[ She looks up at him, and for a moment there's almost a look of exasperation on her face, like she thinks he should really clue in on the fact that she has no idea what he's even talking about. There's a strange tinge of fondness to the expression though, like she's clocked the fact that adults are just like that. She gets the gist though, either way.
She's not always good at listening, either. Very selective, in fact, in what she chooses to hear and what she chooses to listen to. He tries to teach, and she likes that, even if his students sometimes don't. Eleven has no love for adults who do not explain.
Her fingers rub over the inside of his wrist for a moment, almost disappointed, but not really surprised. His offer though... that makes her eyes snap up, big brown and intense, boring into his eyes. The idea of being understand without having to struggle through words appeals. There is a hunger to be understood, as much as she is terrified of being seen.
There's a memory that flits across her mind immediately; a girl's voice: We will always be monsters to them, do you understand?
It overlaps with other voices - a grown man, several children, yelling: What is WRONG with you?
They ring in her mind with unfading clarity. The lessons she learns from those around her. From those she loves, and those she listens to. From those who matter. Not all lessons are taught on purpose by those wanting to teach, and yet some lessons are learned regardless.
Eleven inches closer into Charles' space. Pushes up her own sleeve, shows him the inside of her left wrist. Black ink on her pale skin: 0 1 1. ]
no subject
She's not always good at listening, either. Very selective, in fact, in what she chooses to hear and what she chooses to listen to. He tries to teach, and she likes that, even if his students sometimes don't. Eleven has no love for adults who do not explain.
Her fingers rub over the inside of his wrist for a moment, almost disappointed, but not really surprised. His offer though... that makes her eyes snap up, big brown and intense, boring into his eyes. The idea of being understand without having to struggle through words appeals. There is a hunger to be understood, as much as she is terrified of being seen.
There's a memory that flits across her mind immediately; a girl's voice: We will always be monsters to them, do you understand?
It overlaps with other voices - a grown man, several children, yelling: What is WRONG with you?
They ring in her mind with unfading clarity. The lessons she learns from those around her. From those she loves, and those she listens to. From those who matter. Not all lessons are taught on purpose by those wanting to teach, and yet some lessons are learned regardless.
Eleven inches closer into Charles' space. Pushes up her own sleeve, shows him the inside of her left wrist. Black ink on her pale skin: 0 1 1. ]
I'm Eleven.
[ The words come with brief flashes. Unbidden, not pushed to him on purpose. White tiled corridors and fluorescent lights. The beeping of machines. A row of numbered doors.
A man's voice: Eleven, are you listening? ]