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Post by Ellis Vaccari on Feb 24, 2014 23:05:17 GMT -6
ELLIS MAREE VACCARI
TWENTY-SIX//FEMALE//UNSURE//EXTERNAL COMBUSTION//COMPUTER TECHNICIAN//LIGHTS POXLEITNER
POWER INFO: External Combustion: The ability to rapidly increase the shift in atoms and molecules of an object, causing said object to revolt and explode in an array of flames. The process can involves pouring a fair amount of her own meta-human reserved energy into an object to kick start the shift, so extended use easily results in fatigue. She also needs to have physical contact with the object in question - these explosions are delayed due to the time in which it takes to increase the molecular shift to an explosive level. The power itself is exhausting to use, and the after effects of that are felt as soon as she breaks contact with whatever it is she's trying to use it on. Obviously the bigger the object, the more draining. Some things are damn near impossible to destroy completely - for example, rather than blowing up a whole building wall, the power speeds the molecular structure of a segment instead. She also suffers from acute headaches after extended use.
________________________________
"You have no idea how I operate."
A little girl. Blonde. Dark eyes. Those eyes stare at the world with broad strokes before finding something worthwhile to settle on. Scrutinise. She doesn't wonder why the switch on the wall turns the light on, but ]how. Is it the sign of a light bulb dying? Are the wires crossed? Is it the uneven flow of electrical current that causes such a minute discrepancy to occur? The concept of an electrical current is fascinating alone, but given her age, she can't really understand it.
It doesn't stop her from questioning; how, not why.
How do things work, not why they work. She asks for the mechanics of little, mundane things before she touches them. How is it that pulling a toy backwards across the ground forces it to jolt forward with the same momentum? The same time?
She asks her father to explain the wiring of a computer as she sits on his lip in front of it, but she can't take any of that information in. To her, it's just a steady flow of words. But at least she, from a young age, can understand the connection.
______________________________________________________________
"I don't need to understand others. They're not looking at me."
She breezes through early schooling without friends. Her parents are a little worried about it, but they don't ever really do much. They sit her down from time to time and ask if everything's okay. She says it is, because really, it is. She fiddles with her hands a lot when she talks. Or when she's being talked to. She can't stop moving - it's beginning to look like a coping mechanism.
Science is her favourite subject. She invests herself into the mechanics of things more than anyone else does. It's not just about having fun with these seemingly insignificant, dumbed down experiments. These kids are young, and she still can't really understand everything, but she tries anyway.
And when she finally reaches high school, she becomes the person she always wished she could be. The type to understand - to hit the ground running with this innate desire to figure everything out. Her mind races through mathematics. Numbers seem to be a treasured concept to her. Equations are fun. Solving problems is fun.
Everyone else is starting to look at others in a new found way. There's a quality to others that's suddenly attractive.
She's looking at the things in the way she always dreamed of. Mechanics. Concepts. Modifications.
How, not why.
_______________________________________________________________
"Give me something technical. Something to keep my mind moving."
As much as she advances, she feels the need to take stock. She's pulling computers to pieces in her spare time; trouble shooting things with her hands. But one day, her father forces her to sit back. He asks her to - for a day - focus her attention on something else. And he forces an instrument into her hands; a guitar. At first she's not sure, so much so that she tries to give it back to him with force. But he eases the thing back into her hands.
Her father has always been better at explaining things to her. For her. He understands the how, not why aspect she seems to revolve around. As much as he talks about the mechanics of pressing strings to make different sounds, she still stares at him with wide, dark eyes. She's confused.
He says sometimes, she's distant. And he's not upset at her for it. He just wants to help her find better outlets. Outlets that he himself knows will develop an emotional pull when the time comes. There are only so many times you can pull that computer apart. He points out, and he tries a smile.
She resists the urge to argue the fact that she knows he's wrong.
___________________________________
"If you need something, ask for it."
There's a girl in her calculus class. She sometimes stares at the blonde girl with the dark eyes, who always has her gaze on the pages. The pencil flicks around in her hand a few times, periodically before she presses it to the paper. One day this girl makes the move to sit by the blonde.
No one ever sits by the blonde.
She talks, and talks. And asks questions. And leans closer. Eventually she points out that the blonde is pretty.
But she can't answer. She doesn't know how to. This hasn't happened before. She has no point of reference.
So she keeps talking. She mentions that it's clear that this blonde has a love for numbers. For thinking. And maybe she should step back a little. See what else life has to offer.
Again, she can't answer.
So eventually she remains silent. But she doesn't leave her side. Not for a few months.
Not until she graduates, and leaves the blonde behind.
__________________________________________________
"They're important to me. I don't talk about them."
She - with the blonde hair and the dark eyes - finds herself scrutinising every single move her mother makes. Every twitch, every morsel of energy spent. The way she turns away and runs her fingers underneath her eyes. She's catching tears before they fall - the movement of her muscles is proof of that. Even if she can't see her do it, she knows she's doing it.
Is he dead?
The words fall from her own lips before she has time to process them. To rework them so they aren't so upsetting. Not so jarring, from a daughter's mouth to her mother's ears.
No, She replies, just as calmly. Because by now she is well aware of how her teenage daughter speaks. Just... He left.
But the word left doesn't seem to sit well with her. It's not that she doesn't understand, it's simply that the word is such a broad statement within itself. She requires an adjective to colour the statement further, but she doesn't get one. Each time she asks, she doesn't get one.
Eventually, she stops asking.
___________________________________________________________________________________
"Nobody wonders where the scar came from. Nobody ever sees it."
She sits at her desk, blonde hair tied up and hidden under the woven knit. Her fingers tap the surface repeatedly. Impatiently. Her breathing is stagnant - heavy exhales after she holds it long enough. She's upset. And she's so rarely upset, so she doesn't know what to do about it.
There's a boy. Somewhere. And he's her half-brother. She makes a point of always saying half, now. Not because she's hurt, but because its factual. The sword on her forearm's colours seem to soothe the hardened features she wears. She doesn't hate her father, either. She just doesn't understand.
She can't understand.
But she feels angry, and it's such a rare feeling that her fingers dig into the hard wood of the desk because she doesn't know how else to expel the feeling. She catches her fingertips on the paper of a comic; Wonder Woman 2 volume 3. She curls the paper in her hands as the means to soothe her aggression before she can't help but grip the damn desk again. It almost hurts her hand to hold on this much, but she does anyway. For however long she needs to. Five minutes at the most. Until finally, she lets go. She glances at it for a moment before turning to the side. She has every intention of getting up and walking out of her room. She feels lethargic, but otherwise normal.
As she moves to stand, a portion of the desk burns bright and explodes in flames. She's been pouring her aggression and anger and confusion into the object for minutes.
She's burnt, because she doesn't expect it. Literally seared by her own ill feelings. The clothes she wears melt onto her skin. She cries. Screams. And passes out.
Later, she's left with a scar. Across the left side of her torso, wrapping closely around her back. She doesn't let anyone look. Not because she's ashamed, or feels like less of herself. But because it's hers to wear.
But eventually, she throws the rest of those comics out.
_________________________________________
"It reminds me of someone important."
She remembers the way her father talked about outlets for certain discourses with such passion, and while it took her some time to understand it, she eventually learned to do so.
Tattoos become a commodity for her.
One of the most important ones she gets is the lion on her forearm - she wants to match the one her father wears. Her mother is against the idea at first, and it takes some time to talk her into the concept. It wouldn't be the first tattoo she'd gotten, nor would it likely be the last.
She asks if her daughter is sure. She's sure she is. And her mother is grateful she so openly understands the concept of sentiments.
_______________________________________________________
"I don't think I'll ever want to talk about her."
Moving is drastic. It's a change that's difficult to find comfort in. A shift in the balance causes an unfamiliar sense of anxiety to overcome the still-injured blonde. She's barely left the hospital and had no real time to go home. To be home. To exist in a place of comfort before trying to build another.
As she first walks in the door - keys uncoloured as she shift between her fingers - she's met with the first unfamiliar face she'll ever meet at the school.
It isn't a long encounter. It isn't a particularly enjoyable one. Soon enough, the blonde disappears behind a door allocated to her. It locks behind her. She presses her forehead against the unfamiliar surface and breathes a sigh, trying to shake off whatever such a nothing encounter has given her.
But through the door, she can still hear her.
She can always hear her when she's there.
_________________________________
"She's always been different."
A dorm room is not a homely space. It's not a place to call her own. She doesn't own it, and although she spends two years in one, it's never rightfully hers. So when she's forced to move amidst her final year, it's unsettling, but it could be worse.
It could arguably be a lot worse.
Because as she moves, she moves with her. Dark eyes. Dark hair. The hint of a Boston accent and a broad, purposeful grin. She wants everything to get done and finished, but it hardly takes the blonde as long to move what she owns.
There, as she stands in her hold and realises she's glad she's there, she also realises she needs her.
And inevitably, as she looks back in time on such an insignificant moment, she realises that she already loves her.
_______________________________________________
"It's not a life I ever thought I'd want."
Some subjects still warrant tension as she's older. Some things are still unsettled. Fragile. From nothing, she speaks, and begins to tack a personalised, discomforting nickname to the end.
Love.
Then she, with the dark hair and darkened eyes quickly falters. An apology clearly bubbles into her mind, threatening to pass her lips as her brow creases with worry. Sometimes, this happens. And the blonde lets it roll off her shoulders as a mistake; an instinct.
Say it.
Say it because you do love me, not because it simply suits me.
Say it because I'm with you. I'm yours. I'm worthy.
And she does. From then on, and forever more.
_______________________________________________________________
"I don't need it, but I appreciate it. So perhaps I do."
I'm grateful for you. I'm glad she found you. These, and their equivalents, are things the blonde hears a lot. Never directed at her, but rather, her counterpart. The words seem to pass her mother's lips with such ease. Such excitement.
Disbelief.
And when she sees the way her counterpart's eyes narrow a touch on her own mother, she knows they never sit well.
She presses her hand against her arm on instinct, her fingers running along her wrist as a means to give her strength. To allow her to be calm. This isn't the first time they've been here, and it likely wouldn't be the last. The blonde has learned to exist in a life with such statements thrown at her.
Until it changes.
I worried. I always worried, Her fingers curl around her wrist. Her mother's not finished, and she knows it, You've helped her be so much more human.
But without warning - at least, not to her mother - the Boston woman stands from her seat. We're leaving.
Immediately, the blonde follows, her fingers trailing along her arm to meet her hand. She intertwines them together on instinct and offers a squeeze. They reach the door. Until she loses her hand, and she's turned around.
____________________________________________
"A routine. One I plan on maintaining."
She admittedly struggles to stop studying at university once she's started. A bachelor's degree isn't the end of the progression of the course at hand, and her mind finds it difficult to settle there. So she keeps studying, throughout the fact that she's working from time to time. She works on computers at the very academy where she met her love, because it's a little more sustainable than anything else. It's something she can count on.
It's that routine; one she needs for herself. Sustainability. It keeps her comfortable.
_______________________________________________________
"She has this irrefutably enthralling magnetism."
In a crowded room, she sits alone. But the seats on either side aren't empty. For once, she doesn't feel so uncomfortable around strangers. There's a pair of eyes on her she doesn't really recognise, and finally, a pair she does.
The Boston woman chances a glance back in her direction, and she grins uncontrollably. More to the point, she catches the way her gaze runs the line of her form. It's difficult. It's all difficult. Because she hasn't seen her in months, and that feels like years, and it's about to be all different.
She looks good in that particular navy shade.
When it's all over - graduating, awards ceremonies, legal swearing in - they quickly find each other. The eventual greeting is erratic, but it's everything she expects it to be. Because without a word, her counterpart pulls her in and kisses her.
And it doesn't matter who sees.
______________________________________________________________________
"If it feels true, is it? No. But this is the only exception."
This woman - blonde hair, dark eyes - always struggles to find a break in logic. To accept that such a thing exists is beyond her. To wish to exist in a world without imperative boundaries doesn't seem like an option. It isn't viable, so why wish it?
Things have a linear structure; Graduate. Attend college. Obtain a degree. Build on that degree. Work.
Never did she think to equate love in life into the equation. The structure; it expands and adjusts to her needs. To the woman with blonde hair and dark eyes, the concept of a relationship in any capacity is a fleeting one. It's something that exists in a now and has a relative departure date. A finishing point. With something to directly bound by an ending, why bother? Why wish it? How does someone wish for it?
How, not why.
A structure; Graduate. Live. Attend college. Live in love. Obtain a degree. Build on that degree. Exist in love. Work. Marry. Have children. Have everything.
But not everything is attainable. And so she wishes it could be.
"You have no idea how I operate."
A little girl. Blonde. Dark eyes. Those eyes stare at the world with broad strokes before finding something worthwhile to settle on. Scrutinise. She doesn't wonder why the switch on the wall turns the light on, but ]how. Is it the sign of a light bulb dying? Are the wires crossed? Is it the uneven flow of electrical current that causes such a minute discrepancy to occur? The concept of an electrical current is fascinating alone, but given her age, she can't really understand it.
It doesn't stop her from questioning; how, not why.
How do things work, not why they work. She asks for the mechanics of little, mundane things before she touches them. How is it that pulling a toy backwards across the ground forces it to jolt forward with the same momentum? The same time?
She asks her father to explain the wiring of a computer as she sits on his lip in front of it, but she can't take any of that information in. To her, it's just a steady flow of words. But at least she, from a young age, can understand the connection.
______________________________________________________________
"I don't need to understand others. They're not looking at me."
She breezes through early schooling without friends. Her parents are a little worried about it, but they don't ever really do much. They sit her down from time to time and ask if everything's okay. She says it is, because really, it is. She fiddles with her hands a lot when she talks. Or when she's being talked to. She can't stop moving - it's beginning to look like a coping mechanism.
Science is her favourite subject. She invests herself into the mechanics of things more than anyone else does. It's not just about having fun with these seemingly insignificant, dumbed down experiments. These kids are young, and she still can't really understand everything, but she tries anyway.
And when she finally reaches high school, she becomes the person she always wished she could be. The type to understand - to hit the ground running with this innate desire to figure everything out. Her mind races through mathematics. Numbers seem to be a treasured concept to her. Equations are fun. Solving problems is fun.
Everyone else is starting to look at others in a new found way. There's a quality to others that's suddenly attractive.
She's looking at the things in the way she always dreamed of. Mechanics. Concepts. Modifications.
How, not why.
_______________________________________________________________
"Give me something technical. Something to keep my mind moving."
As much as she advances, she feels the need to take stock. She's pulling computers to pieces in her spare time; trouble shooting things with her hands. But one day, her father forces her to sit back. He asks her to - for a day - focus her attention on something else. And he forces an instrument into her hands; a guitar. At first she's not sure, so much so that she tries to give it back to him with force. But he eases the thing back into her hands.
Her father has always been better at explaining things to her. For her. He understands the how, not why aspect she seems to revolve around. As much as he talks about the mechanics of pressing strings to make different sounds, she still stares at him with wide, dark eyes. She's confused.
He says sometimes, she's distant. And he's not upset at her for it. He just wants to help her find better outlets. Outlets that he himself knows will develop an emotional pull when the time comes. There are only so many times you can pull that computer apart. He points out, and he tries a smile.
She resists the urge to argue the fact that she knows he's wrong.
___________________________________
"If you need something, ask for it."
There's a girl in her calculus class. She sometimes stares at the blonde girl with the dark eyes, who always has her gaze on the pages. The pencil flicks around in her hand a few times, periodically before she presses it to the paper. One day this girl makes the move to sit by the blonde.
No one ever sits by the blonde.
She talks, and talks. And asks questions. And leans closer. Eventually she points out that the blonde is pretty.
But she can't answer. She doesn't know how to. This hasn't happened before. She has no point of reference.
So she keeps talking. She mentions that it's clear that this blonde has a love for numbers. For thinking. And maybe she should step back a little. See what else life has to offer.
Again, she can't answer.
So eventually she remains silent. But she doesn't leave her side. Not for a few months.
Not until she graduates, and leaves the blonde behind.
__________________________________________________
"They're important to me. I don't talk about them."
She - with the blonde hair and the dark eyes - finds herself scrutinising every single move her mother makes. Every twitch, every morsel of energy spent. The way she turns away and runs her fingers underneath her eyes. She's catching tears before they fall - the movement of her muscles is proof of that. Even if she can't see her do it, she knows she's doing it.
Is he dead?
The words fall from her own lips before she has time to process them. To rework them so they aren't so upsetting. Not so jarring, from a daughter's mouth to her mother's ears.
No, She replies, just as calmly. Because by now she is well aware of how her teenage daughter speaks. Just... He left.
But the word left doesn't seem to sit well with her. It's not that she doesn't understand, it's simply that the word is such a broad statement within itself. She requires an adjective to colour the statement further, but she doesn't get one. Each time she asks, she doesn't get one.
Eventually, she stops asking.
___________________________________________________________________________________
"Nobody wonders where the scar came from. Nobody ever sees it."
She sits at her desk, blonde hair tied up and hidden under the woven knit. Her fingers tap the surface repeatedly. Impatiently. Her breathing is stagnant - heavy exhales after she holds it long enough. She's upset. And she's so rarely upset, so she doesn't know what to do about it.
There's a boy. Somewhere. And he's her half-brother. She makes a point of always saying half, now. Not because she's hurt, but because its factual. The sword on her forearm's colours seem to soothe the hardened features she wears. She doesn't hate her father, either. She just doesn't understand.
She can't understand.
But she feels angry, and it's such a rare feeling that her fingers dig into the hard wood of the desk because she doesn't know how else to expel the feeling. She catches her fingertips on the paper of a comic; Wonder Woman 2 volume 3. She curls the paper in her hands as the means to soothe her aggression before she can't help but grip the damn desk again. It almost hurts her hand to hold on this much, but she does anyway. For however long she needs to. Five minutes at the most. Until finally, she lets go. She glances at it for a moment before turning to the side. She has every intention of getting up and walking out of her room. She feels lethargic, but otherwise normal.
As she moves to stand, a portion of the desk burns bright and explodes in flames. She's been pouring her aggression and anger and confusion into the object for minutes.
She's burnt, because she doesn't expect it. Literally seared by her own ill feelings. The clothes she wears melt onto her skin. She cries. Screams. And passes out.
Later, she's left with a scar. Across the left side of her torso, wrapping closely around her back. She doesn't let anyone look. Not because she's ashamed, or feels like less of herself. But because it's hers to wear.
But eventually, she throws the rest of those comics out.
_________________________________________
"It reminds me of someone important."
She remembers the way her father talked about outlets for certain discourses with such passion, and while it took her some time to understand it, she eventually learned to do so.
Tattoos become a commodity for her.
One of the most important ones she gets is the lion on her forearm - she wants to match the one her father wears. Her mother is against the idea at first, and it takes some time to talk her into the concept. It wouldn't be the first tattoo she'd gotten, nor would it likely be the last.
She asks if her daughter is sure. She's sure she is. And her mother is grateful she so openly understands the concept of sentiments.
_______________________________________________________
"I don't think I'll ever want to talk about her."
Moving is drastic. It's a change that's difficult to find comfort in. A shift in the balance causes an unfamiliar sense of anxiety to overcome the still-injured blonde. She's barely left the hospital and had no real time to go home. To be home. To exist in a place of comfort before trying to build another.
As she first walks in the door - keys uncoloured as she shift between her fingers - she's met with the first unfamiliar face she'll ever meet at the school.
It isn't a long encounter. It isn't a particularly enjoyable one. Soon enough, the blonde disappears behind a door allocated to her. It locks behind her. She presses her forehead against the unfamiliar surface and breathes a sigh, trying to shake off whatever such a nothing encounter has given her.
But through the door, she can still hear her.
She can always hear her when she's there.
_________________________________
"She's always been different."
A dorm room is not a homely space. It's not a place to call her own. She doesn't own it, and although she spends two years in one, it's never rightfully hers. So when she's forced to move amidst her final year, it's unsettling, but it could be worse.
It could arguably be a lot worse.
Because as she moves, she moves with her. Dark eyes. Dark hair. The hint of a Boston accent and a broad, purposeful grin. She wants everything to get done and finished, but it hardly takes the blonde as long to move what she owns.
There, as she stands in her hold and realises she's glad she's there, she also realises she needs her.
And inevitably, as she looks back in time on such an insignificant moment, she realises that she already loves her.
_______________________________________________
"It's not a life I ever thought I'd want."
Some subjects still warrant tension as she's older. Some things are still unsettled. Fragile. From nothing, she speaks, and begins to tack a personalised, discomforting nickname to the end.
Love.
Then she, with the dark hair and darkened eyes quickly falters. An apology clearly bubbles into her mind, threatening to pass her lips as her brow creases with worry. Sometimes, this happens. And the blonde lets it roll off her shoulders as a mistake; an instinct.
Say it.
Say it because you do love me, not because it simply suits me.
Say it because I'm with you. I'm yours. I'm worthy.
And she does. From then on, and forever more.
_______________________________________________________________
"I don't need it, but I appreciate it. So perhaps I do."
I'm grateful for you. I'm glad she found you. These, and their equivalents, are things the blonde hears a lot. Never directed at her, but rather, her counterpart. The words seem to pass her mother's lips with such ease. Such excitement.
Disbelief.
And when she sees the way her counterpart's eyes narrow a touch on her own mother, she knows they never sit well.
She presses her hand against her arm on instinct, her fingers running along her wrist as a means to give her strength. To allow her to be calm. This isn't the first time they've been here, and it likely wouldn't be the last. The blonde has learned to exist in a life with such statements thrown at her.
Until it changes.
I worried. I always worried, Her fingers curl around her wrist. Her mother's not finished, and she knows it, You've helped her be so much more human.
But without warning - at least, not to her mother - the Boston woman stands from her seat. We're leaving.
Immediately, the blonde follows, her fingers trailing along her arm to meet her hand. She intertwines them together on instinct and offers a squeeze. They reach the door. Until she loses her hand, and she's turned around.
____________________________________________
"A routine. One I plan on maintaining."
She admittedly struggles to stop studying at university once she's started. A bachelor's degree isn't the end of the progression of the course at hand, and her mind finds it difficult to settle there. So she keeps studying, throughout the fact that she's working from time to time. She works on computers at the very academy where she met her love, because it's a little more sustainable than anything else. It's something she can count on.
It's that routine; one she needs for herself. Sustainability. It keeps her comfortable.
_______________________________________________________
"She has this irrefutably enthralling magnetism."
In a crowded room, she sits alone. But the seats on either side aren't empty. For once, she doesn't feel so uncomfortable around strangers. There's a pair of eyes on her she doesn't really recognise, and finally, a pair she does.
The Boston woman chances a glance back in her direction, and she grins uncontrollably. More to the point, she catches the way her gaze runs the line of her form. It's difficult. It's all difficult. Because she hasn't seen her in months, and that feels like years, and it's about to be all different.
She looks good in that particular navy shade.
When it's all over - graduating, awards ceremonies, legal swearing in - they quickly find each other. The eventual greeting is erratic, but it's everything she expects it to be. Because without a word, her counterpart pulls her in and kisses her.
And it doesn't matter who sees.
______________________________________________________________________
"If it feels true, is it? No. But this is the only exception."
This woman - blonde hair, dark eyes - always struggles to find a break in logic. To accept that such a thing exists is beyond her. To wish to exist in a world without imperative boundaries doesn't seem like an option. It isn't viable, so why wish it?
Things have a linear structure; Graduate. Attend college. Obtain a degree. Build on that degree. Work.
Never did she think to equate love in life into the equation. The structure; it expands and adjusts to her needs. To the woman with blonde hair and dark eyes, the concept of a relationship in any capacity is a fleeting one. It's something that exists in a now and has a relative departure date. A finishing point. With something to directly bound by an ending, why bother? Why wish it? How does someone wish for it?
How, not why.
A structure; Graduate. Live. Attend college. Live in love. Obtain a degree. Build on that degree. Exist in love. Work. Marry. Have children. Have everything.
But not everything is attainable. And so she wishes it could be.
SAMPLE:
If Lucy had the capacity to think, she would have likely wondered over each and every moment she was spending with the psychometrist. Her mind would read into every minute detail with the intention of deciphering her. Who she was. What she meant. Why she was acting the way she was acting. But she couldn't think. She could barely level her breathing when she felt the familiar touch gently traversed her back. Each morsel of attention drew something paramount from Lucy. It hadn't been worth it; the distance.
Whatever point they were trying to prove wasn't worth it.
Truthfully, Lucy didn't expect any kind of reply. The response offered called for her to take in a breath - one she quickly lost when she felt familiar lips leaving a kiss on her jaw.
She knew she could have offered any number of responses. She could have said just that; She didn't want to go.
"I can't sleep when you're not around." Lucy replied instead, turning to rest her forehead against her counterpart's. She trailed her hands towards the base of her neck, her thumbs brushing across the line of the Brit's jaw. She didn't always stay with Penny, and Penny didn't always stay with her. It was becoming increasingly difficult to promote such distance. As much as she hadn't wanted to admit to such a thing, she couldn't help herself. It needed to be said. She deserved to know that much.
USERNAME: Eddie.
AGE GROUP: Twenty-two.
EXPERIENCE: Almost nine years.
If Lucy had the capacity to think, she would have likely wondered over each and every moment she was spending with the psychometrist. Her mind would read into every minute detail with the intention of deciphering her. Who she was. What she meant. Why she was acting the way she was acting. But she couldn't think. She could barely level her breathing when she felt the familiar touch gently traversed her back. Each morsel of attention drew something paramount from Lucy. It hadn't been worth it; the distance.
Whatever point they were trying to prove wasn't worth it.
Truthfully, Lucy didn't expect any kind of reply. The response offered called for her to take in a breath - one she quickly lost when she felt familiar lips leaving a kiss on her jaw.
She knew she could have offered any number of responses. She could have said just that; She didn't want to go.
"I can't sleep when you're not around." Lucy replied instead, turning to rest her forehead against her counterpart's. She trailed her hands towards the base of her neck, her thumbs brushing across the line of the Brit's jaw. She didn't always stay with Penny, and Penny didn't always stay with her. It was becoming increasingly difficult to promote such distance. As much as she hadn't wanted to admit to such a thing, she couldn't help herself. It needed to be said. She deserved to know that much.
USERNAME: Eddie.
AGE GROUP: Twenty-two.
EXPERIENCE: Almost nine years.
