Cap'n Hillary Leadsword Ain't Happy

who: svet
when: morningish
where: memory lane. for a bit.

Svetlana remembered being 6. Fluffy blonde hair tied with baby blue ribbons that matched her eyes, and fat red mouth turned down heavily at the corners, forcing equally fat tears down wind-reddened cheeks. Sat on her Papa's knee, he would pretend to be stern, and reprimand in the way that only an adult who doesn't really mean it can, and call her "polecat". Which would make her cry even more, because Svetlana had the art of sulking pretty much perfected from birth. And from behind his back he would present the toy or doll or lollipop she had tantrumed for and ruffle her hair and tell her not to be so silly - because pretty girls always got what they wanted eventually. That was how the world worked. And she would bury her pointy white face into his scratchy black beard and inhale his cigar smell and everything would be fixed.

Not now. It wasn't like that now. She could tantrum until she was bloodied and blue, and she knew they would not return her food. They would probably just take something else away. Maybe her left leg - that was all they were missing, wasn't it? Her fucking limbs. They already had her sanity and her dignity and her control. They had her whole life, and they probably had video recordings of the process involved in taking it from her. Yes - limbs would doubtlessly be next.

The precious white pillowcases now lay empty and useless on the ground, empty of their cargo which she had hugged to her belly all night. Not tight enough. They had taken her food and they had locked it away. That is what they did. She hadn't even bothered with the tantruming. Not any more. What was the point? Lost instead in thought of the way her Papa used to smell when she was a little girl. Her Papa who thought she was dead, and Svetlana didn't even think she cared. She was too numb to cry for her poor, lost Papa. Too angry to do anything but try and stay alive. Exist exist exist. That was all she could do to spite them - not die. She'd slipped up once, dangling from the ceiling like a puppet, and they'd thrown it in her face. So she'd never ever let herself die again. It wasn't worth the trouble it would cause.

Sighing, Svetlana decided to go and look at the computer making buzzy noises at her. 2 hours staring at the ceiling, lost in pointles nostalgia, trying not to think about eating. That was enough. Now it was time to go and see what the fuck it was that they wanted. They always wanted something.

She stared blankly at the message blinking on her computer screen. Was it supposed to be a joke? She made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat and finally made to respond to apparantly-Owen. Pathetic.