[ Most days, Jefferson's at the tea shop, because it keeps him busy and in the company of others, which in turn keeps him from fixating on the increasingly invasive fantasies in his head. The problem now is it's getting more and more difficult to push the delusions back. There's this constant refrain in his head, and try as he might, he can't shut it up for long. (The fantasies are what's real; it's everything else that's a lie.)
Sometimes, he wonder if he should perhaps go back to therapy. But what if that ends in him being locked up? So, for now, he passes his time in the tea shop, doing his best to focus on mundane little tasks.
He's in the middle of wiping down a table when some movement catches his eye, just outside the shop window. A white gown, a little girl, a face that...
Jefferson stares at her as she walks past, eyes wide as he can feel that familiar ache in his heart-- loss of somebody he can't remember, some daughter he's been told he never had.
Right. He doesn't have a daughter. He doesn't. That's not her; that's just a child who's alone and wandering and no, no he can't leave her to wander, whoever she is. He drops the dish cloth down on the table and quickly rushes out of the shop to call after her, ask her if she's all right and where her parents are and if she needs any help-- ]
Grace!
[ That's not what he meant to say-- it's as if it's automatic, like a reflex. But as soon as he says it, it all makes sense. That's her name. That's Grace. That's...
Oh god, how could he have forgotten her name until now? ]
no subject
Sometimes, he wonder if he should perhaps go back to therapy. But what if that ends in him being locked up? So, for now, he passes his time in the tea shop, doing his best to focus on mundane little tasks.
He's in the middle of wiping down a table when some movement catches his eye, just outside the shop window. A white gown, a little girl, a face that...
Jefferson stares at her as she walks past, eyes wide as he can feel that familiar ache in his heart-- loss of somebody he can't remember, some daughter he's been told he never had.
Right. He doesn't have a daughter. He doesn't. That's not her; that's just a child who's alone and wandering and no, no he can't leave her to wander, whoever she is. He drops the dish cloth down on the table and quickly rushes out of the shop to call after her, ask her if she's all right and where her parents are and if she needs any help-- ]
Grace!
[ That's not what he meant to say-- it's as if it's automatic, like a reflex. But as soon as he says it, it all makes sense. That's her name. That's Grace. That's...
Oh god, how could he have forgotten her name until now? ]