Work Text:
The man in front of her moved his brush with ease, gentle scrapes and strokes against the canvas contrasting the otherwise silent room making Franziska’s brain itch in the worst way possible.
…This was taking too long. She knew it, her “brother” knew it, and, of course, her father knew it. But nobody was acknowledging it, instead keeping their positions and composure, ice cold glares directed towards an unphased artist (who, admittedly, occasionally rivalled their intensity).
But, determined to set an example for her untrained ‘newfound companion who happened to be older and live in the same house as her’ (occasionally known as Miles Edgeworth), she continued to refuse to acknowledge it. As much as it pained her. As much as irritability was growing in her, scratching and poking beneath her skin. As much as she wanted to scream, tear her hair out, and kill the man in front of her.
One minute in and she was tired of being a role model for Miles ‘pathetic worm’ Edgeworth. At least, she thought it was a minute. The clock was situated on the left side of the room, at an angle that required her to turn her head to see. She tried to turn her spiritual head away from her physical body, so that she could see the clock with no consequences. She would deal with the ‘how to read a clock’ thing later.
This activity lasted her longer than the role model setting, at least, but as four year olds tend to do, she got bored eventually. She estimated about three minutes in. The painting man still wasn’t finished, and judging by the untouched blues that lay on his pallette, he wasn’t anywhere close to finishing.
She sighed and scrunched her face without thinking, von Karma ideals such as ‘painting etiquette’ and ‘thinking’ not fully instilled in her quite yet, hoping that this activity would allow her to feel something. Get rid of the excess energy that lay waste in her face. And her lungs. And her shoulders. And anything that would move as she commenced the most dramatic sigh and face scrunch in all of history.
And once she finished, her father’s jaw tightened, as did his grip on her shoulder. She could tell his jaw tightened by the sound of fabric moving from above her, and oh, what a sound it made, making her want to turn around and bite her father until he bled, not even caring about the consequences and disappointment she would face for moving, thus directly disobeying her fathers ‘do not move during the portrait’ orders. She just wanted this to be over. She wanted everything ever to be over. She was so tired of standing and being touched and being stared at. Franziska understood now how her dolls felt, trapped in a mahogany cabinet in the dark corner of her room, clawed at the waist by metal stands.
Unlike a doll, however, she was tired. She was so tired and so unbearably real. Her feet hurt, her knees weak, her hands shaking behind her back. She wanted to move again, but the lingering ache of her father’s grip and air of frustration stopped her. Franziska couldn’t do anything right, she believed. Her father wanted one thing, one nice family portrait, and she ruined it by giving in to human instincts. Weakness. And she couldn’t quite figure out why, with her cognitive thinking skills and cause and effect ideas barely formed, but the implication of being weak made her feel sick. Even sicker than standing made her feel, than the sound of skin against fabric made her feel.
She bit her tongue to prevent the sickness from continuing.
It didn’t work, not really, but it took her thoughts away from it, so it was good enough for her. And unbeknownst to her, that would be the last time her thoughts were untainted by familial perception, the last time anything would be good enough for her.
The man in front of her continued to move his brush, and the strokes still bothered her, as did the aching, but the pain in her tongue outweighed this. Pain would always outweigh anything.