She thinks, in some far-back corner of her mind, about her mother. Be like her; a mantra she's heard more times than she has bones in her body— and, for the most part, Carolina succeeded, although not unscathed. Annoyed, in her teen years, any time her school's military-coupled administration had referred to her as little McCallister. You look just like her—move just like her— if I hadn't known any better, I'd think she came back to life, chipped off a couple years and gone for a second GED. Until one day, between classes, she took a pair of craft scissors to the hair that was so very like her mother's. Angry— fucking furious— then sick with guilt when she eventually made it back to her dorm.
It's torture, being crammed into a can that isn't yours— no matter if you fit or if parts of you squish out like ground beef clenched in a fist.
"It's not fair," she says matter of factly, like reciting the sum of two plus two. "Of course it didn't work. You aren't him, and he isn't you. And, yeah, that's obvious, but when you've got people telling you for years that you should be like him, I think part of you forgets it can't actually happen. Or maybe it's just frustrating. Like a game you can't win, or some puzzle you can't solve, because you don't have all the pieces, but people keep pressuring you to do it anyway. And that doesn't make you inadequate, you're just not him."
A flat, full-knuckled punch. The bag jerks back against her hands.
The laugh that rings out from the other side of the bag is bitter, and hysteric, and if you didn't know better, you could almost make the mistake of thinking it were a little wet. South's head thuds against the bag, forehead to rough fabric coarse with sand. Her shoulders rise and fall with the force of tidal waves. Another surge of emotion she can't identify, loud and overwhelming, dragging her under with its weight.
"You are—" she swallows, breathes, keeps it together, "—one of the only fucking people to think so."
North, of course. Connie, she thought once. Maybe there's been others, friends that have come and gone that saw her for her, but did anyone else ever really understand the feeling in the first place? When explaining always felt impossible, like everyone would call her ridiculous for feeling this way, for wanting to be treated as herself?
(In mere days, she will feel somehow worse than she ever did. She will hear her brother tell her just how much her push for independence has hurt him. How it feels won't be what he means, and yet the guilt will curl fresh beneath her skin, failing to truly understand.)
The way Carolina talks is too full of understanding to mean nothing, to imply nothing about herself, but to process that right now is more than South can manage.
Inhale, exhale. Breathe until she no longer feels like another bomb about to go off. The feeling isn't— bad, she doesn't think, slowly coming into focus as the rush of reassurance she's not used to finding anywhere but from North, but it's a lot.
"...thanks." God, she sounds stupid. But what the fuck else can she say?
I get it, says every facet of her posture, her expression, the weight of her words and a sort of stoic, knowing smile that cracks the sandstone of her face. She'll tell that story another day. Another month. Never, maybe, if she can help it. (It's getting harder to keep these things in. Harder with no war to distract her, no father's favor to win, no fierce competition.)
"I know you aren't going to like this, and I promise I won't make it into a thing, but I think I should talk to her. Valdis. Someone needs to set the record straight. You aren't a threat, and you shouldn't be treated like one."
Her head lifts just far enough that she can thunk it right back against the bag. "Ugh."
She's right: South doesn't like it. Isn't it her own battle to fight, her own problem to deal with? But god, the idea of trying to defend herself again, it makes her squirm. Feel like some disgusting thing wriggling in the dirt.
(And maybe on some level the idea someone else even wants to defend her is... well, it's kind of nice. Beneath the mortification and fear.)
"Will that really fuckin' help anything?" She already knows what Carolina's going to answer, but she has to whine a little anyway.
Poor South's forehead hits the sandbag like a kid who's just dropped their ice cream off the top of a bridge, bought a new one and dropped it again. Carolina softens imperceptibly. Sympathizes with how difficult it is to defend yourself when you can barely find the right words to explain how you feel; harder when that person's already gone and pissed you off once. She considers patting her on the shoulder. Doesn't. But the sentiment is there.
"Maybe. Maybe not. It's about setting a boundary. I have good report with her, and I didn't get any of this when I first showed up, and I was arguably more of a threat than you, so it's extra bullshit. She should know better." A beat. "It'll be fine. Yeah?"
It's probably fucked up that a part of her bristles at the idea of being less of a threat than Carolina, when that's what she wants in this situation, isn't it?
She keeps that on the inside and just sighs heavily, like accepting this is a reasonable course of action takes genuine effort (because it does). "Yeah. Sure. But if it fuckin' backfires, I've earned an 'I told you so'. Maybe two."
"That's fine." She shrugs. "Whatever helps you sleep at night. I'm going back inside. If you want coffee or water or something, the door's open." She turns on her heel, stops and makes a snappy gesture at the branch and rope suspending the bag in air. "Don't snap that. And wrap your hands, for god's sake."
"Ugh, fine," South groans, overdramatic and playing it up a bit. Steps away, begrudgingly, just long enough to find some bandages to wrap her hands with before she gets back to it.
Feels... a little better, now, if still raw around the edges in a way that's sure to leave her bitching to North when she makes it home. Bolstered, but still shaken. But still. Better.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2025-12-08 08:05 pm (UTC)She thinks, in some far-back corner of her mind, about her mother. Be like her; a mantra she's heard more times than she has bones in her body— and, for the most part, Carolina succeeded, although not unscathed. Annoyed, in her teen years, any time her school's military-coupled administration had referred to her as little McCallister. You look just like her—move just like her— if I hadn't known any better, I'd think she came back to life, chipped off a couple years and gone for a second GED. Until one day, between classes, she took a pair of craft scissors to the hair that was so very like her mother's. Angry— fucking furious— then sick with guilt when she eventually made it back to her dorm.
It's torture, being crammed into a can that isn't yours— no matter if you fit or if parts of you squish out like ground beef clenched in a fist.
"It's not fair," she says matter of factly, like reciting the sum of two plus two. "Of course it didn't work. You aren't him, and he isn't you. And, yeah, that's obvious, but when you've got people telling you for years that you should be like him, I think part of you forgets it can't actually happen. Or maybe it's just frustrating. Like a game you can't win, or some puzzle you can't solve, because you don't have all the pieces, but people keep pressuring you to do it anyway. And that doesn't make you inadequate, you're just not him."
A flat, full-knuckled punch. The bag jerks back against her hands.
"You're you. They should have let you be you."
no subject
Date: 2025-12-08 08:34 pm (UTC)The laugh that rings out from the other side of the bag is bitter, and hysteric, and if you didn't know better, you could almost make the mistake of thinking it were a little wet. South's head thuds against the bag, forehead to rough fabric coarse with sand. Her shoulders rise and fall with the force of tidal waves. Another surge of emotion she can't identify, loud and overwhelming, dragging her under with its weight.
"You are—" she swallows, breathes, keeps it together, "—one of the only fucking people to think so."
North, of course. Connie, she thought once. Maybe there's been others, friends that have come and gone that saw her for her, but did anyone else ever really understand the feeling in the first place? When explaining always felt impossible, like everyone would call her ridiculous for feeling this way, for wanting to be treated as herself?
(In mere days, she will feel somehow worse than she ever did. She will hear her brother tell her just how much her push for independence has hurt him. How it feels won't be what he means, and yet the guilt will curl fresh beneath her skin, failing to truly understand.)
The way Carolina talks is too full of understanding to mean nothing, to imply nothing about herself, but to process that right now is more than South can manage.
Inhale, exhale. Breathe until she no longer feels like another bomb about to go off. The feeling isn't— bad, she doesn't think, slowly coming into focus as the rush of reassurance she's not used to finding anywhere but from North, but it's a lot.
"...thanks." God, she sounds stupid. But what the fuck else can she say?
no subject
Date: 2025-12-08 08:57 pm (UTC)"Sure."
I get it, says every facet of her posture, her expression, the weight of her words and a sort of stoic, knowing smile that cracks the sandstone of her face. She'll tell that story another day. Another month. Never, maybe, if she can help it. (It's getting harder to keep these things in. Harder with no war to distract her, no father's favor to win, no fierce competition.)
"I know you aren't going to like this, and I promise I won't make it into a thing, but I think I should talk to her. Valdis. Someone needs to set the record straight. You aren't a threat, and you shouldn't be treated like one."
no subject
Date: 2025-12-08 09:36 pm (UTC)Her head lifts just far enough that she can thunk it right back against the bag. "Ugh."
She's right: South doesn't like it. Isn't it her own battle to fight, her own problem to deal with? But god, the idea of trying to defend herself again, it makes her squirm. Feel like some disgusting thing wriggling in the dirt.
(And maybe on some level the idea someone else even wants to defend her is... well, it's kind of nice. Beneath the mortification and fear.)
"Will that really fuckin' help anything?" She already knows what Carolina's going to answer, but she has to whine a little anyway.
no subject
Date: 2025-12-10 02:24 pm (UTC)Poor South's forehead hits the sandbag like a kid who's just dropped their ice cream off the top of a bridge, bought a new one and dropped it again. Carolina softens imperceptibly. Sympathizes with how difficult it is to defend yourself when you can barely find the right words to explain how you feel; harder when that person's already gone and pissed you off once. She considers patting her on the shoulder. Doesn't. But the sentiment is there.
"Maybe. Maybe not. It's about setting a boundary. I have good report with her, and I didn't get any of this when I first showed up, and I was arguably more of a threat than you, so it's extra bullshit. She should know better." A beat. "It'll be fine. Yeah?"
no subject
Date: 2025-12-10 08:14 pm (UTC)It's probably fucked up that a part of her bristles at the idea of being less of a threat than Carolina, when that's what she wants in this situation, isn't it?
She keeps that on the inside and just sighs heavily, like accepting this is a reasonable course of action takes genuine effort (because it does). "Yeah. Sure. But if it fuckin' backfires, I've earned an 'I told you so'. Maybe two."
Wrap?
Date: 2025-12-10 08:38 pm (UTC)"That's fine." She shrugs. "Whatever helps you sleep at night. I'm going back inside. If you want coffee or water or something, the door's open." She turns on her heel, stops and makes a snappy gesture at the branch and rope suspending the bag in air. "Don't snap that. And wrap your hands, for god's sake."
And back up onto the porch she goes.
wrap!
Date: 2025-12-10 09:58 pm (UTC)"Ugh, fine," South groans, overdramatic and playing it up a bit. Steps away, begrudgingly, just long enough to find some bandages to wrap her hands with before she gets back to it.
Feels... a little better, now, if still raw around the edges in a way that's sure to leave her bitching to North when she makes it home. Bolstered, but still shaken. But still. Better.
(She's not sure if she'll ever get used to this.)