Astrid Magnussen (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
white_oleander) wrote2018-11-12 08:55 am
white_oleander) wrote2018-11-12 08:55 am
Room 210; Monday Early Evening [11/12].
On 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.
By the time she reached her room, Astrid realized she was having trouble breathing, her chest had tightened so much it felt like it was squeezing out her lungs, and she slammed the door behind her, locked it to give herself a little extra warning and time if Sabine was about to come in, then she threw herself on her bed, dug her mother's knife out of her bedside table drawer to cleanly slice the envelope open, and then poised a trembling hand over the letter waiting inside.
Maybe she didn't want to read it. Oh, God, what could it even say? What would her mother have to say to her after all this time, finally? Why hadn't she written back sooner? Why had it taken so long? Did she really want to know? Was she better off not knowing? Astrid's eyes dance to the floor, wondering if she could pull up the boards and toss the letter in, never revealing its true contents, but then it would drive her insane, like an Edgar Allan Poe story, the knowledge of the letter beating like her needful, erratic heart. No, it would be torture not knowing. It would be torture knowing, as well, but the lesser of two evils. Trying to remember how to breath so she could breathe out slowly, she carefully pulled out the thin paper, closed her eyes, counted to ten, and read, eyes roaming hungrily over the neat little scrawls, soaking up each tiny little stroke.
Not a single word about her birthday; had Ingrid completely forgotten? She'd have thought maybe the delivery had just been slow, that it was an older letter, but the date assured her that this wasn't true. Astrid figured she shouldn't be surprised, but she had been hopeful that maybe...it was her own fault, really, birthdays weren't usually anything special, not unless Ingrid had been infused by some sort of rare inspiration to celebrate it.
There was an apology, though, that was something. A brief one, but it was nice to see it, simple, to the point. I'm sorry for not writing sooner. There had been some issues, apparently, some tiff with another inmate that lead to a whole thing with confiscated mail, like currency for some of us, these letters from our poor, adrift children, almost as precious as tampons and cigarettes, and then there was a stint in solitary confinement, which Ingrid went on to tell her about at length, in overly romantic language that made it almost sound like she longed to be back there. Weaker souls may find it distressing, driving them deeper into themselves to confront things they wished to never see, but there I found parts of myself I'd have never unearthed otherwise. On and on and on, about her and her experience in her obelisk, her awakening soul, her soaring spirit, like she was filling in the lines of a private diary and not writing a letter to her estranged daughter that she hadn't spoken to in months.
And Astrid reveled in each and every word.
Until the very end. She'd spent the whole time desiring, aching for something about herself, some mention of how much her mother missed her and thought of her and maybe some indication that Ingrid spent even a fraction of her time wholly consumed by the state of her daughter, and once she was there, it started out with a hopeful soar of her heart, but it quickly crashed and burned.
I miss you more than even my own capable words can express, she wrote. You, Astrid, my daughter, wherever you may be, whatever this pale imitation who has been writing to me in your stead has done to you. Did I ever know you at all? Is this what you were this whole time? I poured over your letters, searching for you, but what I found was no daughter of mine. This wan specter of a girl, shrouded in the costume given to her by a woman who threw her fading faith into a pole into a cross instead. Red doesn't suit you; it weakens you, it disguises you. It chases away any ferocity you have, eradicates any semblance of the bright girl I would proudly call my own. Student council? Homecoming court? You've gone positively Dickensian in your shopgirl role among your flowers with their fanciful fairy tale inspirations and your random acts of public defacement.
I just hope it's only a phase. I suppose even the greatest minds find themselves desiring to know what 'average' may feel like. You're trying to figure things out for yourself, I'm sure, and it can't be easy for you, but I hope you do it quickly, before you find yourself mired so deep in your own mediocrity that there's no hope of ever crawling your way back out again.
Until then, -Mother.
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
By the time she reached her room, Astrid realized she was having trouble breathing, her chest had tightened so much it felt like it was squeezing out her lungs, and she slammed the door behind her, locked it to give herself a little extra warning and time if Sabine was about to come in, then she threw herself on her bed, dug her mother's knife out of her bedside table drawer to cleanly slice the envelope open, and then poised a trembling hand over the letter waiting inside.
Maybe she didn't want to read it. Oh, God, what could it even say? What would her mother have to say to her after all this time, finally? Why hadn't she written back sooner? Why had it taken so long? Did she really want to know? Was she better off not knowing? Astrid's eyes dance to the floor, wondering if she could pull up the boards and toss the letter in, never revealing its true contents, but then it would drive her insane, like an Edgar Allan Poe story, the knowledge of the letter beating like her needful, erratic heart. No, it would be torture not knowing. It would be torture knowing, as well, but the lesser of two evils. Trying to remember how to breath so she could breathe out slowly, she carefully pulled out the thin paper, closed her eyes, counted to ten, and read, eyes roaming hungrily over the neat little scrawls, soaking up each tiny little stroke.
Not a single word about her birthday; had Ingrid completely forgotten? She'd have thought maybe the delivery had just been slow, that it was an older letter, but the date assured her that this wasn't true. Astrid figured she shouldn't be surprised, but she had been hopeful that maybe...it was her own fault, really, birthdays weren't usually anything special, not unless Ingrid had been infused by some sort of rare inspiration to celebrate it.
There was an apology, though, that was something. A brief one, but it was nice to see it, simple, to the point. I'm sorry for not writing sooner. There had been some issues, apparently, some tiff with another inmate that lead to a whole thing with confiscated mail, like currency for some of us, these letters from our poor, adrift children, almost as precious as tampons and cigarettes, and then there was a stint in solitary confinement, which Ingrid went on to tell her about at length, in overly romantic language that made it almost sound like she longed to be back there. Weaker souls may find it distressing, driving them deeper into themselves to confront things they wished to never see, but there I found parts of myself I'd have never unearthed otherwise. On and on and on, about her and her experience in her obelisk, her awakening soul, her soaring spirit, like she was filling in the lines of a private diary and not writing a letter to her estranged daughter that she hadn't spoken to in months.
And Astrid reveled in each and every word.
Until the very end. She'd spent the whole time desiring, aching for something about herself, some mention of how much her mother missed her and thought of her and maybe some indication that Ingrid spent even a fraction of her time wholly consumed by the state of her daughter, and once she was there, it started out with a hopeful soar of her heart, but it quickly crashed and burned.
I miss you more than even my own capable words can express, she wrote. You, Astrid, my daughter, wherever you may be, whatever this pale imitation who has been writing to me in your stead has done to you. Did I ever know you at all? Is this what you were this whole time? I poured over your letters, searching for you, but what I found was no daughter of mine. This wan specter of a girl, shrouded in the costume given to her by a woman who threw her fading faith into a pole into a cross instead. Red doesn't suit you; it weakens you, it disguises you. It chases away any ferocity you have, eradicates any semblance of the bright girl I would proudly call my own. Student council? Homecoming court? You've gone positively Dickensian in your shopgirl role among your flowers with their fanciful fairy tale inspirations and your random acts of public defacement.
I just hope it's only a phase. I suppose even the greatest minds find themselves desiring to know what 'average' may feel like. You're trying to figure things out for yourself, I'm sure, and it can't be easy for you, but I hope you do it quickly, before you find yourself mired so deep in your own mediocrity that there's no hope of ever crawling your way back out again.
Until then, -Mother.
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 ]]