Logs:Alternative Communication
| Alternative Communication | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2021-10-20 "Did you stop talking when..." |
| Location
<PRV> Isra's House - East Village | |
The facade of this quaint rowhouse has been restored to its early 20th-century glory, and the interior is coming along nicely, too, with meticulous gold detail in the white wooden moulding contrasting with black galaxy granite flooring. The entry hall spans the first and second floors, pillars and openwork staircase drawing the eye upward. The living room and the dining room opposite are both newly furnished with gorgeous handmade pieces, all rich dark wood set with mosaic stars whose grain is so reflective they look like organic gems. The dining table is long and oval and ringed with matched chairs of different designs, to accommodate a variety of body shapes. The white sofa is plush with low backs, shaped like a crescent moon that curves around a circular coffee table.
Knock-knock-knock. The rap on the door is a courtesy -- before anyone could possibly have a chance to respond, Kitty is letting herself in through the still-closed door. She's dressed for the unseasonal balmy weather in a red graphic tee (this one reads "This shirt is blue if you run fast enough”) and a light black hoodie over skinny jeans and slip-on mesh runners. She's looking considerably better than she did a week ago, though there's a little bit more gauntness around her cheekbones than normal. There's a green backpack slung over one shoulder. "Isra?" She calls into the echo-ey space. Her brows are furrowed together in concern. "You still alive in here?" It's a moment before Isra appears at the balcony of the second story landing. Her wings, patterned like a clear starry night sky, are pulled in close and layered around herself like a cloak, the hem of her green wrap dress below them swirling with the movement of her swaying tail. The rest of her is, for a moment at least, utterly still. And then she blinks and tips her head slightly, gesturing Kitty up the stairs. She lingers long enough to be sure her guest has begun to follow before turning back toward a double door that had been left open on the crescent shaped landing. Through it is an octagonal library that spans the second and third levels of the house, sumptuous but not stuffy, its furniture ornate and plushly upholstered in deep pile burgundy velvet, a wealth of cushions to go around, a glossy antique writing desk tucked in one corner, and a sideboard by the door. A spiral stairway on rails runs along the shelves all the way up to a barely visible landing high above. Isra scoops up a large tablet from the low table and sinks down onto a recamier beside it, one wing unfolding to drape around one of its scrolled arms, the other loosely covering her lap like a throw blanket. Just visible beneath the petal sleeve of her dress, her upper arm is wrapped white gauze. Kitty stalls for a second while taking off her shoes, but then trots up the stairs to join Isra in the library. She sets her bag on another chaise, about to unpack when her eyes light on Isra’s wound. Sucks in a tight breath and goes to Isra’s side immediately. “I — did he bite you? I’m sorry for asking but if he did we need to call Leo like right now.” She already reaching for her phone, unlocking it with her thumbprint and opening recent messages. Isra flinches at Kitty's sudden movement, though the quiet growl that rumbles deep in her chest fades as quickly as it started. She shakes her head, points at one of the sharp talons tipping the phalanges of her wings, then draws the same finger across her chest and arm, indicating the path of the injury. The fingers of her other hand splay open loosely, and she taps the thumb to her sternum. That soft growl again as she takes up the stylus instead, and, waking the tablet, taps one of the many, many colorful buttons on its screen. "I'm fine," says the tablet, in an even neutral alto voice that is very much not Isra's own. A different button, "I cannot speak." It takes her a moment longer to find the one which appends, "Now." Kitty's eyes have gone wide now, not at the tablet or the injury or the sharp sharp talon but at Isra's flinch away from her. "Okay," she says slowly, setting her phone down. "If none of his blood or saliva got in it..." She looks to Isra for confirmation on this point. Looks down at the tablet. "I've -- I don't think I've ever --" She frowns. "Did you stop talking when..." Kitty glances towards the gauze. Isra shakes her head and taps two buttons in sequence. "Not. Me," says the tablet, as though they were two complete sentences. She cocks her head slightly at the truncated question, following Kitty's sight line to the bandages. It's another full second before she nods, small. Her expression, even more neutral than usual, does not change, but her long pointed ears press down and back against her head. She points at herself, holds out one hand horizontally, gesturing as most people do to indicate a child of that approximate height, then adds, using the tablet again (again, at a delay as she hunts for the right word), "Before. I cannot speak." "When you were a kid." Kitty nods, though she still looks uncertain. "But you learned, obviously, but now you can't talk again." Her tone lifts up at the end of the sentence, question-like. "Has this happened before? Since you were small?" Isra nods her confirmation to Kitty's interpretation. The question, though, just draws a sort of blank look. She looks down at her tablet and contemplates her options before finally selecting one that says, "I have autism." She shakes her head, ears flicking forward and then back again, the tip of her tail twitching fast. She opens a menu that gives her a composition field, dragging some words to it from the large selection on the screen and tapping out others letter by painstaking letter. "I am autistic," the tablet says on her behalf. "Speech therapy did not change that. Sometimes it is hard to speak. Usually not this hard." "Right, no, that makes sense, just --" Kitty frowns, bites her lip. "I think the question I asked wasn't the question I wanted an answer to. I think what I meant was -- what's making it hard to talk right now?" A pause, then -- "It's just -- fucked up shit has happened before, happens all the time, and you've not taken leave from school before." Isra cocks her head much harder to one side, which makes her still-neutral expression look highly quizzical. She sets about slowly assembling another sentence on her screen. "My brain is not good at processing verbal communication." The unnatural cadence of the speech software becomes more obvious the more words she strings together. "That makes it hard to talk. Right now impossible. I cannot go to school like this." This doesn’t appear to be what Kitty was looking for, either. She sinks down to sit on a nearby surface, eyebrows furrowed. “Hive showed us what happened the other night. Part of it, anyway. I thought — maybe that was why you weren’t at school?” Isra considers this for a moment. Then starts composing her halting reply on the tablet. "Not hurt much. Scared yes. But I'm fine." After further consideration she adds, "I thought soon talk again. No. Even typing hard." "I was scared, too." This comes out soft, almost a murmur. "Rabies is really fucking scary." Kitty glances to the tablet, to her abandoned bag. "I can try to run interference with your supervisor until your voice is back? Would that help? I want to help." Isra goes very still, the only motion her chest rising and falling with her breath. When she responds she taps the words rapidly one after another, not bothering to assemble them for (comparatively) smooth delivery. "Before. I. Not. Know. He. Sick. I. Scared." A soft growl rumbles deep in her chest, barely audible. "Now. I. Know. Now. Sick. Done." She hesitates, wings curling inward ever so slightly. "Safe. Now. Should. Go to school." “Done?” Kitty frowns even more. “What do you mean Done. Done being scared? Like you can still be scared even if you know why that happened, right?” One of Isra's starry black wings hitches up minutely before rustling back down. She goes back to composing her sentences piece by piece, typing out the words for which she cannot immediately find macros. "Done being sick. I am scared of many things, and still go to school." Though she looks very much like she has more to say, her stylus just hovers above the tablet, unmoving. With a quiet but probably viscerally frightening snarl, she lifts her other hand and signs, 'He would never hurt me like that, never!' Even to someone who comprehends none it, there is anger in the jerky movements of her hand before she drops it, eyes downcast. Slowly, she picks out the words on the tablet, which says, as placid and neutral as ever, "He would not hurt me, in his right mind." Kitty leans back away from Isra, eyes wide and frightened. “What — slow down, please —“ she is clumsily trying to simcomm this, trying to follow Isra’s signs at the same time. Drops her hands to listen, nods her head sadly. “I had it too and it’s — the disease takes over. It wasn’t him. I don’t know if that helps at all. Doesn’t change what happened.” Isra's ears press back against her smooth, hairless head. 'It helps,' she signs, slowly now. Then taps out on the tablet, "He did not hurt me bad. Others, yes. I should be there for him. Now." She looks back up at Kitty, meeting her eyes very briefly. 'You ok?' This is more or les just gestured, perfectly comprehensible to most non-signing Americans. “I’m glad.” Kitty says, hands resting on her lap. “If you can be there for him, that’s — good, and I’m here for you, yeah? In my own clumsy way.” She’s begun to smile, tight and sad, when Isra asks. The smile freezes for a moment before Kitty chokes on a single sob. “No. I’m not. I’m sorry.” Isra is getting less awkward--or, at least, faster--at using her AAC app by the minute. "I don't know. If I can. Be there. For. Him," the tablet says. "Should. But. Scared." She puts down the stylus, and it magnetizes to the side of the tablet's portfolio case. Regards Kitty with no discernible change in expression. But the wing that had been draped across her lap lifts and stretches out. Even less than half unfurled it extends easily past Kitty, startling, perhaps to those who mainly see her wings folded in for navigating indoor spaces. The last two long, long phalanges curl around, loosely but clearly an invitation to the other woman. “Yeah.” Kitty’s voice is wet, as are her eyes as she gamely fights to hold back tears. “It’s so scary. I — I’m so sorry I came over for you —“ Kitty sniffles, looks at the stars in the pattern of Isra’s expanded wing. She leans into the curl of the wing, the next sob bubbling out of her throat. Isra gently gathers Kitty over to sit beside her. There is a certain slow precision to this operation, though she gives no sign of reluctance. The soft leathery membrane of her wing is warm where it drapes over Kitty's shoulder, the talons tipping each phalanx bright like polished hematite and carefully tucked to avoid scratching. It takes her a while to compose a reply on the tablet. "No sorry. Scared. Okay. Maybe we eat brownies. Watch Cosmos." “Eat brownies, watch Cosmos,” Kitty repeats, sagging against Isra’s side and wing, voice trembling. “That sounds good. The opposite of scary.” Another wet sniffle. “And maybe later, we can be scared together.” | |
