When old lives die

by LouiseWolff

She's skin stretched over steel. Even her eyes, once so eager and alive, are now cold and hard. She's all metal. Nicked, scratched, bent and broken steel, mechanic. She's alive till the sun sets, dead when the moon rises. (Sam's musings post-Yamatai.)

11. Silence

We're moving out.

Father can't handle the unhinged miserable shadow of Lara Croft haunting his house anymore. His words, not mine.

He does not see what I see, I know that. To the world Lara Croft is dead, replaced by this shell that carries her name and legacy like a burden (more so than she did before). A shadow that people wonder about with their friends over a beer when they watch the news.

"Do you know what happened to that girl? The archeologist that disappeared in Japan and then returned all beat up and stuff?"

Nobody would know, so they'd shrug and move on to other topics.

I do think it would help. Maybe not telling the world, but... Telling me, or even saying it out loud to herself. What happened, what she felt, what she thought. The names of those we lost, the name of... of that place.

I know I'm not a therapist, I don't have the patience or the compassion to listen to other people's problems. I have enough of my own already.

And one of those problems is that Lara is not talking, and she needs to talk. I probably have the best bet of getting something out of her but... I don't know how.

One of my last conversations with father before we leave gets me a card with a name and a number. Now I only have to convince Lara to call.