembling real thought, except:
What the actual Voice-cursed fuck.
So you can imagine how she feels when the next person to walk into her room is none other than Samuel fucking Wordsworth, official errand boy for the Voice and, apparently, her half-brother.
It takes her a minute to do anything other than stare intently at Sam, the letter still open in her trembling hands, her expression a tangled mix of indignation, disbelief, guilt, and pure befuddlement. His greeting passes right over her head like so much hot air: there's only one thought that she can hold onto with any success, bouncing and ricocheting through her brain, a bullet fired in an enclosed space. Her voice is raw when she finally says it, flat and accusatory, pointed and quiet.
"Did you know?"
i have to heal myself
AmaLiA
