ooc: My brother broke his ankle in three places yesterday and I’ve just gotten back from the hospital D:. I’m so sorry about the para, Mary but hopefully I’ll get it done in a minute. I dunno how long I’ll be here until I have t’leave again, though.
And also I feel like I haven’t been here in ages, so to everyone:
The baby doth cry too much, me thinks | Thomas
Though Mary’s head no longer pounded with the echoes of a weeping mechanical baby, she certainly could have been in a better place hangover-wise when she finally rolled out of bed and cleaned herself up from the goings on at the Black Lake the night before. If she had things her way, she might have stayed in bed for the rest of eternity with as sluggish and sick as she felt, but that wasn’t an option as long as this stupid project was still going on.
Mary cursed herself the entire way down to the Great Hall where she would reluctantly be reunited with the devil’s spawn that was their piece of evil plastic. Why had she taken Muggle Studies again? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been raised by muggles for more than half of her life, or even thought herself to be one until the age of eleven. This must have been some sort of divine punishment for the misconception that this would be an easily passed class.
Walking as slowly as possible, the frown growing more and more prominent on her face with each step closer to Thomas and that cursed fake baby, Mary finally reached the Great Hall and walked over to the Ravenclaw table, nearly collapsing next to him. “Morning, baby daddy,” she groaned, an elbow resting carefully on the table as her hand cradled her head up. “I’m assuming you’ve slept none and want to kill me for leaving you with it?” Mary tried to give him a smile to ease the discomfort, but it didn’t come out very convincing. “Sorry, Thomas.”
Thomas looked at her out of swollen, dead eyes, his fatigue written plain on his face. He rocked Atticus Ringo numbly, having cradled him along his forearm, tucked against his warm stomach. “Oh. Hello, Mary.”
Thomas looked away from her and back at his food, trying to summon the energy to pick up his fork and start to stab things with it. He was sure he looked a state. He had on the same clothes he wore yesterday: the same ink stained shirt that was crumpled from having been slept in and was wet on his shoulder from Atticus’ over active spit glands, the same tie that he was sure was knotted in such a way from Atticus pulling it that he’d never get it off.
His voice was monotone when he spoke, “Did you know, Mary? That Atticus enjoys vomiting? Did you know that? Well, I do. Do you know why I know that?” With wide, crazy eyes Thomas turned to Mary again, “You don’t want to know why I know that! You don’t want to know the things I’ve seen!”
Atticus started to keen because of Thomas’ raised voice so, nearly in tears, Thomas started to rock him again, half singing, half humming a lullaby that sounded more like something you’d hear in a horror film than in a baby’s nursery. It seemed to placate Atticus, though. Thomas had noted this as the first sign of Atticus’ true satanistic nature.
I’m so tired.
Because he’s a little demon shit hell bent on giving me bags under my eyes. Why does he hate us? Why?!
I just d’na can! The bair’n couldn’t gi’ us even one hour, could he?
(Source: thomasedgecombe)
I’m so tired.
Why does Atticus Ringo MacCombe chose to sleep as soon as it’s time for me to get up?
