( lucille. )
Silence was one of life's greatest pleasures.
Daffodil fabric fell over knobby knees, drawn close to her chest, upon which an open book was perched. Reclined in the pillows, slender, papercut fingers leafed slowly through its contents.
Patent leather Mary Janes sat abandoned on the floor beside the bed, socks tucked neatly inside while bare toes wiggled from time to time, enjoying their freedom. Sunlight poured through the window, warm and comforting -- things with which Lucille was most unfamiliar, and therefore dismissed.
It was eerily quiet, leaving nothing but the occassional pitter-patter of footsteps to disturb her. Sharp ears perked at these intervals, waiting apprehensively for the door to open; When the steps came and went, she settled back down, losing herself once more in the fantastic world her pages offered.
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.
The book didn't quite cater to her tastes, but it was a book nonetheless, and therefore an ally. She took in every passage about Dorothy and her dimwitted companions, mildly repulsed, but intrigued all the same. A feeling of familiarity and understanding swirled in her chest.
This sappy, silly girl, the heroine of this sappy, silly book, had been the victim of a storm that threw her into unknown, sometimes dangerous lands. Lucille felt she, too, had been a casualty in the same way. But Dorothy's the lucky one, she thought grudgingly -- Lucille had her Wicked Witches, but no Glinda.
And in the end, Dorothy was able to go home. Incensed, she threw the book aside, landing rumpled on the hardwood floor. Stupid, disgusting make-believe, she decided. It isn't fair it ended like that.
Because in the real world, once the storm hits, there's not home left to go back to.
Stupid, disgusting make-believe.
Because there were no such things as Good Witches, or great Wizards to help solve your problems -- there was only the wicked. Goodness and magic only existed in stories.
But, perhaps, if one catastrophe can take you away, maybe another could return you.
It seemed logical enough, and so Lucille, placated, retrieved The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, and slipped it neatly back beneath her bed where it belonged.
So here she would sit, reading her books, longingly awaiting the day another tempest would come and take her away.