Post by Deleted on Feb 20, 2021 15:44:40 GMT
oh, my children, my children!
draw near my sons, there's no audience for pleasing here today
"Daddy, will you check the closet again?"
The voice is meek and quiet; a hushed combination of fear and imploration. Its fragile inflection sends pinpricks of cold, numbing pain into Leszek's (otherwise unfeeling) fatigue, but he's too disoriented — reeling from the recesses of sleep — to yet acknowledge why. Drowsily, he blinks open his bleary eyes to see the soft, blurry outline of his daughter. Her mouse-brown curls half-conceal the pale roundness of her face. A face made featureless by the sticky remnants of fuzzy unconsciousness that cling to his gaze. He doesn't need to glance at the nightstand to know the hour — she almost always appears bedside at roughly the same time every night. As if her nightmares and fears are clockwork; his comfort scheduled, and the nightly rounds of her bedroom (to check beneath the bed, behind the door, in the closet, in the toy chest, then under the bed again) routine.
Leszek breathes deeply, sucking in long exhale as he props himself onto stiff elbows. "Mmh, okay, chickadee... just... give me a moment," he mumbles, reaching for a soft, reassuring tone and nearly failing in his drowsiness — managing to only sound tired. Eyes closed for a long moment, he slowly swings his legs over the side of the bed and sits, crouched over, with his head bent. Readying himself for a convincing, nightly display of exiling monsters. But as he presses his hands to his eyes and begins to rub the sleep from them, sense finally starts its unwelcome creep back into his mind... bringing a terrible, dropping coldness. Remembering is a stone of acknowledgement in his stomach; an icy, painful resignation, followed closely by a burning numbness. When his feet touch down to the chilly wooden floor, a shock knives through his veins and he stills; hands still pressed to his eyes, but no longer rubbing lazy circles. Slowly, and with a grim certainty, he brings them down his face, knowing those mouse-brown curls are no longer there. That his daughter has disappeared. That she hasn't stood there for months.
After staring for for a terribly-long moment at the empty space where she should have been, Leszek finally forces his gaze to the nightstand. Although the clock face is nearly obscured by a half-dozen pill bottles, he knows the red numbers announce a bleak three-forty-something. As his feet grow cold against the floor, and the numbness subsides enough for him to notice, Leszek becomes aware that his dim room is uncomfortably still and painstakingly quiet. So he focuses on the steady, sad beat of his heart as his hands fall from his face and to either side of him, limp and heavy on soft sheets. Not even a minute passes before his mind grows weary of his heart and gives up counting the solid thrums — begins, instead, to wander and think; something Leszek isn't quite ready for. Doesn't want. So, before thoughts become inevitably tortuous, he pinches his lips into a grimace and reaches for one of the pill bottles.
And almost yells out when a voice does break the silence.
"Daddy, were you speaking to Lorelei again?"
Leszek's heart is beating against his chest fervently, and a clipped cry cuts from his throat. He nearly throws the pills in his hand across the room, but they only clatter to the floor anti-climatically. He sees the girl's silhouette in the doorway; her unmoving outline picked out by the blacker abyss of the hallway. "You didn't come to check the room for monsters tonight, again. You forgot. I was waiting—"
Suddenly hot and animate, Leszek pushes from his bed and scrubs a hand through his hair. "No, Miri," he growls the terse warning in a thick undertone as he bends down to pick up the discarded bottle; popping it open and shaking three of the painkillers into his palm. The girl doesn't respond, but only pauses for a second before speaking out once more. "You haven't checked for months. I'm feeling concert about your forgetfulness."
Leszek glares, clenches one hand around the pills and the other around a pillow — which he sends sailing across the room in a forceful arc. It hits Miri square, but the unit only blinks and glances down at it with an expression mimicking curiosity. "It's concern, not concert. And you don't 'feel concern'." He's being mean, he knows he is, and feels subtly foolish for the prickling of shame that itches at his palms. Why should he feel bad for a machine? Miri hasn't the capacity to be genuinely hurt. She's only well-disguised metal and wiring; an emotionless unit, and one Leszek should have powered down the night Lorelei finally slipped from them both.
And he's thought about that night one too many times now, and tosses the pills into his mouth and swallows them dry. Shaking his head at the bitter, powdery taste.
The voice is meek and quiet; a hushed combination of fear and imploration. Its fragile inflection sends pinpricks of cold, numbing pain into Leszek's (otherwise unfeeling) fatigue, but he's too disoriented — reeling from the recesses of sleep — to yet acknowledge why. Drowsily, he blinks open his bleary eyes to see the soft, blurry outline of his daughter. Her mouse-brown curls half-conceal the pale roundness of her face. A face made featureless by the sticky remnants of fuzzy unconsciousness that cling to his gaze. He doesn't need to glance at the nightstand to know the hour — she almost always appears bedside at roughly the same time every night. As if her nightmares and fears are clockwork; his comfort scheduled, and the nightly rounds of her bedroom (to check beneath the bed, behind the door, in the closet, in the toy chest, then under the bed again) routine.
Leszek breathes deeply, sucking in long exhale as he props himself onto stiff elbows. "Mmh, okay, chickadee... just... give me a moment," he mumbles, reaching for a soft, reassuring tone and nearly failing in his drowsiness — managing to only sound tired. Eyes closed for a long moment, he slowly swings his legs over the side of the bed and sits, crouched over, with his head bent. Readying himself for a convincing, nightly display of exiling monsters. But as he presses his hands to his eyes and begins to rub the sleep from them, sense finally starts its unwelcome creep back into his mind... bringing a terrible, dropping coldness. Remembering is a stone of acknowledgement in his stomach; an icy, painful resignation, followed closely by a burning numbness. When his feet touch down to the chilly wooden floor, a shock knives through his veins and he stills; hands still pressed to his eyes, but no longer rubbing lazy circles. Slowly, and with a grim certainty, he brings them down his face, knowing those mouse-brown curls are no longer there. That his daughter has disappeared. That she hasn't stood there for months.
After staring for for a terribly-long moment at the empty space where she should have been, Leszek finally forces his gaze to the nightstand. Although the clock face is nearly obscured by a half-dozen pill bottles, he knows the red numbers announce a bleak three-forty-something. As his feet grow cold against the floor, and the numbness subsides enough for him to notice, Leszek becomes aware that his dim room is uncomfortably still and painstakingly quiet. So he focuses on the steady, sad beat of his heart as his hands fall from his face and to either side of him, limp and heavy on soft sheets. Not even a minute passes before his mind grows weary of his heart and gives up counting the solid thrums — begins, instead, to wander and think; something Leszek isn't quite ready for. Doesn't want. So, before thoughts become inevitably tortuous, he pinches his lips into a grimace and reaches for one of the pill bottles.
And almost yells out when a voice does break the silence.
"Daddy, were you speaking to Lorelei again?"
Leszek's heart is beating against his chest fervently, and a clipped cry cuts from his throat. He nearly throws the pills in his hand across the room, but they only clatter to the floor anti-climatically. He sees the girl's silhouette in the doorway; her unmoving outline picked out by the blacker abyss of the hallway. "You didn't come to check the room for monsters tonight, again. You forgot. I was waiting—"
Suddenly hot and animate, Leszek pushes from his bed and scrubs a hand through his hair. "No, Miri," he growls the terse warning in a thick undertone as he bends down to pick up the discarded bottle; popping it open and shaking three of the painkillers into his palm. The girl doesn't respond, but only pauses for a second before speaking out once more. "You haven't checked for months. I'm feeling concert about your forgetfulness."
Leszek glares, clenches one hand around the pills and the other around a pillow — which he sends sailing across the room in a forceful arc. It hits Miri square, but the unit only blinks and glances down at it with an expression mimicking curiosity. "It's concern, not concert. And you don't 'feel concern'." He's being mean, he knows he is, and feels subtly foolish for the prickling of shame that itches at his palms. Why should he feel bad for a machine? Miri hasn't the capacity to be genuinely hurt. She's only well-disguised metal and wiring; an emotionless unit, and one Leszek should have powered down the night Lorelei finally slipped from them both.
And he's thought about that night one too many times now, and tosses the pills into his mouth and swallows them dry. Shaking his head at the bitter, powdery taste.
NOTES/TAG
Just a one-shot because I care about this guy a lot tbh.
