Isabella Foster
I like a look of agony
because I know it's true
H
e looks like the boys that come to our library and sit quietly in the corner, as if terrified to touch anything they shouldn't touch, they don't say anything, as if so nervous of saying the wrong thing. They are the street boys our family finds and they say, with those so generous smiles. “We will give you an education, we will give you a job.” And they take them in and let them stay in boarding houses. They pile pressure on them in the shapes of books and essays written on Foster paper. They say be successful so we can show the world how great we are. He reminds me of these boys and girls, these children, he reminds me of them before they were broken and the spirit of the streets still lived in their eyes. A grin tries to hide on his face, but the sharpness of my steel gaze catches it. “Okay then, I won't say it,” I say with something like a smirk, although it does not reach my eyes. “Not until you deserve it.” There is something in the way I say it, that says this may be hard won, though not impossible.
I hold the papers open to him, eager to share the work I had done so far. Maybe, for the sake of my last name, I should be offended by what he says, but I only look at him from the corner of my eye. “Or rather, wish never existed,” I say honestly, bluntly. I rove my eyes over one last time before folding it closer to me.
“And what is your time worth, Caspian?” I ask him. I don't think of this as anything more than a business exchange, what else can it be? “You know what I need from you, what is it that you need from me?” I ask. There is plenty I can give him, plenty my family can give him. I have learned from being a Foster that there is so little in the world that is done for free. Good will is only done if good for both.
picture colored by Elidhu
@Caspian
