She knows she's not part of the conversation. Not really. The human called "Dad" is talking to himself, looking at her, buzzing away some of the hair that seems for some reason to perpetually grow on his face. He seems to like to talk, conversing away with her as though she can answer.
Sometimes she has to catch herself pretending she's answering back.
Catch herself from living a daydream.
In spite of the pleasure their voices bring, she's not sure yet about these humans. They seem happy and friendly and warm with each other, yes. They're so fervent in whatever they do, and they seem sincere. She's even come to appreciate the funny faces the smaller one seems to make to keep himself entertained during a longer trip; his giggle is infectious, and it sparks something in her she hasn't known in so long: The desire to share it and laugh back. She also can't deny that there's something to the fact that they haven't just stuffed her into a box again; they've given her space among them, where for the first time she's a part of life and movement.
But in spite of their warmth, their affection for each other . . . there's the not-so-small matter that the van is filled with bubbled gems.
If she'd still had a stomach, it would have twisted to a knot at the first sight of the inert gems, all floating contained in their glassy prisons. How could two humans keep so many? Did they understand what they were?
. . . Did they put them there?
Because of this, she keeps quiet, pretends to be nothing more than that they believe her to be. She waits for a sign -- some further answers to the puzzle.
Just because they're good to each other doesn't mean that they'll be good to her. She can't take the risk.
So she only listens as "Dad" talks to her, dutifully reflecting his features back to him. She watches.
no subject
She knows she's not part of the conversation. Not really. The human called "Dad" is talking to himself, looking at her, buzzing away some of the hair that seems for some reason to perpetually grow on his face. He seems to like to talk, conversing away with her as though she can answer.
Sometimes she has to catch herself pretending she's answering back.
Catch herself from living a daydream.
In spite of the pleasure their voices bring, she's not sure yet about these humans. They seem happy and friendly and warm with each other, yes. They're so fervent in whatever they do, and they seem sincere. She's even come to appreciate the funny faces the smaller one seems to make to keep himself entertained during a longer trip; his giggle is infectious, and it sparks something in her she hasn't known in so long: The desire to share it and laugh back. She also can't deny that there's something to the fact that they haven't just stuffed her into a box again; they've given her space among them, where for the first time she's a part of life and movement.
But in spite of their warmth, their affection for each other . . . there's the not-so-small matter that the van is filled with bubbled gems.
If she'd still had a stomach, it would have twisted to a knot at the first sight of the inert gems, all floating contained in their glassy prisons. How could two humans keep so many? Did they understand what they were?
. . . Did they put them there?
Because of this, she keeps quiet, pretends to be nothing more than that they believe her to be. She waits for a sign -- some further answers to the puzzle.
Just because they're good to each other doesn't mean that they'll be good to her. She can't take the risk.
So she only listens as "Dad" talks to her, dutifully reflecting his features back to him. She watches.
She waits.