I'm not gonna lie; this is definitely not my usual fare. For one thing, one-shots have never been my thing, and this is so incredibly short it can barely even be called that. For another, angst is definitely not my cup o' tea, but there really is no other characterization for it. Lastly, Addison is the most totally rawkin' awesome character to ever grace a television, mostly 'cause she's so insanely kick-ass. Naturally, angst and Addison don't equate in my highly-biased point of view. So basically, the question is: what in the world led me to write this extremely not-me fic?
Well, I blame the muse who looks suspiciously like a cackling, miniaturized version of Tomo-chan from Azumanga Daioh who kept on wondering why there isn't more fiction depicting Addison's youth around 11:45 last night. Ahem, anyway…
In the vein of the show, I'm borrowing the title from a Jack Johnson song that sounded sorta-kinda appropriate, even though it could quite possibly just be in my head.
Oh yeah, in regard to Grey's Anatomy ownership and all that, I got nothing (aside from two lovely seasons on DVD).
All that aside, thanks for clicking on the little blue link and enjoy, yo. By the way, reviews are much appreciated…just to throw that out there. (Wow, it's pretty bad when your Author's Notes are nearly as long as your actual story…cough)
Sitting, Waiting, Wishing
March 19, 2007
When you were five-years-old, you didn't understand divorce. You just knew that your father was suddenly and irrationally out of your life except for Thursday nights and every other weekend. It made you wish for a brother or sister to fill the void where his piggyback rides and games of Hide-and-Seek used to reside, a void which your mother so inadequately filled.
When you were fifteen, you didn't understand why the world around you didn't notice. Beyond your awkward, gangly frame, and beyond the braces, pimples, and glasses, you were quite sure that you were someone people ought to know. After all, you threw yourself into your flute and studies, and you always made sure to raise your hand before anyone else. It made you wish for a friend to fill the void of Friday and Saturday nights spent alone in your much-too-large and much-too-empty house.
When you were nineteen, you didn't understand rejection. You were going to college two states away, and nobody knew you before your perfect hair, perfect makeup, and perfect life. You had too many friends and too many guys to choose from, so you tried not to dwell on the fact that not a single one was real. It made you wish for a man to fill the void that couldn't be ignored with the boys who were out of your life as quickly as they were in it.
When you were thirty-nine, you didn't understand what you did wrong. You weren't positive when his impossibly blue eyes stopped staring into your muddy green ones, but you automatically assumed that it was your doing because your husband was as close to faultless as humanly possible and you were so lucky to have him. You tried everything to make him see the person he had married eight years ago, but it became exhausting to put on the plastic smile. It made you wish for someone to fill the void where furtive glances up towards the gallery during particularly daunting surgeries and lazy Sunday afternoons you both spent in bed just to listen to the rain outside used to lie.
And when you were forty-two, you finally stopped trying to understand the world around you. You finally stopped wishing to fill the void altogether, other than to hope that Joe would fill up your glass sooner.
Fin.