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Room 210; Monday Early Evening [11/12].
Nov. 12th, 2018 08:55 amOn her way back to the dorms from her shift at T&C, Astrid had swung by the post office, out of habit more than anything else, muscle memory, not really expecting anything to be there, as there hadn't been for months now. So when it turned out that she actually did have a letter waiting for her, she could scarcely believe it. It had to be one of those weird bends of reality that happened here, it couldn't be real, but there it was, in her hands, her name and box address in her mother's unique and artistic scrawl, the rubber-stamped address of the prison in the top left corner.
She didn't run back to her room; she didn't trust that her knees would be able to hold her well enough for that. But she did hurry, her brain a fog as she tried to decide whether to just rip it open now and consume the words hungrily or just wait until the privacy of her own space. She had to wait; she had no idea what she'd find inside, but she did know she would want to be alone when she found out. The timing...it couldn't have been coincidence, could it? Could Ingrid have planned it, such a long stretch of silence, finally ended more than a week after Astrid's birthdaywhich we'll pretend I hadn't messed up and was the 1st not the 11th this whole time, whoooops? It was too perfect to have been planned, wasn't it? But at the same time, it was Ingrid Magnussen she was dealing with here, there was no telling what that woman was capable of if she set her mind to it.
( Cut for length/wordiness; CW: Astrid's narcissistic, abusive mother and all the terrible hang-ups that go with it. )
Don't cry, Astrid told herself as she stared at the cold flourishing of closing of the letter. Don't you dare cry. Her mother's voice, which she could scarcely tell if she even remembered anymore, Don't cry. We're not like that. We're the Vikings, remember?
But it was too late, she realized, noticing the spots of teardrops on the paper, realizing her cheeks were already wet. Another failure, but she embraced it, releasing the sob that had built up inside of her, and, wrapping her arms tightly around her legs and balling herself up, just let it all out anyway.
She missed her so much, and here Astrid was, just ruining everything. Maybe Ingrid was right. She didn't know what she was doing, she didn't know who she was anymore, fumbling around blindly, a broken boat adrift in the sea without a rudder, without a paddle, without a hope. Her name now was Lost, her name was Nobody's Daughter. Or, at least, it would be, before long.
[[ don't mind the melodrama! IT'S CANON, DAMMIT. She was well overdue anyway and I've been itching to give her a good spiral. Door closed, but post is open! probably with work-related sp ]]
She didn't run back to her room; she didn't trust that her knees would be able to hold her well enough for that. But she did hurry, her brain a fog as she tried to decide whether to just rip it open now and consume the words hungrily or just wait until the privacy of her own space. She had to wait; she had no idea what she'd find inside, but she did know she would want to be alone when she found out. The timing...it couldn't have been coincidence, could it? Could Ingrid have planned it, such a long stretch of silence, finally ended more than a week after Astrid's birthday
( Cut for length/wordiness; CW: Astrid's narcissistic, abusive mother and all the terrible hang-ups that go with it. )
Don't cry, Astrid told herself as she stared at the cold flourishing of closing of the letter. Don't you dare cry. Her mother's voice, which she could scarcely tell if she even remembered anymore, Don't cry. We're not like that. We're the Vikings, remember?
But it was too late, she realized, noticing the spots of teardrops on the paper, realizing her cheeks were already wet. Another failure, but she embraced it, releasing the sob that had built up inside of her, and, wrapping her arms tightly around her legs and balling herself up, just let it all out anyway.
She missed her so much, and here Astrid was, just ruining everything. Maybe Ingrid was right. She didn't know what she was doing, she didn't know who she was anymore, fumbling around blindly, a broken boat adrift in the sea without a rudder, without a paddle, without a hope. Her name now was Lost, her name was Nobody's Daughter. Or, at least, it would be, before long.
[[ don't mind the melodrama! IT'S CANON, DAMMIT. She was well overdue anyway and I've been itching to give her a good spiral. Door closed, but post is open! probably with work-related sp ]]
