#this lady

夢に出てくる怖い人

でもそっち側の夢に俺は出て来なないなない

yes salad-ppang is here but you know what she's really serving

Thinking about her being a kid who can see so much, but can't articulate it. Not that she's not smart, but it takes so much for her to get it out in words that "make sense" and are "acceptable" to other people.

People say she's cryptic and acerbic and mouthy when they don't care to get to know her, and privately she thinks none of these words are quite right, but she's long since given up hope of someone listening to her.

She has so much energy and so many thoughts and no one ever allows her to use them, so it's no wonder she expresses it in other ways. She's vivacious and excited and always racing around and flapping her hands and so full of ideas.

And the adults around her can't stand it

She's jittery and irritating and she can never sit still and she's always hungry for some unknown reason

So she learns to keep still. She learns to sit on her hands and hold her ideas in. She learns to be as negligible as possible and press her lips tight and listen when the grown ups tell her to be seen and not heard.

But she still has some defiance, a small petty victory.

If she won't be heard then she will be seen

Her favourite colour has always been yellow, and she works hard to find and incorporate every scrap of it she can. She learns to sew and to dye and to make the cheap, threadbare, standardized clothes she is issued her own. She is in the back of every classroom, absorbing everything and learning as much as she can. She is outside every meeting room and in every hallway that adults don't want her to be, listening in and forming opinions that she knows no one but herself will care about.

She was small, and that worked to her advantage. She could slip in doorways and hide herself away in cupboards and alcoves. When she started growing, she was presented with a bigger issue.

The first time she fainted she had been sitting on a low wall outside, swinging her legs and watching the leaves blow in the trees. She heard the call to come back inside and jumped up, only to find herself on the ground with an irate matron looking down at her.

Things only got worse from there, and the grown ups at each and every facility she got passed to had the same expression upon seeing her records. The other children whispered behind her back, either questioning why she received extra portions or mocking her for her seemingly constant dizzy spells.

She kept her head down and kept her mouth shut and her wardrobe grew ever more yellow. She could hardly sleep anymore, and when books were available she would sneak away and read all night. (Once she got old enough for the local store owners to accept her lies, she would work any time she could sneak away, saving up her own money to buy a slim volume or two that she treasured above all else)

Sure, it sometimes made her vision a little blurry, but at this point she was pretty sure that had more to do with the fact that the orphanage kitchens never seemed to have enough food lately.

She managed to contain all of her words and ideas and jitters and "oddities" to the nighttime. There, she was free. There, she could squeak and pace and flap her hands and recite snatches of things out loud and no one asked her to explain herself.

She was never sure how other people seemed to manage it. She was always exhausted from trying to obey all the ridiculous unspoken rules that were enforced during the day. But no matter how tired she was when lights out was announced, sleep would still somehow elude her. Better to be productive and capitalize on her precious few hours where she was free from observation than to lay as still as if she were being interrogated by yet another orphanage director and wait in agony.

One late evening, when she was on her way back from sweeping out the barber shop down the street (It had taken hours, but it was more than worth it when she counted the bills and saw she had the money to buy a new book and enough left over for an apple), she saw a flyer taped to a storefront window.

The title caught her eye, in bold yellow print: “ARE YOU A GIFTED CHILD LOOKING FOR SPECIAL OPPORTUNITIES?”

She noted that the flyer seemed to be addressing her, instead of whatever hypothetical adult may have been responsible for her. She appreciated being acknowledged, even if it was just by a piece of paper.

Walking over, she pulled the flyer down, studying it. The location it mentioned wasn't far away, and the date listed was tomorrow. She folded it and slipped it securely into her pocket.

“No, let’s not beat around the bush.

Right back AT YOU BABY 😍😍❤️🥰🥰

Seeing you always in everyone’s reblogs and DMs and inboxes spreading your infectious enthusiasm and joy makes me so incredibly happy, but then you bless us with your writing on top of that!?

GOALS 🙌🏻🙌🏻❤️❤️

@krissology and I are gonna have the best weekend clowning and writing and seeing gorgeous Javi G but most importantly discussing HER FREAKING BOOK SHE WROTE and I am so excited