12-10-2017, 09:20 PM
Babadook
There is gravity in respect. Although Babadook doesn’t recognize it now, he will later see the way she backs away politely as respect (and he will come to cherish it). He can see the gentleness in her eyes and it’s a foreign thing. It almost scares him, but it is less frightening than the raging mother he knows is behind his shoulder. So he moves toward her timidly.
Her kiss is soft and painless. Mother would infrequently place a nuzzle between his thin ears when they would settle down for the evenings, but that did not hold even an inch of the love that was put into the filly’s touch. Babadook feels his heart warm at the sensation. Then she’s singing his name and he wonders if he’s finally died from his various injuries (bruises and cuts and scars) and she is his angel.
Margaux.
It’s the only thing he’s able to comprehend as she babbles on about the playground and faeries and Whiskers and Tobi and hawks. His dark eyes blink slowly, trying to clear the fog from his mind. He wants to cry, all of the sudden, but being in front of an older, pretty girl gives him enough steel to blink the tears away. He follows her closely, sticking to the rose of her side so tightly she might fall over if she stops walking.
Babadook likes the way he can hear the echo of her optimistic words in the hollow of her chest.
They eventually reach a wide expanse of land with many, many children scattered around. Panic begins to blossom in the depths of Babadook’s lungs and he sucks in a few quick, short breaths. He’s never seen so many children before and their dainty, growing bodies are not puckered with the raised scarring or scabby cuts or multicolored bruises like his own. He’s hyperaware of the severity of his thinness (though the poke of his ribs and cut of his hips and harsh angularity of his cheekbones will stay with him forever).
“What’s this?” His voice is quiet.
Her kiss is soft and painless. Mother would infrequently place a nuzzle between his thin ears when they would settle down for the evenings, but that did not hold even an inch of the love that was put into the filly’s touch. Babadook feels his heart warm at the sensation. Then she’s singing his name and he wonders if he’s finally died from his various injuries (bruises and cuts and scars) and she is his angel.
Margaux.
It’s the only thing he’s able to comprehend as she babbles on about the playground and faeries and Whiskers and Tobi and hawks. His dark eyes blink slowly, trying to clear the fog from his mind. He wants to cry, all of the sudden, but being in front of an older, pretty girl gives him enough steel to blink the tears away. He follows her closely, sticking to the rose of her side so tightly she might fall over if she stops walking.
Babadook likes the way he can hear the echo of her optimistic words in the hollow of her chest.
They eventually reach a wide expanse of land with many, many children scattered around. Panic begins to blossom in the depths of Babadook’s lungs and he sucks in a few quick, short breaths. He’s never seen so many children before and their dainty, growing bodies are not puckered with the raised scarring or scabby cuts or multicolored bruises like his own. He’s hyperaware of the severity of his thinness (though the poke of his ribs and cut of his hips and harsh angularity of his cheekbones will stay with him forever).
“What’s this?” His voice is quiet.
@[Margaux]