until i'm ready, let me be
Oh, a truly astute observation from Sam. Amalia continues to simply stare as his eyes trace down the letter, trying to read a reaction from his face, to see if he's been lying to her this whole time. It's hard to say what she wants from him, exactly - anger? Joy? Surprise? Guilt?
Anything other than the nothing she gets.
In the growing silence she wonders if maybe Sam can hear her thundering heart, the erratic way it hammers and beats beneath her slender, shallow breast. The seconds feel like hours, the moments eons: she wants something from him, and he seems reluctant to give her even that. The only movement is her long-fanged fingers coiling and uncoiling into fists. The anticipation is exhausting, invigorating, her body and mind wound taut as a spring-
And when he finally speaks, well, it's like a slap in the face. Dropping her gaze from Sam back to the ground, Amalia blinks back a sudden well of tears, trying to hide the stunned hurt in her expression, the way his blase acceptance stings. I knew my father slept with other women... so her mother was not special. She is not special - indeed, she might be one of many half-Wordsworth children. None of this is a revelation for him the way it is for her, and that thought is strangely isolating, a sucker-punch she did not expect. "Oh," Amalia says back simply, looking at the paper now returned to her hands. "I see."
And then he asks her how she feels, and Amalia nearly laughs.
"I don't know," is the honest answer, bitten out from between clenched teeth, her head falling slightly to the side. Tilting her face up to Sam, she eyes him skeptically. "How am I supposed to feel? I have a family again, I guess, that doesn't want me. I have a father who was too ashamed of my existence to acknowledge me. I have a half-brother who hates me. And I can't leave this fucking bed."
Anything other than the nothing she gets.
In the growing silence she wonders if maybe Sam can hear her thundering heart, the erratic way it hammers and beats beneath her slender, shallow breast. The seconds feel like hours, the moments eons: she wants something from him, and he seems reluctant to give her even that. The only movement is her long-fanged fingers coiling and uncoiling into fists. The anticipation is exhausting, invigorating, her body and mind wound taut as a spring-
And when he finally speaks, well, it's like a slap in the face. Dropping her gaze from Sam back to the ground, Amalia blinks back a sudden well of tears, trying to hide the stunned hurt in her expression, the way his blase acceptance stings. I knew my father slept with other women... so her mother was not special. She is not special - indeed, she might be one of many half-Wordsworth children. None of this is a revelation for him the way it is for her, and that thought is strangely isolating, a sucker-punch she did not expect. "Oh," Amalia says back simply, looking at the paper now returned to her hands. "I see."
And then he asks her how she feels, and Amalia nearly laughs.
"I don't know," is the honest answer, bitten out from between clenched teeth, her head falling slightly to the side. Tilting her face up to Sam, she eyes him skeptically. "How am I supposed to feel? I have a family again, I guess, that doesn't want me. I have a father who was too ashamed of my existence to acknowledge me. I have a half-brother who hates me. And I can't leave this fucking bed."
i have to heal myself
AmaLiA
