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She'd not expected this to happen quite so soon. Not as if she hadn't expected it at all, but she'd always resolved that her counterpart would have been a little more resilient than what she put forth--if not just plain bullheaded.
The two were closely related, one had to consider, and by Daisy's all but immaculate sense of logic, many of one's characteristics should reflect in one's identical twin. Was that not how they worked? Two mirroring halves of the same person? In her line of thought, this stood as a perfectly reasonable conjecture. Daisy Griffin thought herself to be both resilient and bullheaded; perfectly capable, she concluded, of handling a little personal stress and financial strain.
Her sister? Eager to disprove this theory.
Of course, Daisy found no necessity in taking into consideration the fact that she'd never had to concern herself with the afflictions of being a single mother, burdened with emotional conflict to the point where unorthodox methods were satisfactory, and all but financially downtrodden. She had an overwhelming sense of confidence that she herself could easily conquer these adversities--which was part of the reason why she'd been so generous to begin with.
That was not to say that offering her twin sister and her child a refuge in her own home was--simple. Living on her own for most of her adult life had been a pleasant experience: the rooms were quiet and orderly, the way she liked them, and no one was around to ask questions or create undesirable noise. She had a job, after all, and she'd found (almost on every occasion, though few and far between, she had guests in her home) that the presence of other human beings caused significant damage to the chaotic beauty of her paintings. This was a hardly tolerable crime.
Truly, guests were parasites, no matter how deeply they thought she cared for them.
Albeit, making herself appear patient and welcoming was no monumental accomplishment. She'd had just as much practice as she'd ever need.
Now she had herself arranged on the front porch of her isolated home, gazing out at the surrounding harlequin forest as if each tree and shrub were an estranged child. The day was dark and heavy with swelling clouds, but her eyes were shielded by a pair of dark sunglasses (The expensive type that people wear to make a scene more than anything. Daisy knew this.), and her pale golden hair draped over one sweater-clad shoulder. Cradled in one slender palm was a glass of Chardonnay (again, the expensive type), blood red against her white flesh. Her expression--though somewhat ambiguous--was most typical when other life dwelled from within her home--lips tight, almost frowning, but not quite. It was just as well; this was just about the most genuine emotion she'd be expressing for God only knew how long.
The two were closely related, one had to consider, and by Daisy's all but immaculate sense of logic, many of one's characteristics should reflect in one's identical twin. Was that not how they worked? Two mirroring halves of the same person? In her line of thought, this stood as a perfectly reasonable conjecture. Daisy Griffin thought herself to be both resilient and bullheaded; perfectly capable, she concluded, of handling a little personal stress and financial strain.
Her sister? Eager to disprove this theory.
Of course, Daisy found no necessity in taking into consideration the fact that she'd never had to concern herself with the afflictions of being a single mother, burdened with emotional conflict to the point where unorthodox methods were satisfactory, and all but financially downtrodden. She had an overwhelming sense of confidence that she herself could easily conquer these adversities--which was part of the reason why she'd been so generous to begin with.
That was not to say that offering her twin sister and her child a refuge in her own home was--simple. Living on her own for most of her adult life had been a pleasant experience: the rooms were quiet and orderly, the way she liked them, and no one was around to ask questions or create undesirable noise. She had a job, after all, and she'd found (almost on every occasion, though few and far between, she had guests in her home) that the presence of other human beings caused significant damage to the chaotic beauty of her paintings. This was a hardly tolerable crime.
Truly, guests were parasites, no matter how deeply they thought she cared for them.
Albeit, making herself appear patient and welcoming was no monumental accomplishment. She'd had just as much practice as she'd ever need.
Now she had herself arranged on the front porch of her isolated home, gazing out at the surrounding harlequin forest as if each tree and shrub were an estranged child. The day was dark and heavy with swelling clouds, but her eyes were shielded by a pair of dark sunglasses (The expensive type that people wear to make a scene more than anything. Daisy knew this.), and her pale golden hair draped over one sweater-clad shoulder. Cradled in one slender palm was a glass of Chardonnay (again, the expensive type), blood red against her white flesh. Her expression--though somewhat ambiguous--was most typical when other life dwelled from within her home--lips tight, almost frowning, but not quite. It was just as well; this was just about the most genuine emotion she'd be expressing for God only knew how long.