[he may not be looking much at her, but the girl who is not katie has turned her thin frame - little blooms of mold darkening her sundress -(not flowers at all, but the spread of spores) to look very intently at daniel even though she has no eyes to speak of. he's a threat. one foot drops to the floor, and she silently pads toward mike, a dark liquid congealed between her toes, and the echo of broken glass in her steps.
he doesn't make a move to acknowledge her nearness - not yet. he's still parsing the words the other man - the other father - has proffered. his daughter isn't here. he hasn't seen her here, either. but mike's seen other children here - some younger than his daughter, many older. not sure how many of them were ...brought over the way he'd come to find himself here, but he doesn't know what it means.
but he must miss her, his samantha, wherever she is?
(wherever they are)
this place makes him see a lot of things. how is one to determine what's real and what isn't? (the drink feels real) but real or unreal, the girl isn't his own, and this man has spoken it into the air, made words of thoughts, a statement out of suspicion. (come on, man, you know it's not---)
he knows, deep down. he just doesn't want that knowledge.]
You think I don't know that?
[it's a hiss - desperate, a touch of anger rising out of that desperation, and the fingers of the girl reach to tug at his shirt, and he audibly cries out when she does. doesn't he want her to come sit with him? why won't he look at her? should he give her the barest assist, she would clamber up into his lap and hook her soot spattered arms around his neck.
that small spark of anger - it's enough to make the spectre desperate, too.
but it's lit, and once that match is struck it's struck - and though the heat of it gutters out, no malice toward daniel, only a slip out of the shade's grasp as he rubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand.]
I thought she was from the Orphanage at first, so I just let her follow me. Until she...
...changed her shape. She started to look more and more like my Katie.
[there. he'd acknowledged it, too. and its face is a whirl of formless storm, black shadows rushing in to try and take shape and finding no footing just now.]
no subject
he doesn't make a move to acknowledge her nearness - not yet. he's still parsing the words the other man - the other father - has proffered. his daughter isn't here. he hasn't seen her here, either. but mike's seen other children here - some younger than his daughter, many older. not sure how many of them were ...brought over the way he'd come to find himself here, but he doesn't know what it means.
but he must miss her, his samantha, wherever she is?
(wherever they are)
this place makes him see a lot of things. how is one to determine what's real and what isn't? (the drink feels real) but real or unreal, the girl isn't his own, and this man has spoken it into the air, made words of thoughts, a statement out of suspicion. (come on, man, you know it's not---)
he knows, deep down. he just doesn't want that knowledge.]
You think I don't know that?
[it's a hiss - desperate, a touch of anger rising out of that desperation, and the fingers of the girl reach to tug at his shirt, and he audibly cries out when she does. doesn't he want her to come sit with him? why won't he look at her? should he give her the barest assist, she would clamber up into his lap and hook her soot spattered arms around his neck.
that small spark of anger - it's enough to make the spectre desperate, too.
but it's lit, and once that match is struck it's struck - and though the heat of it gutters out, no malice toward daniel, only a slip out of the shade's grasp as he rubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand.]
I thought she was from the Orphanage at first, so I just let her follow me. Until she...
...changed her shape. She started to look more and more like my Katie.
[there. he'd acknowledged it, too. and its face is a whirl of formless storm, black shadows rushing in to try and take shape and finding no footing just now.]