Post by DAISY CAROLANNE WEAVER on Jun 25, 2013 18:04:41 GMT -8
| [atrb=style,width: 420px; background-color: efefef; background-image: url(http://24.media.tumblr.com/0478144b9f16c95a37367d1aca56b45c/tumblr_mkfax8tDxp1s97ldco1_500.png); padding: 5px, bTable] DAISY C. WEAVER 21 | HETEROSEXUAL | MAID | LOCAL | SARA PAXTON THE INTERVIEW HELLO. THANKS FOR COMING IN TODAY. SHALL WE START WITH YOUR NAME? Daisy smiles dreamily in vague acknowledgment. She sits. Folds one leg over the other, then changes her mind and changes legs, smoothing anxiously and compulsively at a non-existent crease in her skirt. “Um, I’m Daisy.” She replies in a clear but quiet voice, for all the world appearing to address her knee. She’s clearly not receptive to eye contact. “Just Daisy will do fine. I don’t think you can get many nicknames out of that, can you? Just Daisy, I think.” She smiles again. Nods at her knee in confirmation of a question well answered. Still doesn’t look up. THAT'S A NICE NAME. WHAT DO YOU DO FOR A LIVING? “Thank you.” She replies instantly, inanely. Years of living under the suffocating blanket of upper class pretension have left her manners so deeply ingrained that her pleases and thank yous often come flying out without prior permission. Not that she would ever wilfully withhold them. Manners cost nothing, after all. Her eyes dart up just for a moment. She locks gazes with the interviewer for an accidental second, and then is back to looking at her knee. Long, anxious fingers continue to smooth away at the non-existent crease. “Um, I’m a maid… in a hotel…” It’s not glamorous. The shifts are long and she comes home feeling exhausted and full of hate. She’s not a hateful person, not Daisy, but after long, long shifts of guests being unpleasant to her for no reason at all or treating her like she's nothing, she starts to lose her faith in humanity as a whole. This wasn’t what she planned to do with her life. Lord no. She wanted to go to school. Juilliard. She was going to go to Juilliard and learn from the best and play in the New York Symphonic Arts Ensemble. Cleaning up after spoilt hotel guests wasn’t anywhere in that plan. Until Mason came along. Is it irony, then, that after a long day of losing her faith in humanity coming home to him – the very reason for her predicament – is the only thing that restores it? One look at his face and all is right with her world. At least, until she returns to the inn for her next shift. “It pays the bills.” She adds in a murmur, still talking to her knee. INTERESTING. WHAT DO YOU DO FOR FUN? Daisy gives a startled laugh, her hand stilling in its vague repetitive motion; the compulsive smoothing of her skirt. She gives her head a quick shake. “I don’t know. What normal people do, I suppose.” What she wants to say is that between work and Mason she has no time for fun, but she doesn’t like the idea of being a negative nancy, of bringing the poor old girl who has to interview her down. Besides, is that even true? She still has fun, sometimes. “I play the violin.” She admits on a whim. The nervous tic in her hand has resumed, but moved from rubbing at the non-crease over the bottom of her thigh to picking at a tiny particle of lint from her sleeve, just below the elbow. “I have done since I was little. I couldn’t dance or sing like my – my L-Lily, so my mother thought I should try at another hobby. She bought me a violin. And a tutor. Twice a week. Tuesdays and Thursdays after school.” She smiles vaguely. Her fingers continue to pluck convulsively at her sleeve. “I was pretty good, if you don’t mind me saying so. Sometimes I still play. Just for fun… I – I’m so out of practice now.” A brief pause. Then she adds, “I volunteer. I suppose that’s not really fun.” She looks up, biting her lip, as if asking for verification. Is it fun? Does it count? She doesn’t know. It’s not so much a pastime as it is something she feels compelled to do. “I work with a charity for vulnerable young mothers. They do like big sister mentor things.” She smiles awkwardly. “They were there for me, so I wanted to… I wanted to be there for other people who were… who are going through what… some of the things that I went through.” The words come out in an awkward, modest rush. A slight touch of self-conscious pink colours her cheeks, and she looks down. Now she seems to realise at long last her fidgeting, and deliberately lifts her hand away from her sleeve. Splays it flat in mid air as if stretching the anxiety from her fingers, then folds it in her lap beneath her other hand. “Mostly I just try and keep Mason entertained.” She admits. The mere name on her lips makes her bloom – her spine straightens, head briefly bobs up, eyes make contact with the interviewer’s again, but deliberately this time. She cannot disguise the pride in her voice, or the love on her face. It’s the first time she’s appeared alive since she walked in the room. “So that’s a lot of cartoons. We watch a lot of cartoons. Sometimes we bake. He likes to bake – make a mess of the kitchen, more like, but it keeps him happy. Uh, what else? When the weather’s nice, he likes to play out. We don’t have a back yard, so we go down to the river. Fish. He loves to fish.” Her eyes suddenly drop again. Back to her clasped hands. The tic has settled back into her joints, and she is now picking anxiously at the tufts of skin around one raggedly bitten fingernail. “That’s the kind of stuff I do, I guess.” WOULD YOU SAY THOSE ACTIVITIES REFLECT WHO YOU ARE? Daisy chews on her bottom lip for a moment, frowning slightly at nothing in particular. “Mm-hm.” She agrees tentatively after a moment. “I suppose they do.” She falls silent again. Considering the question. The real question she supposes is ‘who are you?’ She doesn’t quite know. She always thought she did, but things change. Things happen to a person and they have to remake themselves. Daisy was torn down and had to build herself back up. She curled herself around Mason, letting him become the center of her life. The impetus for all her decisions. Maybe that’s the main thing about Daisy – she doesn’t live for herself. Only everybody else. She is her own last priority. Everybody else comes first. She couldn’t be a bigger doormat unless she literally lay down on the floor and allowed people to scuff the dirt off their shoes on her. But is that all bad? She thinks it shows a certain kind of devotion – of love. Yes, Daisy loves. She’s capable of it. She does it deeply. Wears her heart on her sleeve. To the people she loves, she is endlessly loyal and dedicated. She would do anything to make her precious ones smile. To make them happy. At any cost. There’s a fine line between selflessness and martyrdom, and she straddles it. She’s crossed it going one way or the other so many times they’ve stopped asking for her passport. There’s a momentary silence. Then she becomes aware of the interviewer tapping her pen against her clipboard. She peeks a brief glance upward and sees her looking, judging, eyebrows raised. “Sorry.” Daisy murmurs. “I don’t say so much, I suppose. I don’t know what you want me to say.” More like she doesn’t know what she wants to say. Daisy grew up without a voice. She’d hoped she might find one beyond the shadow of her more demanding sisters and outside the suffocating embrace of her overbearing mother and her… her stepfather, when she went to college and came out of her shell. But then she never went, and she ended up getting stuck here, retreating further and further back into that damn pretty painted shell until she doesn’t even know what she wants to say – let alone what she would say if she had the guts to open her mouth and form the words. She’s too worried about what other people want to hear. Too convinced that her own thoughts and feelings have no value outside of herself. Being forced to talk about herself like this is enough to bring all her nervous tics to the surface. Being asked to open up has to be a trick. No one is ever that interested in the quiet little wallflower. No one has ever been interested in Daisy. That’s the sad truth, but it’s something that shouldn’t be true at all. Daisy may be quiet and a little unsure of herself, but she is not someone weak and without worth. She has been jostled into the role of victim her whole life, but given the right opportunity, that’s not who she is. Daisy is strong. She is resilient. She has stared down almost unbearable hardship that would have others crumbling into snivelling children. She has looked adversity in the eye and adversity has blinked first. Daisy may be a jumble of nervous tics and shy smiles, but they are surface deep. Underneath the socially anxious trappings, she has a quiet strength and an incredible capacity to endure. She will always get back up, remain collected for the sake of the people around her, and do her best to carry on. She has always been able to do that. A COOL CAT LIKE YOU MUST HAVE A TON OF SUITORS FLOCKING TO YOU, HUH? She glances up, half startled by the question. A very slight frown plays at her brow, as if she doesn’t even know what the word ‘suitor’ means. Certainly she has no idea what any suitor would see in her. She is not the kind of girl to be pursued. She is not the kind of girl that boys look twice at – not in a room full of vibrant, happy, beautiful alternatives. Daisy is kind and sweet and good and has so much love to give. She’s the kind of girl who is good for a boy. But she’s also wallpaper. Perhaps a little bland. Unobtrusive. She’s the dating equivalent of cabbage. Good for you on the inside, but a little unappealing and tasteless when just sitting there on a plate. “Oh, um, no.” She lets out a tiny huff of polite laughter. “Suitors? No. Not me. I don’t really – I don’t go in for that kind of thing.” She has other priorities. Work. Mason. He is so young and vulnerable and he needs her so much. They have such a precarious balance, the two of them, that she couldn’t bring another person into their lives. Besides, how could she trust another person around her son? People could be too cruel and he was too precious to risk. She would rather stay alone, have it remain just the two of them, than pander to any young men that came sniffing around. COOL BEANS. THEY SAY YOUR FAMILY SHAPES WHO YOU ARE. WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOURS? Daisy splutters a sudden laugh. She plucks so violently at the skin around her nail that she rips a strip of it away. Blood bubbles up to the surface and the laugh dies on her lips. She winces. “Oh sh – sugar. Oh, sugar.” It takes her a minute or so to rummage in her bag for a tissue to dab at the blood. Clearly stalling for time. When she finally has a tissue pressed to the side of her finger, there is momentary silence. The question still stands. Sugar, indeed. “My family is Mason.” She says measuredly, finally. “He’s four now. He’s my world.” Another few beats of silence, then Daisy looks up. Her eyes meet the interviewer’s for the briefest of seconds, then skate over her head to look casually out of the window – a clumsy gesture of deliberate cool, trying to prove perhaps that her visible discomfort is something greatly exaggerated and that deep down, no, she’s fine. She doesn’t mind answering this question at all. The act is not convincing, and a tremor has set into her voice when she inhales a great breath and manages to stammer out: “I don’t talk to my mom or my stepdad or my half-sister. I never knew my actual dad. My sister is dead. It’s just Mason. He’s my – he’s my world.” AND YOUR LIFE? TELL ME ABOUT YOUR PAST. I'M EAGER TO HEAR. Daisy immediately resumes her fidgeting – she’s wrapped the tissue around her bloody finger and begins to twist it, round and round in her hands until it has the consistency of cloth. Muslin, maybe. Like Mason’s baby blanket. She longs for the soft texture of it, and for Mason himself. She wishes she had him to hold, to bury her face into his downy hair and hide there. He is always the best distraction – often the only distraction. But she left him with a neighbour. The elderly woman in the apartment downstairs who teaches him old music hall songs. He’s too far away to hide behind. There’s no real avoiding the question. “Um. Um I was – I’m from this little town in Texas.” She suggests tentatively, as if she’s unsure if that’s quite true or not. She hardly seems to own the details of her own life. “Uh, originally. I don’t remember much of it… um, we moved when I was five. My mom married a man and we moved to Brunswick.” Her life before she was five is only in flashes, indistinct and bewildering. She remembers a dusty road outside her house that she and her sister used to play on. She remembers her sister – Lily, four years older and clearly not of the same absent deadbeat father as Daisy herself. Where Daisy is blonde and blue eyed and almost Aryan, just like their mother, Lily was dark and exotic and beautiful. Her genes came from somewhere very different. She remembers her mother – harried and stretched to within an inch of sanity. She remembers the way she used to come in after dark in her crumpled diner uniform, smelling of coffee and grease; she’d sneak into their bedroom and kiss them both on the forehead, and Daisy used to try and stay awake to catch her at it. Like trying to stay up for the tooth fairy. “H-Harry – my, uh, my stepfather – he came from money. It was kind of like a fairy tale.” Daisy is looking back at her knee. She gives it a bright, false smile as if there’s even a scrap of truth in her words. “He came and married my mom and whisked us away to Maine, to this big ol’ house and… oh, it was very strange, I suppose.” She is silent for a moment, thinking on that big old house in Brunswick. Her and her sister were given their own rooms for the first time in their lives. Daisy kicked up such a fuss – she’s never thrown such a big fit in her life, not before or since, as when she was told she couldn’t be sleeping just across the room from her Lily. She cried until she made herself sick, but Harry insisted… They had oh so many rooms, and it would hardly be proper to squash the poor girls in together when there was so much space. Given time, he insisted to poor five year old Daisy, she would grow to appreciate her independence. That never happened. Daisy snuck into her sister’s room and crawled into bed with her almost every night for four years, until Lily turned thirteen and inexplicably began to lock the door to keep her young sister out… “Life was very different here in Brunswick.” She says measuredly. Anything to stop the thoughts in her head. But now she cannot stop thinking. How different life was. The vague flashes of southern poverty that she remembers from before, they seemed happy, at least. Warm. Life in Brunswick was colder. The big old house that they rattled around in like peas in a can. And even at five years old, Daisy could recognise that going from no money to a lot of money had been a hard, strange thing. The people she’d been told to associate with seemed so odd. Instead of playing with shoeless children on dirt roads, she was playing polo on jewel bright lawns. Even at five years old, she’d known she wasn’t the only one jarred and struggling. The new family friends, they hated her mom. The rich crowd. They called her trash. A trailer park slut who’d got her claws into a good, wealthy man and dragged herself up from nowhere. No matter how much her mom tried to hide her accent or what kind of fancy clothes she bought or what books she read on high society etiquette, she always seemed to stick out like a sore thumb at social occasions. It was different for Lily and Daisy. They were still young enough to be moulded into proper little ladies. She remembers all the pretty clothes she was given to wear. New toys – but no time to play anymore, Lord no. In Brunswick, her life was mapped out for her. School tutors, music tutors, dance and singing lessons, riding lessons and playdates with the children of important men her stepfather was trying to impress. Yes. Life was very different in Brunswick, and her childhood quickly became less of a childhood and much more of just an extended prepping session for adulthood. Daisy was always obedient and well behaved, but Lily never seemed to want to swallow all the stifling rules. She’d spit them back in their parents’ faces and do whatever she wanted. Sometimes when she snuck out of the hall window late at night, she’d ask a solemn Daisy to cover for her. Go in her room and turn on some music and then wedge the door shut, so mom and Harry wouldn’t even know she’d gone. Daisy always did – she would have done anything for her beautiful, rebellious Lily – but she always suspected that their parents knew. There were so many rows and arguments between the three of them, but Daisy had never wanted to be involved. When voices got raised or things started being thrown, she used to go and hide in her wardrobe. “When I was ten, mom and Harry had another baby.” She says after a lengthy pause spent deep in her thoughts. “Rose.” She thinks of that bizarre moment where she first laid eyes on her infant sister. The sweet delicate little thing, with porcelain skin and rosy cheeks, sleepy eyes and a yawning black hole mouth. Lily hated her. Daisy never did. Not once. Not for a single second. Rose’s presence in the household meant that Daisy was pushed even more to one side – with Lily being the problem child and Rosie being the baby, Daisy quickly fell victim to middle child syndrome. She didn’t mind. She’s always rather liked being ignored. It’s safest that way, just being the quiet one who just put her head down and got on with things. And got on with things she did. She did well in school and she kept up with all her tutors and continued to excel in all her extracurriculars. Things were going quite fine for Daisy, thank you very much. Who knew what she could accomplish, quietly and without fuss, if she wanted to? “And… then when I was sixteen –” Her mouth dries up and she falters. She glances up quickly at the interviewer, then looks hurriedly again. The tic has settled nervously back over her body like a blanket. One knee is bouncing inelegantly, her whole leg jiggling with nervy anticipation. Her hands twist together, fingers wringing gently around the crumpled tissue as if she is trying to wash them of some unseen stain. “When I was sixteen, my big sister, Lily, she – she died.” This is where it begins to fragment. Just like her life before Brunswick, her life after Lily’s death is a confusing blur of jumbled flashes. She can feel the interview’s eyes on her, and her face grows hot. A burning sensation starts to prick at her eyes, and she lifts one hand, pressing finger and thumb to the inside corners of her eyes, as if she can push the burgeoning tears back in. “I’m sorry.” She says hoarsely. “Sorry, just give me a moment.” Daisy never dealt with Lily’s death. Not properly. Where should she even start? There’s too much bad feeling there. It was Daisy, after all, who found her. She went upstairs to call her down for dinner and found her twenty year old sister hanging from the exposed beam in her bedroom ceiling. She shuts her eyes and she can still see it, printed on the insides of her closed lids. She shuts her eyes and she is back there, standing in the darkened doorway and watching her sister swing gently from the rafters, the limp jumble of her limbs silhouetted almost black against the ripples of evening sky beyond the window. If Daisy concentrates hard enough, she can recall the exact pitch and frequency of the creaking rope, and the precise mottled purple of her beautiful sister’s swollen face. But those aren’t details she ever wants to remember. That moment is one she wishes she could scour from her brain forever. To forget, this was what Harry encouraged her to do. Her mom was inconsolable. She had sobbed and wailed while they’d wheeled Lily from the house in that awful zipped up bag. Daisy had sat on the porch steps, watching the dull flash of service vehicle lights spilling over the gravel, while they put her darling Lily in the back of the ambulance that had arrived too late to save her. She’d sat there long after the paramedics and the coroners and the police men were gone, shocked half to numbness, while Harry calmed her mom and convinced Rosie to go back to bed. He’d come out and found her there on those steps and sat beside her. He’d told her not to think on it too much, Lily had been troubled, and when Daisy had said nothing, he’d stroked her hair and leant in close, pressing his face almost right against hers to whisper reassuring poison in her ear. The memory of his closeness makes her skin crawl. A great stillness has enveloped Daisy. The fidgeting is gone. For a long time she remains slightly hunched, trying to pinch her tear ducts closed, brow furrowed in obvious distress. Reliving that which she’d rather not relive. Finally she forces herself to straighten up a little, remove her hand from her face. She makes a show of taking a steadying breath, gently shaking the trembling stiffness from her arms, and forces a bracing smile. “Life goes on.” She says. This is what people told her. What people still tell her. Life goes on. But it doesn’t go on for Lily, and a good part of the happy, peaceful girl that Daisy was is stuck back in that quiet evening-splashed bedroom with her. Static and unchanging. Not moving forward. They say life goes on, but Daisy has found the opposite to be true. At least to some extent. “A year later I found out I was pregnant. With Mason.” This she cannot make herself remember. She will not. The circumstances of her son’s conception are buried somewhere very deep down in her consciousness – in a place she only goes in her nightmares. She wakes often from those dreams, drenched in cold sweat, hugging her pillow and jamming her fist in her mouth to keep her from screaming. “Mom and Harry were very disappointed.” She admits quietly. Her head angles a little lower, dipping in retrospective shame. She remembers her mom’s cold agony when she sat her down and told her. The hurt indignation in her eyes. Sometimes the awful disappointment still comes back to her, and she remembers the way her mom’s face spasmed and contorted with sorrow when she said, “But you were supposed to make better choices than me.” Her mom was crushed. She had hugged little innocent seven year old Rosie close, and looked at Daisy over the top of her head as if she didn’t even know her. Her poor mother. She must have felt like a failure. One dead daughter and one pregnant one, sat there on the chaise longue and hugging her last hope for proof of being a decent mother. Perhaps if Rosie turned out all right, it would all be okay, but there was no hope for dead Lily and clearly none for pregnant Daisy. Harry had been very angry, but his bluster had been so much easier to take than her mom’s disappointment. She’s always cared much less for Harry’s opinion than anybody else’s – she supposes in that way, at least, she is like Lily. “They asked me to leave. They wouldn’t have me in the house.” This sounds awful and she knows it, but she doesn’t like the idea of the interviewer judging her mom too harshly. She looks up and gives a weak smile as if to say it’s all right, as if to excuse it. Things turned out all right for Daisy in the end, even if being forced to pack her bags and leave the safety of her family home had been a scary thing. Seventeen and pregnant and with nowhere to go. She’d stayed one night with a friend from high school, but when her parents found out exactly why Daisy had been kicked out of her home, they made it clear she wasn’t welcome to stay any longer. There is nothing like being mysteriously pregnant and homeless to teach you the true meaning of being a pariah. She wound up in a shelter for a few nights. When they discovered her condition, they sent her along to planned parenthood. They set her up with a charity for vulnerable young expectant mothers, the same one she volunteers for now, who put a roof over her head and found her a ‘big sister’ style sponsor to help her through the worst of things. She was lucky people had it in them to be so kind or else she wouldn’t have got by. She dropped out of school in order to work, and worked for as hard and as long as she could. By the time she was too pregnant to work, she’d saved up enough to put down a deposit on a tiny one room apartment. With her meagre savings and a small anonymous cash donation that she suspected may have come from her sympathetic mom, she managed to scrape by. Daisy has always managed to get by, one way or another. “I found a place to live, and a job, and… it wasn’t so bad.” She tells the interviewer. Her hands keep twisting, wringing, folding and curling around each other. “And then I had Mason, and things were almost good.” She had Mason. After thirty six hours of labour in a room full of strangers, with no one there to hold her hand. Her intention had always been to give him away. She would take one look at the child – just one – and then she would hand him back to the nurse and tell her to take him away and give him to someone who could love him. She’d always known, ever since the little pink plus had appeared on the pregnancy test, through all the times he’d stirred restlessly inside her, that she would not keep him. He would be too painful to keep. But it had been different in the grand scheme of things. In the reality of the moment – 2am, the depths of exhaustion, vulnerable and oh so lonely – when they had swaddled her baby in blankets and pressed him into her arms, she’d found with a sudden jolt of surprise that the real painful thing would be to part from him. This tiny bundle of clueless life, all hers and hers alone, the one thing she had in the world – no, she couldn’t bear to give him up. So three days later when she’d been discharged, she’d not left a free woman as she’d planned – but a mother, wheeled out to the taxi rank with a sleeping baby nestled against her shoulder. And it was hard, of course it was. Working and raising him and trying to find ways to be okay. She would never lie and say she’s done it all perfectly, but she tries her best. It’s been four years, and Daisy has been doing just what she’s always done – keeping her head down and getting on with things without making a fuss. “Things are good.” She says finally, nodding decisively at her knee. “I’m doing all right these days. I can’t complain, anyway.” What about a secret? Everyone has a secret. “A secret?” If one were to look up the idiom ‘deer in the headlights’ right now, one would find a picture of Daisy. She glances up, blue eyes innocently wide, hands momentarily stilled out of their fidgeting pattern. She forces a quick smile that doesn’t come across as very congruous. “Oh no, I don’t have secrets.” This isn’t strictly true. In fact, it isn’t even a little true. Though Daisy considers herself an honest and trustworthy person, she is first and foremost a cautious one. Her secrets are her safety net. As long as she holds them suffocatingly close, they cannot be used to hurt her. Her secret, she supposes, is double edged. Maybe it’s technically more of a couple of secrets, but they’re so closely interconnected she can’t tell them apart. It all goes back to that awful time where she was sixteen, seventeen. It all goes back to Lily – no, but that makes it sound as though it’s her fault, and that’s an unfair accusation. Daisy would hate to accuse her dead sister of anything. But it starts with her. The week before the evening Daisy found her dead at the end of a noose. It was then that Lily started to tear herself apart at the seams. She made some wild accusations to their mom, saying that their stepfather had been sexually abusing her for quite some time. Since she was thirteen. She said she was only speaking up now, because she’d seen the way that Harry was looking at Daisy and she was worried he would turn his wandering hands on her. Their mom did not believe her. She’d called Lily an awful deceitful child and told her to never say it again. Lily had then come to Daisy herself and repeated the accusations. She’d offered to take her away. She’d said if Daisy had packed her bags right then and there, they could run away, and Harry would never hurt them. Daisy hadn’t been receptive. Scared, maybe. Or perhaps a little mistrustful of Lily herself. It almost seemed in-character for her to make up something so spiteful to discredit the stepfather she’d always hated. Perhaps it was Daisy not believing her that pushed her over the edge. Sisters are supposed to trust each other, and Daisy had let her down by not believing her. Maybe that was the straw that broke the camel’s back, and pushed Lily to tie herself that noose. A week after she started with the accusations, she was dead, and Daisy was sitting out on the porch steps with Harry beside her, stroking her hair and whispering awful hollow comforts in her ear. It was that moment Daisy knew Lily had been telling the truth. It was that moment Daisy saw something predatory and terrible in her stepfather for the first time. It wasn’t long after that before Harry was sneaking into her bedroom in the early hours and turning Daisy into his next unwilling victim. And with Harry being the only sexual experience she’s ever had, there has never really been any doubt as to Mason’s paternity. The reasons behind her sister's suicide and the identity of her baby’s father is something she’ll take to the grave. ALRIGHT. TIME'S ALMOST UP. TELL ME ABOUT YOUR DREAMS. QUICK! She dips her head to hide the slight bitterness of her tight smile. Daisy is rather beyond the point of having dreams. She did have them. She was supposed to do so many things. College. Julliard. The New York Symphonic Arts Ensemble. But life happened, and those things are now beyond her reach. Dreams are for children. Dreams are for the likes of Mason, who’ll she make sure can do anything that he wants to do. “I only want what’s best for my son. That’s all.” AND THAT'S A WRAP. IT WAS NICE GETTING TO KNOW YOU. Daisy stands so quickly one would think she’d been electrocuted. A spasm of relief shows on her face. “Oh, we’re done? Thank you. It was lovely talking to you. I’ll see myself out. Thank you again.” BEHIND THE MASK PUN | 20 | GMT | LYING ON THE FLOOR, SURROUNDED, SURROUNDED | MY BBS  also this is the longest, most rambly app ever and i'm sorry to anyone who reads it. |
