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metamorphosis2012-01-10 05:36 pm
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2012-01-10 05:36 pm
Entry tags:
279;
Title: imperfect replication
Rating: G
just something original.
"Look, Margaret." His voice is scarcely a whisper, but she can hear it clear as day in the quiet of the house. Her fingers sweep down the railing idly, a frown curving the edges of her eyes. "They replicated it perfectly."
"Yes," she murmurs, not looking at him or at the planks below her feet. "They did."
Every plank of wood, every scrap of wallpaper, every window and every doorway, every book and every page and every word and every picture -- it was all perfectly replicated and in its place. Even the rips and tears in the yellowing, white-stripped walls, and the worn, hand-me-down look of spines of books, their covers marked with crayons and markers and names and dates and little notes in the margins - everything was perfect. It didn't feel the same, though. The look of home was there, but --
"It doesn't feel like it."
She feels him hesitate behind her, a pause in his steps only noticed by the creak of the old wooden floor (that part always creaked when you stepped too hard on it; it made sneaking out to see Lucas all the more difficult, when her parents were still alive) and she hears him sigh, winding down like an old clock all too aware of the oppressive sound of its ticking.
"I guess not." His voice is distant now, and Margaret tries to smile - she really, really does. She's flattered that they'd go through all the trouble of recreating their homes in this place, but even with the sunny, suburban sky outside and the smell of cool fall leaves drifting in with the wind... it doesn't shake the fact that they're trapped in a prison, the six of them. Lucas was the only friend she had ever had, someone she could share secrets with, talk about anything with - and now he was working for the group who had taken them and put them in this prison in the first place. 'To help you,' he had said, and she didn't distrust his words, but--
She sighs and turns to face him, reading his posture like an old, favorite book of hers (worried, regretful, disappointed that she hadn't run into his arms and thanked him and kissed him, like she used to do when he had done something for her sake) and forces a smile. His face lightens up a little more, but she doesn't run to him or anything; she shrugs and looks up at the ceiling (white, with the shadows drawn by lit chandeliers dancing across its bumpy surface) and nods.
"Thanks, Lucas. It means a lot to me. I guess it'll start to feel like home did after a while, right? And there's nothing we can do to change what's happened now."
Lucas grins and suddenly, he doesn't seem like a stranger volunteering to help their captors; suddenly, he's the same bright, smiling, beautiful sixteen year old boy she's known and loved all her life, and it almost helps her loosen up. He takes a few steps back (the floor creaks again, a sharp reminder of the perfect replication) and jerks his thumb over his shoulder, to a door on the left - the kitchen, her mind fills in.
"I'll make dinner, then. Anything special you want?"
She shakes her head and waves her fingers, their special see you later gesture.
"I'll be fine with whatever." She pauses, searching for something, anything to make this feel more normal - more like home used to feel. "Just don't burn down the house, okay?"
"What-- Hey! I wouldn't let my hard work go to waste!"
Lucas' leaving leaves a bitter taste in her mouth and she spits into the nearest potted plant (a green fern, up to her waist, with long, leafy branches and a name she can't bear to remember), feeling as sick as the moment she walked in.
Rating: G
just something original.
"Look, Margaret." His voice is scarcely a whisper, but she can hear it clear as day in the quiet of the house. Her fingers sweep down the railing idly, a frown curving the edges of her eyes. "They replicated it perfectly."
"Yes," she murmurs, not looking at him or at the planks below her feet. "They did."
Every plank of wood, every scrap of wallpaper, every window and every doorway, every book and every page and every word and every picture -- it was all perfectly replicated and in its place. Even the rips and tears in the yellowing, white-stripped walls, and the worn, hand-me-down look of spines of books, their covers marked with crayons and markers and names and dates and little notes in the margins - everything was perfect. It didn't feel the same, though. The look of home was there, but --
"It doesn't feel like it."
She feels him hesitate behind her, a pause in his steps only noticed by the creak of the old wooden floor (that part always creaked when you stepped too hard on it; it made sneaking out to see Lucas all the more difficult, when her parents were still alive) and she hears him sigh, winding down like an old clock all too aware of the oppressive sound of its ticking.
"I guess not." His voice is distant now, and Margaret tries to smile - she really, really does. She's flattered that they'd go through all the trouble of recreating their homes in this place, but even with the sunny, suburban sky outside and the smell of cool fall leaves drifting in with the wind... it doesn't shake the fact that they're trapped in a prison, the six of them. Lucas was the only friend she had ever had, someone she could share secrets with, talk about anything with - and now he was working for the group who had taken them and put them in this prison in the first place. 'To help you,' he had said, and she didn't distrust his words, but--
She sighs and turns to face him, reading his posture like an old, favorite book of hers (worried, regretful, disappointed that she hadn't run into his arms and thanked him and kissed him, like she used to do when he had done something for her sake) and forces a smile. His face lightens up a little more, but she doesn't run to him or anything; she shrugs and looks up at the ceiling (white, with the shadows drawn by lit chandeliers dancing across its bumpy surface) and nods.
"Thanks, Lucas. It means a lot to me. I guess it'll start to feel like home did after a while, right? And there's nothing we can do to change what's happened now."
Lucas grins and suddenly, he doesn't seem like a stranger volunteering to help their captors; suddenly, he's the same bright, smiling, beautiful sixteen year old boy she's known and loved all her life, and it almost helps her loosen up. He takes a few steps back (the floor creaks again, a sharp reminder of the perfect replication) and jerks his thumb over his shoulder, to a door on the left - the kitchen, her mind fills in.
"I'll make dinner, then. Anything special you want?"
She shakes her head and waves her fingers, their special see you later gesture.
"I'll be fine with whatever." She pauses, searching for something, anything to make this feel more normal - more like home used to feel. "Just don't burn down the house, okay?"
"What-- Hey! I wouldn't let my hard work go to waste!"
Lucas' leaving leaves a bitter taste in her mouth and she spits into the nearest potted plant (a green fern, up to her waist, with long, leafy branches and a name she can't bear to remember), feeling as sick as the moment she walked in.