Journal Insight.

[Subeh]

​

"Thea, you'll never break through to her. As hard as you may be trying, she's yet to learn respect."
Johnathan, a some six-foot-three Scotsman garbed in grey dress trousers and a white shirt to match, said as he sat down in a leather armchair by a fire that roared and crackled. A circular shift of his wrist saw the whiskey in an ornate glass shimmer and swirl, glinting in the dull light.

"Oh, I'm aware, darling; painfully. As hard as I may try to instill family values into a ten year old, it's something akin to a foot's worth of steel. I don't intend on faltering, though."
Replied a woman of far more varying Anglo descent; an odd mixture, somewhere between Scottish and Irish. She too swirled an identical glass, though it was filled far more than her husband's. A pair of pale eyes glared into the nearby fire, thoughtfully, as she mulled over her methods.

"Mm. Despite our oversight of two cities between us, we never seem to be capable with either of them."
Sighed the man, sipping his glass moderately. His legs crossed and he too pondered the crackling fire, rattling his forefinger across the rim of the cup.

Beyond a curtain-covered window sat the bustling city, somewhere in Europe by the design of the surrounding structures. Blackened metal encased some, whilst others lay in ruin and many saw repairs at the hand of uniformed labourers. Amidst the city's struggle sat the two, blissfully aware of their feats in the face of majority-poverty; it bothered them little, on the premise they believed their work was the be-all-end-all of the lives below. The room they sat in was high-roofed, walled in bookshelves with some hundred-year-old furniture scattered across the room. What walls weren't bookshelf-lined are decorated in ornate wallpaper or paintings of varying design.

"You mistake their inability to listen as our 'failure' as parents; we've not failed at anything. They are ten and nine year olds, dear."
Mused Thea, shaking her head with a sharp smile that formed as she eyed the man over. A hand came back to let down her unnaturally dark blue hair, a far shot from her refined demeanour. She too sipped her drink.

"It's no excuse for their ineptness."
He harshly growled, setting the glass onto the table. Frustration bettering him, he stood, wandering to the nearby window where he promptly pried the curtains back and eyed the otherwise serene view of the totalitarian metropolis beyond the glass.

"You dare call my children inept again--"
Thea snarled, slapping her drink down.

"Well what would you call them, Thea? Disrespectful? That is the fault of US!"
John hollered, turning to eye her with a stern glare and a bent posture which lurched forward in a stiff and aggressive manner.

"Then we ADJUST, John. Insulting them is not going to do anything!"
Screeched Thea, disturbing the quiet even further. She paced up to him and despite being almost a foot shorter, she stood in front of him with an arch-back posture that came off as overbearing.

"-- I don't have time. Neither of us have time. We run cities, for God's sake!"
He hissed, only for his breath to hitch; a sudden realisation of what he'd just uttered. He, quite visibly, braced.

"AND WHAT RIGHT DO YOU THINK YOU HAVE TO USE THE LORD'S NAME IN VAIN?!"
...ouch.

Johnathan, realising he'd just forfeited any ground he had to argue, stomped over to the chair and took a hold of his coat; slipping it on, he made for the door. Silence hung between the two, the blue-haired Chancellor watching her husband as he stormed out of the tall door across the room.

"... what's inept mean?"
A gentle, feminine voice rung; across the room, a smaller door opened.

"Nothing, dear, nothing-- Father is... stressed."
Thea lied, stoically. She strode over to her daughter, a girl draped in a nightdress, with almost popping ginger hair.

"Why?"
Came the classical response, arms extending out and up toward her approaching Mother.

"Work, darling."
She said as she lent down, scooping the girl off of her feet and into her arms. Rocking the child back and forth with hip-waving movements, she tracked to the nearby armchair and sat down.

"Is it the mean man again? The fat one?"
Innocuously inquired the child, laying her head against the beating heart of her Mother.

"... no, sweetheart."
Thea released, amused by her assumption, though drowned in a subsequent melancholy as the reality seeped back in.

Silence ensued as the Mother cradled her child, rocking passively in an attempt to lure the small child into sleep once again; ten minutes passed and her attempts were successful, as the fiery redhead fell back into her interrupted slumber. Thea, not wishing to wake her child again, simply laid back in the chair and closed her eyes.

... insight, into what others may perceive as 'perfection'.