hypoesthesia
« by arsenous elation »
—
in varying degrees
(2)
Her tantrums come down upon them like a typhoon.
No one is exempt, even the guards who are a room away. Kurapika feels Neon's screams reverberate in his chest as he waits it out with the others. Demanding, grating. In contrast, Light Nostrade's voice is tremulous, weak, trying to appease his tumultous daughter. A butterfly wing's whisper against the hurricane.
Kurapika finds that there are a few wrongs in this two-person family. A daughter who is left on her own too much and a father who does not know how to be a father. A family that does not how to be one.
The doors open and Light Nostrade strides out, his face showing cracks from age and frustration. Once more, this mafia lord flees from his daughter.
Kurapika contains the small sprout of annoyance within him, grinding it to dust, shelving it in the cracks where his ire cannot reach (nothing else should be allowed to grow). A dysfunctional family is better than none. He stands outside the room now, catches a glimpse of Neon before the doors are closed.
She wears a look that the bodyguard recognizes, is familiar with. It is a look that he himself has worn long ago.
Neon Nostrade is still a child.
(but what of him?)