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The Destination // for Greta
April 5th, 2020
The air is still too cold for Anne's liking, but it ain't so bad in the sun. Walking helps, enough that she can stand to have her hands outside her pockets. Not much of a victory, but it's one she'll take.
She don't have a fucking clue where she's going, but she walks with purpose anyway, eyes forward, steps even. If she looks lost, lingers too long to stare at anything, people try to talk to her. It's been months and she still stands out. She's made little effort to blend, but it ain't just her clothes and she knows it. It is in everything, all around her: she don't belong here, never did, never will. There is nowhere she can go where she won't be lost and vulnerable, where she won't need help from all these prying strangers. There is nothing for her to do here. It ain't enough anymore to follow Jack around, not when her purpose has become so uncertain. Jack don't see it that way; she knows that. But there are days she can't just stand at his side and watch. She needs to keep looking, even with nothing to find.
It surprises her some when she realizes she has followed a known path, in the end. She supposes it shouldn't. She'd expected to just walk until she decided to turn back, but there was no promise she'd find her same steps again. So she followed a path she remembers. One she's taken before. And she realizes there is one place, at least, that doesn't amount to strange terrain; one place where she doesn't feel lost, at least not in the same way.
Greta is outside her house, kneeling in the dirt, tending to her garden. Anne stands there a moment, close enough to make her presence known, but not sure how to start. She isn't expected. She has some dim sense that ain't polite. But Greta's never seemed to mind before.
Words are not forthcoming, so she ends up clearing her throat, softly so as not to startle, and lets her footsteps crunch a little heavier as she draws near.
The air is still too cold for Anne's liking, but it ain't so bad in the sun. Walking helps, enough that she can stand to have her hands outside her pockets. Not much of a victory, but it's one she'll take.
She don't have a fucking clue where she's going, but she walks with purpose anyway, eyes forward, steps even. If she looks lost, lingers too long to stare at anything, people try to talk to her. It's been months and she still stands out. She's made little effort to blend, but it ain't just her clothes and she knows it. It is in everything, all around her: she don't belong here, never did, never will. There is nowhere she can go where she won't be lost and vulnerable, where she won't need help from all these prying strangers. There is nothing for her to do here. It ain't enough anymore to follow Jack around, not when her purpose has become so uncertain. Jack don't see it that way; she knows that. But there are days she can't just stand at his side and watch. She needs to keep looking, even with nothing to find.
It surprises her some when she realizes she has followed a known path, in the end. She supposes it shouldn't. She'd expected to just walk until she decided to turn back, but there was no promise she'd find her same steps again. So she followed a path she remembers. One she's taken before. And she realizes there is one place, at least, that doesn't amount to strange terrain; one place where she doesn't feel lost, at least not in the same way.
Greta is outside her house, kneeling in the dirt, tending to her garden. Anne stands there a moment, close enough to make her presence known, but not sure how to start. She isn't expected. She has some dim sense that ain't polite. But Greta's never seemed to mind before.
Words are not forthcoming, so she ends up clearing her throat, softly so as not to startle, and lets her footsteps crunch a little heavier as she draws near.
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Anne has the sense to fix the bit of fencing, first, so the others stay penned in (though one or two do watch with interest as their freed cohort sprints off). "Here," Greta says, starting to walk a wide arc around the escaped creature. "If we get her up against the house, or something, one of us should be able to make a grab at her. The dogs do this all the time," she adds with a wry smile, "so it can't be that hard."
no subject
It moves like a chicken, which is to say erratically, and Anne stumbles as she tries to head it off, narrowly succeeding in startling it back toward Greta's general direction. And at that moment, whether it's her own seriousness unraveling itself or just the ridiculous way the chicken bobs around, the absurdity catches up to Anne and she feels herself start to grin.