Her hand reached for the iPod to skip the current song before she realised that she had forgotten to bring it along. She was veritably naked to the world's chaos yet even more unsettling was the fact that she had begun associating skipping songs as a way to change her own train of thought. And now, bereft of this handy anomaly, she was stuck on their words, like those cassettes from when dinosaurs roamed the earth. Or a fly on flypaper, but that wasn't nearly as romantic a thought as dinosaurs.
"I beg your pardon, but could you repeat it just once more?" her mother said in an unfeeling monotone, almost as if she felt obliged to. Probably thought she was. Maybe she wanted to do full dramatic justice to the scene.
The man across the table sighed. " As I was saying, we can no longer continue to accommodate your ward at our institution" he continued patiently. "The authorities feel that she simply doesn't meet the criteria; to be frank, she's unfit to continue residence in these halls."
The man winced. The higher-ups had specifically mentioned that he was not, in any way, to cushion the blow. Not that he felt much, of course. The wince was triggered by his verbose phrasing of the last sentence. If he wasn't conscientious, some might even rule the judgment as "subjective". The horror.
(two months before the conversation)
the music continued, an interminable drone in her left ear. her mother favoured to walk on her right, so she kept that ear free for an equally interminable drone, but much less welcome.
"Are you listening." it wasn't a question; she obviously was. it was a command to contribute to the conversation, disguised as concern. not that she would ever point that out. Pointless.
"Yeah, sorry, could you repeat that." she replied, carefully keeping inflection out of her words. It took two to tango.
If her mother noticed, she didn't let on. A popular trend. Recently, she had realised that people only ever noticed what they wanted to see and then proceeded to draw conclusions from their own severely limited observations.
She had begun using this universal tendency to render herself invisible in uncomfortable situations.
When the teacher called home to report her absence even though she was on the front bench.
When she spilled acid on her hands during lab, since the assistant miscounted and she couldn't be bothered to correct him– it took too much energy. And a little acid was no biggie.
When her mother had been late for work, waiting for her to return from the shop, even though she had been in her room for an hour and a half. Somehow, it was still her fault. Which was strange.
Perhaps uncomfortable situations is stretching it. Could a flesh-and-blood (or lack thereof) superpower ever cease to be useful?
I do wish May had done something a tad more proactive. I miss being visible. Do I exist if none can vouch for it?
(11 days before the conversation)
She skimmed through the book, its contents failing to relieve her boredom. With a sigh to rival a gale, she set it down but refused to resign herself to a dull evening. Not with the sun still up. A medium ochre sun.
The music was, of course, playing in the background. The a comfortable familiarity of it, however, put it out of the running to be considered a distraction. Her fingers tapped out the rhythms unconsciously as song after song traversed the well worn lanes of memory– fragments reaching out to snag her attention.
"You're doing it wrong". She turned to face the nagging voice
She looked down at the page. She hadn't been aware there was a wrong way to do it.
"What's wrong with it?" she asked, genuinely curious.
"Your work is supposed to reflect the music" clear exasperation
"But it does."
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