With the days growing colder, a fire at night was necessary, the stone walls of the tiny house doing little to keep out the chill. It was strange to think some days that she could find a datastream of all the latest news of the galaxy in the city half a day's walk away, digital gambling halls and holodrama theaters, but here in her 'home' and the nearby village, they were lucky to have running water. There were no droids to help with the daily work, there was not regular trade with nearby planets, and even the criminal syndicates seem to have left much of the planet untouched save for the larger cities. Her life was now so different from everything she'd known that some days it easier that way.
And there were days when it wasn't. The local language was difficult to understand without a translator, though she tried her best to learn more of it each day. She missed having someone to talk to, every word she spoke now little more than an outright lie. No one here knew who she was, what she had been through, and while of course it was better that way, it still wore away at her.
She had no connections here, no friends and no neighbors near enough to matter, so when she knock came at her door-- The knife was in her hand in seconds, instinct propelling her from her seat by the fire to the small kitchen, thin fingers stiff from sewing wrapping around the thick handle with determination. That same emotion propelled her forward, swinging the door open with the knife held just out of view.
And then she stilled, everything in her going quiet at the sight of the man on the other side of that door. The man who had left her here, who had taken her children to safety, who she wasn't sure she would ever seen again. There was a part of her that wanted to rage, to demand that he take her from this place, take her to her children so she could have some part of her soul back, but those emotions wilt before they come to anything real. She's too tired to make those rash decisions, to be angry at what has become of her life or happy to see the only friend who knows of her existence. She's too tired to be anything but the broken woman she is, and so she simply steps back from the doorway to let him inside, knife now hanging uselessly at her side.
no subject
And there were days when it wasn't. The local language was difficult to understand without a translator, though she tried her best to learn more of it each day. She missed having someone to talk to, every word she spoke now little more than an outright lie. No one here knew who she was, what she had been through, and while of course it was better that way, it still wore away at her.
She had no connections here, no friends and no neighbors near enough to matter, so when she knock came at her door-- The knife was in her hand in seconds, instinct propelling her from her seat by the fire to the small kitchen, thin fingers stiff from sewing wrapping around the thick handle with determination. That same emotion propelled her forward, swinging the door open with the knife held just out of view.
And then she stilled, everything in her going quiet at the sight of the man on the other side of that door. The man who had left her here, who had taken her children to safety, who she wasn't sure she would ever seen again. There was a part of her that wanted to rage, to demand that he take her from this place, take her to her children so she could have some part of her soul back, but those emotions wilt before they come to anything real. She's too tired to make those rash decisions, to be angry at what has become of her life or happy to see the only friend who knows of her existence. She's too tired to be anything but the broken woman she is, and so she simply steps back from the doorway to let him inside, knife now hanging uselessly at her side.