Yes they all fucked up, but no one fucked up how she did. She hadn’t failed Vanya just when they were kids - she had ruined her life. She had made her believe she was ordinary. Allison never talked about Vanya’s book, never commented on it despite how insistent the press had been when it came out, but she had read it. Had absorbed everything that she had said, how her label of being ordinary had essentially put her on a course that had sent her spiraling. And, while Allison hadn’t been that decision, she had been the pawn to do it. She had no idea what she was doing at the time, but it had been her nonetheless. She deserves this silent hell she’s in, she knows that. She just hates that it took Vanya losing it for all this shit to come to light.
There’s a brief moment as she waits for Klaus’s response that she changes her mind, and she’s ready to shake her head. She’s ready to tell him to forget it, that they should go back inside or maybe they should smoke another cigarette even if she’s still feeling the agonizing aftermath of the first. She won’t be able to talk to Claire, or Patrick. She won’t be able to say a damn thing. And it’s not like they can see her - which is probably for the best, but it’s giving her a sudden glimpse into how life will be now that she doesn’t have a voice.
At the same time, though, if this is their last night on earth... If this is it, how can she even pass up an opportunity to hear their voices one last time? For a brief moment her features twist as she looks away, the internal agony she’s in unable to be hidden, because she wishes she could be home with Klaus, Patrick, and Claire. She wishes they wouldn’t have come, that they could have ignored the damned sense of obligation that Reginald had ingrained in them and that had made them hop on a plane despite their promises to never return to New York.
None of those wishes change anything, though. They’re here, they’re stuck. Their whole lives have been flipped upside down, the fucking world is ending, and...what else is there to do?
Even if the temperature is surprisingly comfortable, she still finds herself shivering as they walk to the booth, feeling the way her stomach twists and turns painfully with dread. She pushes her way as deep into the phone booth as she can to give him space, but for a moment she just goes still. What can she even say? Her hand shakes a little as she writes, but there’s a sense of resolve in her face as she does so.
We’re just calling them to say goodnight. No goodbyes.
She can’t go there. She can’t think about that, can’t accept that the last time she had hugged her daughter would be the last. She can’t accept that she can’t even say that she loves them, that she’s so sorry.
no subject
There’s a brief moment as she waits for Klaus’s response that she changes her mind, and she’s ready to shake her head. She’s ready to tell him to forget it, that they should go back inside or maybe they should smoke another cigarette even if she’s still feeling the agonizing aftermath of the first. She won’t be able to talk to Claire, or Patrick. She won’t be able to say a damn thing. And it’s not like they can see her - which is probably for the best, but it’s giving her a sudden glimpse into how life will be now that she doesn’t have a voice.
At the same time, though, if this is their last night on earth... If this is it, how can she even pass up an opportunity to hear their voices one last time? For a brief moment her features twist as she looks away, the internal agony she’s in unable to be hidden, because she wishes she could be home with Klaus, Patrick, and Claire. She wishes they wouldn’t have come, that they could have ignored the damned sense of obligation that Reginald had ingrained in them and that had made them hop on a plane despite their promises to never return to New York.
None of those wishes change anything, though. They’re here, they’re stuck. Their whole lives have been flipped upside down, the fucking world is ending, and...what else is there to do?
Even if the temperature is surprisingly comfortable, she still finds herself shivering as they walk to the booth, feeling the way her stomach twists and turns painfully with dread. She pushes her way as deep into the phone booth as she can to give him space, but for a moment she just goes still. What can she even say? Her hand shakes a little as she writes, but there’s a sense of resolve in her face as she does so.
We’re just calling them to say goodnight. No goodbyes.
She can’t go there. She can’t think about that, can’t accept that the last time she had hugged her daughter would be the last. She can’t accept that she can’t even say that she loves them, that she’s so sorry.