[ She hates this. She hates this. She hates this so much.
She can't fix it. She wasn't there. It's forever ago now. Another scar, in with all the others. Even if she were, Luther still would have taken as hard as she assumes he must have this whole time. Hard enough, he blew through every wall of decades of restraint, yelling at the miserable excuse of a man who called himself their father over the table and tearing his shirt open. Demanding not to be dismissed for the first time in his life. ]
I'm sorry. He shouldn't have done that.
[ But was their father made of anything except all the things a parent shouldn't do? He'd pinned Diego like a bug with a long stinging line of words, and even nearly a decade and free, they'd all just sat there, basically turned back into children afraid to be next. Made them all ashamed to even shift in their seats. To say anything, until Luther suddenly was shouting.
Luther.
Luther, who somehow had still believed. Hoped.
Still gone to him. Even after the moon. (Thinking they were dead.)
She wants to hug him. She wants to hurt her father. Someone. Anyone else. As a stand-in. She wants to go home. Or wherever he is. She still has hours here, unless she were to fake something. Or rumor someone. But she can't even think of that long. Only Luther, somewhere, staring at the words he'd just written. Writing them like they couldn't be forgotten by time. Not given by that voice. ]
no subject
She can't fix it. She wasn't there. It's forever ago now. Another scar, in with all the others. Even if she were, Luther still would have taken as hard as she assumes he must have this whole time. Hard enough, he blew through every wall of decades of restraint, yelling at the miserable excuse of a man who called himself their father over the table and tearing his shirt open. Demanding not to be dismissed for the first time in his life. ]
I'm sorry. He shouldn't have done that.
[ But was their father made of anything except all the things a parent shouldn't do? He'd pinned Diego like a bug with a long stinging line of words, and even nearly a decade and free, they'd all just sat there, basically turned back into children afraid to be next. Made them all ashamed to even shift in their seats. To say anything, until Luther suddenly was shouting.
Luther.
Luther, who somehow had still believed. Hoped.
Still gone to him. Even after the moon.
(Thinking they were dead.)
She wants to hug him. She wants to hurt her father. Someone. Anyone else. As a stand-in. She wants to go home. Or wherever he is. She still has hours here, unless she were to fake something. Or rumor someone. But she can't even think of that long. Only Luther, somewhere, staring at the words he'd just written. Writing them like they couldn't be forgotten by time. Not given by that voice. ]
He's not right. About any of it.