Sent away in 1954 after the death of her parents, Eleanor Anderson is left to live in a mental hospital for her depression. 10 years later, her stay in Briarcliff Manor becomes more interesting as the infamous "Bloody Face" is admitted. Shortly afte...
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It had been a few weeks since the attack on the Walker home and things had returned to normal. Eleanor was sitting at the dining room table, a book and notebooks sprawled out before her. Now that the two kids were getting bigger and learning more everyday, Eleanor had made it her personal goal to teach them as much as she could. They were still toddlers but she believed that it was never too early to jumpstart their education and fully prepare them for school when they began. They were only learning the basics but it helped Eleanor feel more organized by writing down their progress and set up a pathway that they could take in the future. It looked like a lot to the average person, even to Alma, but it was only like this because she had two separate plans for two vastly different children. What Thomas may have been good at, Julia would struggle with or vice versa.
She leaned back in her chair and popped her neck. Her eyes set on Grace and Thomas who were sitting on the floor, a large blank piece of paper before them. Grace was fluently speaking to her son in French, a language he was quick to pick up on. She was happy to see that Grace was supporting her roots and sharing it with her son. She stood from her seat and looked at what they were drawing. Obviously, Thomas' were just random scribbles but it was cute nonetheless.
Grace caught her eye and smiled, "Thomas, peux-tu dessiner tante Ellie?" (Thomas, can you draw Auntie Ellie?)
Eleanor laughed and ruffled his hair, drawing his attention up to her, "S'il te plaît, prends mon bon côté." She joked. (Please, get my good side.)
"Okay!" He responded, excitedly getting to work on his next masterpiece.
Eleanor still found herself surprised at just how much French the little boy knew already. It took her years to become as fluent as she was and she still had trouble with it from time to time.
"Quel bon côté?" Grace jested with a smirk. (What good side?)
Eleanor gave her a sarcastic laugh, "You know, I'd insult you if the little ears weren't around to hear it." She said, "Can't even insult you in French anymore." She muttered.
"You love it." Grace said, turning back to her son after he pulled on her cardigan sleeve, "Wow, that's so good, Thomas!"
"I do." She responded with a smile, a fond look shining in her mismatched eyes.
She walked out to the front and pulled out her cigarette pack. She was quick to light it and take a drag. She watched for a moment as Kit was cutting wood for the fireplace, the axe swinging down on the stump with a rhythmic thud.
She decided to walk over to him and maybe chit-chat, or even help him out a little. He took a heavy breath after splitting another log and looked over when he noticed she was coming closer. He gave her a dimpled grin and held his hand out. She furrowed her brow in question and he chuckled.
