never tell lottie rowe the odds (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} fortuosity) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} playout,@ 2020-03-28 18:17:00 |
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| Entry tags: | ! log/narrative, fortuna |
CHARACTERS: Lottie Rowe
DATE & TIME: Various to today.
LOCATION: Various.
RATING: PG, inner monologue swearing.
SUMMARY: Her unexpected yet (for her) totally predictable takes on life and identity, a few times over.
The story that they read was one to gently educate the kids, the ones who maybe hadn’t really considered the gravity behind their situation in life. But she wasn’t like that, she’d never used the words “mother” or “father.” Charlotte didn’t see her face reflected in theirs, and the realisation seemed to be from before a time that her memories could reach. Sometimes kids needed that hint, sometimes they just knew. Sometimes it was a truth they’d ignored, and sometimes it hurt.
Charlotte was unconcerned.
“I’m happy here,” she always assured her adopted family. In her unconventional world of people going in and out of their home, where she ruled the roost and called all the shots for the other children. She had permanence where they didn’t. She had AJ and Dawn, she had stability. She didn’t need a fairytale. She didn’t need a mother.
Lottie was a sweet diminutive for a decidedly not-sweet girl. But maybe that was what she liked about it, the contrast. The feeling of being underestimated. She had an ego, a quick impulse to lie, and quicker fists if ever needed. And Lottie thought they were needed more often than not. She could swing between moods without warning.
She learned to use her fists at around the same time that the parental fairytale became her own personal nightmare. She became scared of the realisation that there was some unknown person in the world who could have a claim over her. Some of the kids at the home still parroted these Disney-style fantasy stories of parents coming to get them, and the idea was more a horror than a fantasy to her. She didn’t want them, didn’t need them. They’d only stop her from where she wanted to be in life.
Still. People seemed keen to remind her, “helpfully” explaining the country’s rules about how old she had to be to apply for her birth certificate. Putting her through the occasional counselling session, diagnosing problems just at her continued insistence that she didn’t care about that.
And kids were cruel, they’d just tease. It was natural to fight back.
Technically you had to be eighteen to get tattooed, but somehow she’d got away with it a few months early. Perhaps luck had come into play, just like it did with so much now that she had powers.
Her new friend had probably inspired it. They’d gone from laughing about her name and her accent to genuinely teaching Lottie about some of the home she’d never known. And a few beers later, even some words. Lottie was curious, distanced from it, still unable to identify with what she was being told. Until more beers and the idea struck, the most terrible drunk idea. A permanent reminder might be what she needed to think about it more.
She stared in the mirror, twisting to get a good look at the small wrapped-up tattoo on her back. God, what a fucking terrible drunk she could be. She grimaced at the black ink on her bare back, covered by the plastic wrap until it healed but still not out of sight. Terrible. A cliché.
She’d have to do better than that in Los Angeles. She was better than that.
If she were a more organised person, she’d have kept track of just how many Instagram users had viewed her latest video. She kept track enough to know that it was going up, that the pet videos and the workout stuff had helped and the first sparring video had just gone live. She scanned through the comments quickly, frowning as she tried to determine if they were positive. Sometimes she wasn’t sure if she wanted to be loved or feared, or if there was really much difference between the two.
An email popped into her inbox, the alert distracting her from her reading. AJ and Dawn, for the third time this week. They’d ask her questions under the guise of general interest about her career progression.
She deleted it without reading.
Charlotte was unconcerned.
“I’m happy here,” she always assured her adopted family. In her unconventional world of people going in and out of their home, where she ruled the roost and called all the shots for the other children. She had permanence where they didn’t. She had AJ and Dawn, she had stability. She didn’t need a fairytale. She didn’t need a mother.
Lottie was a sweet diminutive for a decidedly not-sweet girl. But maybe that was what she liked about it, the contrast. The feeling of being underestimated. She had an ego, a quick impulse to lie, and quicker fists if ever needed. And Lottie thought they were needed more often than not. She could swing between moods without warning.
She learned to use her fists at around the same time that the parental fairytale became her own personal nightmare. She became scared of the realisation that there was some unknown person in the world who could have a claim over her. Some of the kids at the home still parroted these Disney-style fantasy stories of parents coming to get them, and the idea was more a horror than a fantasy to her. She didn’t want them, didn’t need them. They’d only stop her from where she wanted to be in life.
Still. People seemed keen to remind her, “helpfully” explaining the country’s rules about how old she had to be to apply for her birth certificate. Putting her through the occasional counselling session, diagnosing problems just at her continued insistence that she didn’t care about that.
And kids were cruel, they’d just tease. It was natural to fight back.
Technically you had to be eighteen to get tattooed, but somehow she’d got away with it a few months early. Perhaps luck had come into play, just like it did with so much now that she had powers.
Her new friend had probably inspired it. They’d gone from laughing about her name and her accent to genuinely teaching Lottie about some of the home she’d never known. And a few beers later, even some words. Lottie was curious, distanced from it, still unable to identify with what she was being told. Until more beers and the idea struck, the most terrible drunk idea. A permanent reminder might be what she needed to think about it more.
She stared in the mirror, twisting to get a good look at the small wrapped-up tattoo on her back. God, what a fucking terrible drunk she could be. She grimaced at the black ink on her bare back, covered by the plastic wrap until it healed but still not out of sight. Terrible. A cliché.
She’d have to do better than that in Los Angeles. She was better than that.
If she were a more organised person, she’d have kept track of just how many Instagram users had viewed her latest video. She kept track enough to know that it was going up, that the pet videos and the workout stuff had helped and the first sparring video had just gone live. She scanned through the comments quickly, frowning as she tried to determine if they were positive. Sometimes she wasn’t sure if she wanted to be loved or feared, or if there was really much difference between the two.
An email popped into her inbox, the alert distracting her from her reading. AJ and Dawn, for the third time this week. They’d ask her questions under the guise of general interest about her career progression.
She deleted it without reading.