aviary | CLOSED | prompt eight

Who knows?

[ In all honesty, it's the kind of question that applies to more than just storybooks, a fact that only takes on a sort of dramatic irony as Mr. Marling closes the book from which he'd been reading. Nobody knows what Mr. Marling does when his daughter is at school and nobody knows how Mr. Marling makes his living, period. They just know that it's enough to keep him and his daughter (who knows what happened to his wife) in one of the nicer houses in the neighborhood, well-fed and well cared for. But beyond that, there really isn't much anybody knows about the Marlings. ]

'S just a story, sweet.

[ Nobody knows how Mr. Marling makes his living but his daughter Baby Jane — clever, curious, quiet Baby Jane — has a suspicion. She's never asked, though, and he never tells her — something of a modus operandi for the both of them. Turns out, with Baby Jane, the apple hasn't fallen very far from the tree.

What that means when Baby Jane grows up — not even her teachers (who send periodic notes home with her, voicing their concerns to her father) can tell.

Her expression is unsettlingly flat for a girl her age, her eyes uncharacteristically knowing. She watches her father's hands (he works with them, somehow) but keeps her own to herself. (A different sort of daughter might have reached for him.) ]

You wouldn't, though. Ever. Not even in a story.

[ The pretense of living here is essentially that Baby Jane won't follow in her father's footsteps. The reality: in all likelihood, she will. Or, at least, she'll end up somewhere similar. But until she does, the Marlings have to keep up appearances and where his daughter is canny and sharp, Mr. Marling, though quiet, does an admirable job of remaining a good neighbor and citizen. He smiles when he shows up to parent teacher conferences, apologizes for his daughter's odd behavior and promises to speak to her about it, though nothing seems to change beyond that point.

The facade gets stripped away at home, for the most part, though sometimes little bits and pieces remain. (The pet names he calls her, the occasional unnecessary smile, either carried over or born out of genuine sentiment. Who can say?) ]

Your da's clever, [ he tells her. (His hands move again, this time to start loosening his tie.) ] And so're you.

[ She likes praise (likes his praise in particular) and it shows whenever her father says anything even remotely positive in her general direction. Baby Jane has never been a particularly demonstrative child (another thing inherited from Mr. Marling), but when it does happen, the comparison is stark and startling, even for the smallest of indications (a lifted brow, a pursed mouth, the very beginnings of a smile).

As strange a child as Jane can be, at the end of the day, she is still someone's daughter. And what daughter doesn't look for some sort of validation from their parents, whether it be mother or father.

Carefully she lifts her head, molars chewing the inside of her cheek slowly. ]

I'd burn them 'fore I ever let 'em burn you, [ she tries to assert (albeit uncertainly). Still, even though the words stumble out with a girlish sort of stubbornness, there is something that lingers in Baby Jane's gaze that is less than sweet. (Her father's daughter, indeed.) ]

[ He watches her (the way she forms the words, the way she chews at her cheek) but he keeps his hands to himself.

(A different sort of father might have reached out, might have taken her into his arms.) ]

I know. [ It's a moment before he smiles. (Privately, he's not a terribly demonstrative man, but he goes a little extra for the sake of his child. At the end of the day he is still her father and among the myriad of nearly imperceptible ways in which he demonstrates his love, that is one.) ]

An' I'd burn 'em all before I let 'em even touch you.

CLOSED | prompt eight | RUIN

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject