𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘𝗦 𝗔 𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗘 𝗔𝗧𝗧𝗔𝗖𝗛𝗘𝗗 𝗧𝗢 𝗜𝗧.
𝖡𝗎𝗂𝗅𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗑 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝟨𝟢𝟢 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌!
𝖬𝖠𝖷𝖨𝖬𝖴𝖬 𝖴𝖭𝖢𝖮𝖬𝖥𝖮𝖱𝖳𝖠𝖡𝖨𝖫𝖨𝖳𝖸! 𝖨𝗍'𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀.
- 𝖭𝗈 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗆𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗒 𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗎𝖾𝗌, 𝖧𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗒 𝖡𝖨𝖱𝖳𝖧𝖽𝖺𝗒 (!) / 𝖫𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖧𝖠𝖳𝖤 𝖠𝗇𝗈𝗇𝗒𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗌.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY CHARLIE, always accepting; @demunitization.
the pillow sits in her hands later than she's sure he would've liked. a random pillow caught up in the hotel's cozy hustle and bustle, had she not caught sight of the thing who's to say where it might've ended up. in the garbage outside, behind the hotel somewhere, tangled up between dingy sex toys and used needles grimy with overuse on the top of a trash heap. where it belongs. her nails dig into the edge of the plush fabric, the cherry red of her cheeks creasing in tandem with the harsh downturn of her mouth. no matter how she tried to parse this, it was just... cold. too cold.
happy birthday to me, she'd think bitterly. a shake in her grip when she turns the ostensibly life sized plush over in her hands to glance at the underside, a dip in the fabric portending the promise of the voice box and no doubt an object far more intrusive. she wasn't an idiot, he liked to watch. as if public mockery wasn't enough, he had to pry into her private life too. he couldn't leave well enough alone could he?
with an insufferable huff of air, she falls back into her ever faithful couch. just a girl and her lifesized vox pillow. she snorts, the sheer impossibility of it too much not to laugh if derisively. maximum uncomfortability! it's just like the real thing! displayed on the note as though proud, crudely so. her heart wrenches at the confession uncomfortably, somber. a sharper, meaner, part of her would be inclined to agree; he was uncomfortable now. but before?
❝ you weren't uncomfortable before. ❞ she murmurs, feeling stupid. she'd never tell him now anyways. mocking though the words read, like a presumption of how she felt, always assuming ahead of her like he thought better, like he was better, however── she'd seen his lows. though jeering, there laid an ugly truth beneath the words, and her knuckles come up to brush against his idiotic head like a salve soothed into wounds. did he sincerely believe that? that she thought he was uncomfortable to be around?
❝ stupid, so fucking stupid... ❞ her head tips back, shoulders pressed square against the back of the couch, eyes tracing the floral ceiling wallpaper in search of an answer. fruitless. the fact he remembered makes her want to laugh, a bubble rising and choking her, though no sound escapes. only her, and the walls around her, her sanctity of safety. and this fucking thing.
it shouldn't choke her up, shouldn't get under her skin like it does so, like he does. an ebbing ache she can't just shoulder away, and she can't decide whether she wants to throw him at the wall. call it quits and dump him outside in the garbage herself, or... her gaze drifts to one of her own plushies; some brought, some mangled and hand made labors of love she'd toiled over herself, each the same ones she'd reach out for when things got too much. unable to bear the sanctity of loneliness herself, aching for affection she starved herself of. the safety of being held without the hazard of being seen.
fucking hell, she couldn't be this pathetic could she?
time ticks by, silent melancholia. she allows herself the reprieve to mope for what was, the has beens, could've beens, doors slammed shut and promises lost to time.
lithe legs stretch out, head lolling back up as her words settle into incomprobability. a barely there, ❝ alright... ❞, stretched loose as though resisting finality, akin to the long suffering close of a book, a new chapter pending; when she begins her theatrical stand, pillow tumbling to the floor. she stares down, brows knitting. that uncomfortable feeling was back. she didn't have the energy to figure it out, better to reserve what she did have for nicer things.
when she does pick him back up, the fabric catches neatly in her claws, grip firm. somehow, in the short space of the journey between her room and her walk in closet, she'd hoisted him under her arm.
❝ into the closet you go, mister. ❞ she speaks with finality, stuffing him at the very, veeery, far back corner. far as she could hope to hide him, figure partially obscured by the various blazers hanging on high. the doors close slow, footsteps a distant rumble on carpet floors.
