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CHAPTER THREE man's world
⋆*✧･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ:
WHEN NADINE WAS younger, her father used to tell her that she was the most restless person he'd ever met. She always had to be moving, doing something—standing around had no value to her. This may have been the case for many other children, also full to the brim with energy, but quickly, Nadine's restlessness escalated to another level. Six, seven, eight, nine... those were the days she could barely stand in line at the grocery store for a couple of minutes before tugging on Beau's sleeve, or go only on the rides at theme parks with the smallest lines. And although Beau used to chide her for this ("Patience is a virtue," he'd lecture, a crease between his brows after Nadine whined about having to wait for the bathroom, or her food at a restaurant), it never stuck. Nadine would just stick her tongue out at him, because why would patience be a virtue when being patient made her miss out on so many things? In the three minutes she spent waiting for a red light to turn green, she could be going down a slide or eating a yummy treat or watching a fun-shaped cloud amble its way across the sky. There were endless possibilities, and it was obvious to Nadine that in the future, all of the time she'd lost would add up. It made her itch to think about.
As an adult, Nadine was certainly better at being patient than she was as a child, but there were still days she felt that same restless itch. November 15th, 1963—two years, one month, and fourteen days after she'd dropped into Dallas Texas, not that she was counting—was one of those days.
In the morning, she awoke burdened by the knowledge that it would be another day without the Umbrella Academy returning for her. It was such an exhausting thought that she nearly rolled over and went back to sleep, but with some internal prompting (a reminder that she hadn't missed a day in over a year now, and she didn't want to start now), she managed to garner the motivation needed to climb out of bed. The cherry-red clock on her nightstand ticked as she pulled on a pair of fuzzy slippers, and she glanced at it, reading the hour.
5:45 am. She had an hour and fifteen minutes before Molly woke up.
Enacting her usual routine, Nadine got changed, pulling on a man's jogging gear and tucking her short blonde hair under a cap. She used to run in her regular clothes, but after she'd discovered that running while dressed as a man preventing her from being catcalled (which could end badly, considering how Nadine's mouth often moved before her mind), she'd made the switch. It was unfortunate that she had to pretend to be someone else just to feel safe, but this was the '60s. It seemed that being yourself was something strictly frowned upon here.
After she'd gotten dressed, Nadine made her way outside, saying a silent goodbye to Molly, who was still asleep. Molly may have been the most responsible person Nadine had ever met, but she did have one vice, and that was sleep. In fact, she loved it so much that she set her alarm to the last possible minute, ensuring her just enough time (down to the second) to get up, make breakfast, and prepare for work. It was something Nadine could certainly respect. Before she'd gotten shot, she used to be a fairly heavy sleeper. Afterwards, she'd been diagnosed with acute insomnia. Even years later, she could never sleep as deeply as she used to, and chose instead to wake up early.
