I do not own Scorpion or any of it's characters
I originally wrote this as my perspective of life but I had to put it somewhere so here we go...
enjoy(:
Toby had made each member of the team write a memoir of their younger selves. A lot of healing had to be done between the six of them and they knew it. Where better to start than their childhoods? He was adament and wouldn't shut up so they unwillingly agreed if not just to get him to shut up.
Happy sat at her desk tapping her pencil against it's surface. Though reluctant and unsure, she began to write.
Happy Quinn age sixteen foster home one hundred:
She very reluctantly wakes up to four white walls appearing gray in the 8:00 am morning light. It sinks in before she even opens her eyes that her haven of dreams has ended. Every time she fearfully cracks open an eyelid to find it is still the dark of night she is flooded with relief. But that wonderful occasion is often scarce. She's forced to enter reality that consists of a gray selfish world. Even if there had been a spot of sunshine it would have been a futile attempt to mask the desperate earth. With a sigh she sits up in her bed that is too small and older than she is twice over. She grunts quietly at the worn blanket beneath her body acting like a sheet bunched to the side of the hard uneven mattress. The window behind her paints a grieving street of black pavement and hollow houses. Evergreens stood tall casting a shadow over the unloved home making their universe seem without hope. She was beginning to wonder if there really was a sun anymore. Her anxiety told her she had already slept too long and fearing what might happen if she didn't get up immediately. But her bones were tired. Not because of the restless night or the labor of yesterday, but the people made her cold. And the cold made her tired.
With a sigh she ran her fingers through her untamed hair pulling her kness to her chest from under the thin lumpy covers. She turned hanging her legs off the bed landing her feet on scratchy carpet that when clean was more comfortable than the sorry bed she sat on. It was rarely clean. Her eyes landed on the shallow closet that held stained hand-me-down clothes and weary ripped shoes worn day after day. With a stretch she stood, hardly noticing her sore creaky muscles anymore.
It wasn't all bad, she had her imagination. It would be what got her through the day and she was happy with that. If reality didn't please her she would create her own.
She threw on a hoody that kept her warm enough as long as she kept the long sleeves over her knuckles. One leg at a time she scrunched on the jeans that knew they would be worn.
She looked at herself in the excuse of a mirror to almost resent her flesh and blood. She would trade anything to be invisible and fade into her surroundings. Despite that she didn't look too bad. Her God-given traits could've been a whole lot worse. Sparkling eyes decorated her fair skin of symetry. Bright pink lips stood out nicely and though her hair could often be wild she grew to appreciate the way it sat across her shoulders.
She hesitatingly opened the chipped door to the cold tile hallway. The greenish yellow walls and decades old light made the air look dirty. Heavy unconcerned feet stomped down the stairs shaking the unstable floors. Every step riddled her heart with years of trained fear as his drooping aged face came into view.
For almost every person she tried to second chances and the benefit of the doubt. After all she knew better than anyone that you never know what someone was going through. But she just could'nt help it, she was nothing less than repulsed.
A pale blue sweatshirt sat stained with a few bleach stains on the sleeves, his pants were denim jeans a little too long for his short stature. The little gray hair that he had left was slicked back matching his patchy thin beard. Everything about it was too familar. She couldn't find one thing about him that didn't make her cringe with disgust. Maybe it was because she'd seen him every day of her existence, or maybe it was just him.
She could see behind his muted eyes his brain looking for something wounding to say.
"I know there's a great reason the dishes didn't get done last night because I know when I ask you to do something you always do it.", he said with a creepy smile of unfiltered manipulation. How could he think she couldn't read right through him?
"Oh I'm sorry it's just that um yesterday was a long day and I was so tired I just forgot.", she responded knowing he hated that reply. Any reply she could've possibly given would've been viewed as an abnoxious excuse from a lazy delinquents mouth. No matter how hard she tried through every fake smile, laugh, chore, sweat and meal, he would always see her as not good enough. She still didn't know why she cared if he thought she was but she figured it was just so she could prove him wrong.
"It's just nice to come down to a clean kitchen that's all.", he said going into the living room. The big bright translator across his forehead read 'you don't work hard enough and not nearly as hard as I do so you had absolutely no excuse for not doing them. Your only purpose to me is to clean and cook and get done what I ask you to get done when I ask you to get it done. How hard is it to just do what your told?'. This translation really wasn't speculation, she knew him better than he knew himself.
Despite her prayers he picked up the conversation once again. It was one sided as he either went on about what he planned for her to do that day and/or some political drabble about the government.
She stood still in the hallway as he sat on the other side of the wall. She closed her eyes taking a quiet sigh for her own sanity. His presence just reminded her that almost every trial, every bad thing in her life was because of him. Even if he didn't directly cause it, his absence would make them bearable. She couldv'e handled most things if he didn't completely drain her with his mere existence. And maybe it was naive but she wanted everyone to happy. She thought it possible. Maybe because of this innocence she was quite aware of, was what fueled her disdain for him. Every hateful word that dripped from his emotionless lips aimed to crush her hopeful spirit. That person within her that had love and mercy fought hard now not to allow in malice. It was the irony of it that bothered her.
She walked into the kitchen deciding whether to eat or clean first, her anxiousness chose the ladder.
As she scrubbed or washed her mind often wandered. That's really all it did. She had so much emotion about the things she loved, maybe almost too much. But to the life she unwillingly moved through it had been too much to bear. It had been too much for so long it used to break her until she felt shattered beyond repair. Over time she decided to shut it off and out. In many ways it numbed her which was mostly a gift to her crippling stress. And she knew someday when she was happy she would turn it back on, but for now there was no alternative. Life still stung her soul but it was nowhere near how it used to.
Down the stairs now came a softer pair of feet. The short red headed woman continued to be an unsolveable puzzle. She too was a victim of the life she led and though she performed many actions towards her no one could deny as love, with it was also neglect. Despite her indecisive thoughts she decided the woman of more trials than most, deserved love. She would give it the best she could.
As for herself that she often over analyzed, she was sure of herself that was certain. She knew exactly who she was though she couldn't say the same for her understanding of the world. She felt almost too superior to everyone else, like she was on a whole other level seeing the world from a clearer perspective than all the other drones that call themselves people. She thought of them as surface level thinkers and cogs in the universe of work and sleep. Though at the same time she felt that they all knew something she didn't. How did they know exactly how to have a conversation? They all seemed to have the set of rules and guidelines that apparently she missed. Did everyone receive a copy of 'Being a Human and the Ten Easy Steps on Being Normal!', but her? Oh well, she told herself she didn't care. Having no friends was preferable to faking a smile and pretending to care about other people. For the most part that was relatively true. But she often wondered if it was as nice as they made it seem. To have friends and succesful conversations and relationships. She shrugged at the thought, it didn't really matter because she had herself. Who else was there?
A few hours later of pencil and pens scratching against every desk on the slow Scorpion way, everyone seemed to be about out of words to write down.
Toby asked if there were any objections to reading them aloud. Though there was immense hesitation, no visible action was taken.
One after another made a surprisingly weepy garage. Any tears stayed tucked in at the eyelids, but they beckoned.
Sylvester and his home of militance and ignorant parents. Walter and misunderstanding parents as he juggled too much intelligence for a child to hold on their shoulders. Cabe with the loss of a father and memories thought never to stop haunting him. Paige and her elusive criminal mother and poor heartbroken father. Toby and his mentally sick mother, unloving addict father and a pennyless lonely home. Happy was last making every friend stain the cement garage floor with wet remorse.
It seemed this bunch was not blessed with nuclear families or crusts cut off their lunchbox sandwiches. The sad misunderstood innocence of a child genius in an intolerant world was rough to say the least. And even Paige and Cabe didn't have it very easy at all either. The therapy was effective they had to admit.
The neglected children were now being nurtured and heard. Nothing could be more healing than that.
