ArchivedLogs:Vignette - Just Write

Vignette - Just Write
Words are hard
Dramatis Personae Dorian Siccavil	2013-12-14 Struggling to say just the right thing. (Part of Prometheus TP.)
Location <XS> - Study
Quieter than the neighboring library, the study actually /is/ a retreat for those who want to sit and work. Lacking the larger social tables, this room has only single solitary chairs, individual soft lamps assigned to each. The high bay windows allow plenty of light, and the understated elegance of the room with its grated fireplace crackling warmly is an invitation to quiet work. It is growing late on a chill Saturday evening at Xavier's, and most other students have far more interesting things to do with their weekend than to sit in the near silence of the library. A single desk in the study room at the back of the library is occupied, with a faint yellow glow coming from the room in question. Dorian has a goal in mind, and the young man has set himself to the task with a stubborn resolve; since just after dinner, the lone student has taken up residence at one of the side desks in the study room. He's made a concession to the somewhat unseasonably cold weather, donning a thin hooded school sweatshirt that is at least a size too large for his athletic frame, worn unzipped over his favorite tie-dyed tank top with the marching teddy bears. A pair of modified pajama pants, black, green, and red plaid, and bare feet complete the relatively relaxed look that contrasts with the focused expression on his rounded face. The large yellow legal pad in front of him illuminated by the soft light of the desk lamp, the neatly lined surface devoid of writing, despite the ballpoint pen held awkwardly in his right hand. Over the course of his stay in the library, Dorian has collected a small stack of books on proper letter writing and grammar, as well as a few handwriting guides. Several balled up pieces of yellow paper litter the desktop as Dorian stares at the dauntingly blank paper, pen poised to start writing at any moment. His other hand drags through the curled mop of his hair, rumpling the already ruffled mess, pausing for a moment to tug at his tagged ear in frustration. In aggravation, the young man scribbles at the margin of the paper, growling quietly as he talks to the empty room, his voice a choked whisper, "What'm I supposed to say in this? How... what do I say to parents I haven't seen in forever? Who may have handed me over /knowing/ what was to come?" He throws the pen onto the paper with a frustrated snarl, kicking back from the desk, the heavy chair scraping across the floor with an protesting groan to match his outburst. Scarred hands rake through his hair again, roughly, nails dragging against his scalp while he leans back on the rear legs of the chair, glaring at the ceiling. “This isn’t fair. None of it,” he whines to no one, crossing his arms over his chest and hugging himself defensively, unfocused eyes roving the ceiling. “Pft,” Dorian snorts in response to himself, shaking his head, “Like it was fair before all this happened? I’m the second child of a poor family o’ trappers from the middle-a nowhere. Family could hardly keep food on the table when I was there. Bein’ gone likely made it easier on them, less strain, less mouths to feed. So much better for them. Why’d they wanna hear from me now? What makes me think any of them miss me at all?” He rises to his feet, beginning to pace the floor on quiet, bare feet, scratching aimlessly at his perpetually smooth jaw line. “So much has happened to me. So much has probl’y happened to them. Moved on with their lives, adjusted. Probably assumed I'm dead. It's been close to 10 /years/. Hell, for that matter, they apparently could have had me declared legally dead, if they cared to. Doubt the torture labs sent them quarterly progress reports on my 'education.' No, that would have been too easy," the young mutant sneers, throwing his hands up in the air with a wry laugh. "And I’m supposed to address all this in a letter? In a phone call? A decade of being poked, prodded, cut. Used. Missing them so bad it hurt, missing talking and playing. Missing the freedom of being a child. Gah, my entire childhood. A decade of my life. I... I can’t even get all that I need to say out into words when I’m talking to myself,” Dorian babbles, rubbing at the base of his neck, fingers tracing through the beginnings of the dark fur there. “Yup. I’m talking to myself, alone, in a mostly dark room. Again. This bodes well for me,” he grumbles, eyeing the abandoned notepad from across the room. Thankfully, the library is largely empty, and no one is near enough to protest his outbursts, relatively quiet though they may be. Pacing several more times, glaring accusingly at the bright yellow paper each time he passes it, as though the legal pad were somehow to blame. "This shouldn't be this hard. It's my family. I've dreamed of what I would say to them when... if I ever got to again. How many times did I go over this? Say it outloud, to myself, when there was no one else to talk to? Pretending they could hear me, that they were there?" he questions the darkness in a hushed, cracking voice, biting back a shuddering sob. Dorian collapses back into the chair, dropping his head to the page as though he could imprint the things he needed to say on there through sheer force of will. Rather than ink, tears fall to darken the paper in uneven splotches. Sniffling, Dorian props his head up in one hand, elbow braced on the table and fingers twined through his hair as though to assist in keeping him upright. He picks the pen back up, still clutching it awkwardly in his hand, the position still attempting to accommodate the missing webbing that once connected his fingers. Finally, he sets to writing the letter he had been putting off for far, far too long.