Scratching like a broken record. Here we go again.
Mar 29, 2014 19:10:01 GMT -5
Belle French and Peter Pan/Malcom like this
Post by The Mad Hatter on Mar 29, 2014 19:10:01 GMT -5
"Really? Again?" When the door to her home had opened and shut, when those heels had clacked across the foyer and into the kitchen, she would find him sitting on her counter beside the block of knives, polishing one with a dish towel. He glanced up at her, seemingly unimpressed. "I can't tell if this method of torture is mundane or brilliant. What's worse than monotony, after all?" He looked down at the gleaming metal, how it refracted the light so angrily. "On the other hand, maybe it's the fear of the unknown. Maybe it's pure, unhindered possibility." He turned the weapon over, running the pad of one finger along its edge and drawing a little blood. "Or maybe," he continued and his voice escalated to a growl as he jammed the knife down into the cutting board beside him, hard enough to slit the wood and leave the blade stuck fast in its place, "it's you. You, Regina Mills, are becoming a downright nuisance and I am tiring quickly of your petty parlor tricks."
If there was one thing Jefferson prized above kindness and virtue these days, it was goddamn originality. Everyone was a thief. Music, art, literature, even black magic was starting to get...well...droll. Because when he opened his eyes that morning and found himself staring up at that off-white ceiling with the modern black molding along the edges, well, all he thought after he had finished throwing a silent tantrum and making sure that Grace was intact, was here we go again. He wasn't pleased. They'd played this game before. It wasn't fun. The rules never worked in his favor. If she was going to torment him, she should at least have the decency to be creative about it.
His voice and posture evened out to a serene sort of disinterest at an alarming rate. One minute he was baring his teeth at her, the handle of the knife wobbling beside him, the next he was sitting with his hands folded in his lap, still as a breath held in time, almost smiling at her. "Now. Let's you and I discuss this, not that I particularly enjoy our conversations these days." He cocked his head to the side. "Why are we here? You've already tried this. It didn't work in your favor. Everything crumbled." He waved one hand up like sand was slipping through his fist, then returned it to his thighs, stagnant. "So what," and that he snarled a little bit again, struggling to keep reigns on his temper, "were you thinking bringing us to this shabby hellhole again and why can't I remember the last year of my life?" His mouth twitched a little. There were signs, pieces of a puzzle he kept finding scattered about his home that suggested a missing chapter of himself he was unsure he wanted to read.
But if he was a danger--to the little he cared for, things like Gracie, he had to know.
"I understand that a mother's love knows no bounds," he allotted, leaning over and balancing one elbow on the handle of the protruding knife, "but really now...did you have to bring us all back? Couldn't you have just hopped on over yourself, popped in, remembered that he hates you and wallowed in your own misery? Are you a voyeur? Do you like us watching you suffer and fail?" He smiled, but it wasn't kind. "Because I'm happy for the show, really, I am. But I'd prefer to watch it from the comfort of my own home. Not inside a dreary little box on a boring little lane in a town I spent three decades trying to claw my way out of, you pathetic little bug."
Regina Mills
If there was one thing Jefferson prized above kindness and virtue these days, it was goddamn originality. Everyone was a thief. Music, art, literature, even black magic was starting to get...well...droll. Because when he opened his eyes that morning and found himself staring up at that off-white ceiling with the modern black molding along the edges, well, all he thought after he had finished throwing a silent tantrum and making sure that Grace was intact, was here we go again. He wasn't pleased. They'd played this game before. It wasn't fun. The rules never worked in his favor. If she was going to torment him, she should at least have the decency to be creative about it.
His voice and posture evened out to a serene sort of disinterest at an alarming rate. One minute he was baring his teeth at her, the handle of the knife wobbling beside him, the next he was sitting with his hands folded in his lap, still as a breath held in time, almost smiling at her. "Now. Let's you and I discuss this, not that I particularly enjoy our conversations these days." He cocked his head to the side. "Why are we here? You've already tried this. It didn't work in your favor. Everything crumbled." He waved one hand up like sand was slipping through his fist, then returned it to his thighs, stagnant. "So what," and that he snarled a little bit again, struggling to keep reigns on his temper, "were you thinking bringing us to this shabby hellhole again and why can't I remember the last year of my life?" His mouth twitched a little. There were signs, pieces of a puzzle he kept finding scattered about his home that suggested a missing chapter of himself he was unsure he wanted to read.
But if he was a danger--to the little he cared for, things like Gracie, he had to know.
"I understand that a mother's love knows no bounds," he allotted, leaning over and balancing one elbow on the handle of the protruding knife, "but really now...did you have to bring us all back? Couldn't you have just hopped on over yourself, popped in, remembered that he hates you and wallowed in your own misery? Are you a voyeur? Do you like us watching you suffer and fail?" He smiled, but it wasn't kind. "Because I'm happy for the show, really, I am. But I'd prefer to watch it from the comfort of my own home. Not inside a dreary little box on a boring little lane in a town I spent three decades trying to claw my way out of, you pathetic little bug."
Regina Mills