greatoldjohn | TLV Inbox

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[in a rather deep voice] "This is John Doe. Please leave your message. I'll get back to you as soon as I can. I may respond in text if I'm currently with Arthur. Apologies."

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"Oh," he says thoughtfully to that, watching her fingers.

"Here too?"

"Fewer here than at home. But for the most part, yes, here too."

"Do I act like that?"

It's an honest question.

"Sometimes." She pauses, then adds, "When you're cruel, it's usually more pointed."

Which, honestly, she thinks she prefers. If he can say or do something that she reads as pointedly cruel, then it means that, in theory, he knows her enough to know what will hurt - and you don't get to that point through apathy.

"You're not wrong," he agrees with her. He considers it.

"Is that why you're exclusionary? To kick people out before they kick you out?"

"I'm not exclusionary," she says, her eyebrow jumping. "That's ridiculous. I just-- I told you about most people feeling like cardboard to me, right?"

He's not really a nodder but the affirmative is in his voice.

"Yes. You told me that most people feel like cardboard. You don't think of them as people. You exclude them from mattering."

It doesn't sound like an accusation. It just sounds like he's answering her.

"Okay, but it's not a choice. It's just how I feel. How, I think... my experiences have made me feel."

What bonds could compare with those forged in horror and trauma and the fight for survival?

"If your experiences have made you feel that way, then new experiences could make you feel differently, if you choose to let them," he points out, matter-of-fact.

"I used to feel that way too. I felt that way about all of humanity. You can change it if you want to."

"It's not that simple, John," she says with a sigh. "It's not a switch in my brain that I can flip."

"I didn't say that," which he keeps sounding matter-of-fact, and not aggravated, "and it wouldn't matter as much if you could. Do you want to change it?"

"-- Only if I could be sure that it would work," she says, after a brief moment's hesitation. It's not something she feels at all willing to take a leap of faith on.

"That... you could do it or that it would work out for you to be positive?"

"That it would work out for me," she says matter-of-factly. "I could-- well, I'm not sure whether or not I could actually do it, but I could definitely act like I could."

"It doesn't really work when you're just acting," he says with some experience, "but sometimes, it starts working if you act hard enough. That way is scary, though."

He is, she assumes, speaking from experience.

"And what's so scary about it? Because it proves how easy it is to trick your brain?"

"No," he says easily enough, "especially since I don't have a brain. But it's scary because that caring can hit you when you least expect it. Usually after you did something that you'll then regret."

"So, you're not really talking about the caring. You're talking about the guilt."

"No," he says firmly, "I'm talking about caring.

"Do you like hurting Natalie?"

"I assume you know that I don't."

"I don't assume, but I can guess, yes," he answers mildly. "But in that case, you didn't care when you stabbed Natalie in the chest and turned the knife... but suddenly, ten minutes later, you do care. And you can't unstab them. And you can't take away the wound it left in her chest. And you can't make her trust you coming near her because of what happened the last time."

He looks to her.

"You don't feel bad, or have guilt, because at the time you didn't care. It didn't matter. You wouldn't have done anything different because then, it made sense. But then you have to live with the consequences when you do care. And it hurts that even though you feel different, and you'd do different things now that you care, they have no reason to believe that's the case. They don't see how big of a change there was, between not caring and caring. And a part of them will always wonder if you do actually care or if it's just a game. And that hurts too."

As he talks, she curls closer to the bed, taking Natalie's arm and pulling it gently into her lap.

"Okay," she says slowly, once he's done. "You're right. That does sound horrible."

"Human beings used to be insignificant to me. Even Arthur was insignificant at one time. I manipulated him to do what I wanted, to feel safe and secure and in control. And I didn't care that I hurt him to do it.

"Now, he's everything to me. And I have to hear the shadow of every shitty thing I did, all the things I took from him, all the twists of the knife I used, in moments that could have been perfect."

He looks to her.

"I don't regret Arthur. I'll never regret Arthur. But I regret not caring. I thought caring would cost me everything. But the truth is that it was not caring that made me lose something. I just couldn't see that while I didn't care."

Edited 2022-12-19 17:03 (UTC)

"I've never wanted to be like that," she says, curling her fingers against the skin of Natalie's arm. "Even when I've talked about getting better and better at not caring - I've never included everybody in that."

"Haven't you?"

He doesn't sound challenging. More trying to rectify two conflicting data points.

"What's the difference? In practice, I mean?"

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