Let’s! Get! Sad!
Trigger warning for this story time: It contains examples of emotional, financial, and verbal abuse and neglect. Please take care of yourselves.
* * *
Pheobe was a baby.
She didn’t know anything much consistently. She knew the care of loving hands, but never the same hands, passed from person to person. She never wanted for anything except consistency.
*
Phoebe was a very small child.
The mandate of dwarfish society was that if there was plenty, no dwarf need suffer a lack of anything. And Phoebe didn’t want for anything, except…
Except that the various places she stayed didn’t seem to want to keep her. She knew that children who were friendly and bright and outgoing were instantly beloved and adopted, but Phoebe didn’t really feel the need to put forth much effort for people who did not first promise to stay. She would play with her tinker toys, quietly, and other children would come and go, and people didn’t stay. That was all right. She didn’t need anything else.
*
Phoebe was a child.
“What are you working on?”
The adult who sat beside her scared her enough that she dropped her wrench. “Oh!”
“Oh, sorry, sweetheart, sorry,” the adult said, sweeping the wrench off the ground and presenting it to her. “Here you go.”
Phoebe took it gingerly from their hand, and said, “Just something…mechanical.”
“What kind of mechanical?” the adult said, sitting down across from her at the table.
A small spot of curiosity entered Phoebe’s mind, popping up like a mushroom. Could this adult really be interested in her mechanical project?
“It’s a sort of…friend,” she said, barely a whisper. Carefully, she set the intricate little grasshopper on its legs on the table, and pushed the button on its head, hoping that this time it would work.
It sat on the table unmoving.
“Like a little doll!” The adult looked delighted. “Isn’t she pretty?”
The curiosity in Phoebe’s mind withered and died. They didn’t want to know. As she’d expected.
“No,” Phoebe said finally, and took her grasshopper back.
The adult waited for more and, when none was forthcoming, moved on.
*
Phoebe was an adolescent.
It had occurred to her one day, in a whirl of panic, that maybe no one would ever love her. She didn’t know why that was so important now, when she had been perfectly happy before, alone, but now that lifetime of loneliness stretched interminably before her, with no end in sight, and Phoebe was struck with a deep sense of dread.
And then the illness came.
Chronic illness could not be counteracted by a healing spell in the same way an injury could. Healing magic helped, and so did medicine, but the slow creep of disabling paralysis in her legs could only be slowed, not entirely prevented.
Eventually, after a year, she stabilized, but always echoing in her mind were the words of one of her many caretakers, spoken while they thought she was asleep: “Who will adopt her now?”
*
Phoebe was nearly grown.
In terms of education, Phoebe was unmatched. Her job training suggested not just a talent but a genius in all things mechanical, and she was picking up magic as well. She would have no trouble making a living as an adult, and her guardians felt better knowing this, especially with her…disadvantages.
For her part, Phoebe found herself chafing against the last few strictures of her childhood. She wanted to go out and do things and, in the name of safety, was not given opportunities. Dangerous but compelling experiments were kept from her. She found her crutches were not adequate, built new ones that suited her better, and then was not allowed to use them, because she had no medical training. She sought medical training, and waited.
At least if there was no hope of her being loved, let her be free.
*
Phoebe was an adult.
With her newfound freedom and the money to help, she took risks and learned and explored the city endlessly, quietly. She stuck out—anyone did, who was disabled—but she was easily forgotten and no one minded her.
With her appetite for freedom satiated, she found herself again wondering if she had to spend the rest of her life by herself.
*
Phoebe was alone.
A man bumped her drink. “Sorry, Miss.”
Phoebe clutched her mug with both hands to steady it. “It’s all right.”
The man looked at her properly, and then smiled. He had a pretty smile. “Say, you’re gorgeous. What’s your name?”
This was something Phoebe had never once been told. She wondered vaguely if the man was drunk. “I’m Phoebe.”
“I’m Miles,” the man said, smiling that pretty smile again. She liked that smile. “Are you from around here?”
“Miles!” someone loud in the crowd called out.
“Kind of,” Phoebe said into her cup. He’d be on his way soon, his friend was looking for him.
“Mysterious,” Miles said, chuckling a little. “I like it.”
“Miles, would you hurry up?” the loud voice demanded.
Miles threw a glance over his shoulder, and then looked back to her. “Can I find you later?”
A bit surprised, Phoebe said, before she realized what happened, “Yes, of course.”
*
Phoebe was in love.
“I was thinking of this place, once we’re married,” Miles said, passing a leaflet to her across the table.
Phoebe took a drink of her coffee and looked it over carefully. “I thought you were looking for places with workshop space, so I could do more work from home.”
“There is workshop space,” he said, pointing to a bullet point on the leaflet.
“I was hoping for something a little bigger than a shed, that’s all,” Phoebe said, apologetically. “Sorry.”
Miles went very still. “We agreed that the house would be in my name, didn’t we?”
“Yes…” Dread crept into Phoebe’s stomach. She hated when he did this.
“And this is the house I think represents me best,” Miles said with finality. “Represents us. Think about our reputation.”
Phoebe had no reputation, but she supposed that just proved Miles’ point. “I see, but—”
“Listen, I think you’re being a little ungrateful,” he said, deceptively gentle. “I put in a lot of work to find us this house and I think it’s perfect. I’m sorry to disappoint you on the workshop, but we can work on that once we own the place. Okay?”
His tone brooked no argument. She’d tried to argue with him, once, and he’d been so angry that he’d scared her.
“Okay,” she said.
*
Phoebe was married.
“Can you help me understand?” Miles said flatly.
He had overspent. This month had been slow for artificing, which Phoebe had reminded him of, a couple times, but he still spent money like usual and now they were in a small but embarrassing misunderstanding between two people they owed money to.
“It was just a slow month,” Phoebe said, hardly audible, because she knew it wouldn’t matter.
“I don’t understand why you don’t work harder,” Miles said. “Are you trying to embarrass me?”
“No, of course not,” Phoebe said, pleading.
“You’re just sabotaging yourself here, by driving me away, you know,” Miles went on. “I love you, but I don’t know if anyone else would.”
Phoebe bit her tongue.
“Do better,” he said, and walked away before she could even apologize.
This was no kind of freedom. But at least if she couldn’t be free, let her be loved.
Please, let her be loved.