[ it's a sudden flurry of motion that comes to an abrupt halt with a better ending than it could have had, thanks to Gen's fast reflexes. but the fallout does not seem to settle as it should. once he has her safely secured, it comes into focus that the way that Rudbeckia is looking up at Gen is an expression he's seen on her before, when their relationship was something different. it's the intense fear of a child cowering before a raised hand, a beaten dog caught at the end of its chain. perhaps there is a second where he could think that it's an overreaction to his flare in temper, that this is just meek cowering because someone dared to yell at her – but it's when he says I'm calling someone that her hand latches onto his forearm in a claw-like grip, and she cries out, desperate: ]
No! [ that one word is the most she's ever raised her voice at Gen. the times he'd pushed her around, she had kept quiet as a mouse, even her pleas for mercy held in check by that obsequious politeness. but she just—she thinks of the way that Father would look at her. Are you unwell, my daughter? the outstretched hand that should have been gentle, the bruises it leaves behind. You're not lying, are you? ] —No, I'm not. Please don't tell anyone, I'm not sick at all. I-I just fell, I'm sorry, I'll get up. I don't need anything.
[ no one will ever believe her. she must remember that. just because her symptoms are clearer right now doesn't mean that anything will change. if she allows herself to be taken to a doctor, they won't find anything wrong with her, and she'll be nothing more than a nuisance overreacting to a little blood. even if they accept she's sick, they'll say that she should bear with it, that the pain can't be that bad. it's just her. and the next time it happens, there will be eye-rolling, complaints: why are you always like this? or they'll push her harder, the way Cesare used to, the way her family in her previous life did, because she's just lying and faking to get attention or pity or she's that lazy and she needs to be taught a lesson...
cw abuse
No! [ that one word is the most she's ever raised her voice at Gen. the times he'd pushed her around, she had kept quiet as a mouse, even her pleas for mercy held in check by that obsequious politeness. but she just—she thinks of the way that Father would look at her. Are you unwell, my daughter? the outstretched hand that should have been gentle, the bruises it leaves behind. You're not lying, are you? ] —No, I'm not. Please don't tell anyone, I'm not sick at all. I-I just fell, I'm sorry, I'll get up. I don't need anything.
[ no one will ever believe her. she must remember that. just because her symptoms are clearer right now doesn't mean that anything will change. if she allows herself to be taken to a doctor, they won't find anything wrong with her, and she'll be nothing more than a nuisance overreacting to a little blood. even if they accept she's sick, they'll say that she should bear with it, that the pain can't be that bad. it's just her. and the next time it happens, there will be eye-rolling, complaints: why are you always like this? or they'll push her harder, the way Cesare used to, the way her family in her previous life did, because she's just lying and faking to get attention or pity or she's that lazy and she needs to be taught a lesson...
in a small, small voice— ]
I'll be good.