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With a bit of contempt shrouded by his smile, he swings the pendulum again and hypnotizes you once more.
“You were quite resistant, my dear Valerie. Not for long, however, so listen carefully: you are a very docile girl.”
“Docile...?” You ask, shocked. “B-but I’m not-”
“You’re talking out of turn, dear! You’re docile!”
“I’m d-d-d-docile?” You ask again, worry in your voice. Though you were modest, you always were a bit assertive and had quite the colorful personality when someone really got to know you. Plus, you were assertive in other ways, like when you went to the Women’s March or ran for student government or told your mom you didn’t want to go to community college or asked your soccer coach last year why you weren’t playing as much. You were soft-spoken, sure, but you were extremely active! Docile sounds like such a slap in the face, but you don’t have it in you to resist that insult...
“Docile, docile, docile. You are quite docile, Valerie.”
“I’m...docile...” you agree rather quickly. For once, to your shock, it felt so nice to just agree and to not have any resistance, but your head hurts so badly.
“Valerie is a passive, compliant girl.”
“I’m...a passive and compliant girl...” you say with a long sigh without any hesitation, and it was true. You were so unassertive, but that was just who you were. That’s why you don’t have a bunch of friends, as what they see is what they get when it comes to your compliant, quiet personality. You were a feminist but were afraid to put yourself out there to march. Your mom told you community college was your only option, and you accepted it. You didn’t run for student council and you accepted your lack of playing time on the soccer team despite being a starter last year. You weren’t one to argue...ever.
“Good girl,” the man says. “You’re cute.”
“I am cute...” you say robotically, your face and body adjusting ever more slightly to give yourself a more attractive appearance. You knew you were cute...but you would never go after a guy you liked. Hopefully they came to you.
“You aren’t all that modest, actually,” says the man, his words not stopping.
“I’m not all that modest...” you say, your dress becoming a colorful top and shorts. You liked to show off your body. It was that simple. But if someone told you you were a slut...maybe they were right.
“And...you’ve got short red hair,” says the man, seemingly satisfied.
“I have short red hair,” you say, your hair now fitting that description. Everyone said you should grow it out and dye it blonde, and they are probably right in saying that you’d look better with it like that, but you just like it like this for whatever reason. You never even liked long hair.
The man smiles at you genuinely this time.
“You were quite resistant, my dear Valerie. Not for long, however, so listen carefully: you are a very docile girl.”
“Docile...?” You ask, shocked. “B-but I’m not-”
“You’re talking out of turn, dear! You’re docile!”
“I’m d-d-d-docile?” You ask again, worry in your voice. Though you were modest, you always were a bit assertive and had quite the colorful personality when someone really got to know you. Plus, you were assertive in other ways, like when you went to the Women’s March or ran for student government or told your mom you didn’t want to go to community college or asked your soccer coach last year why you weren’t playing as much. You were soft-spoken, sure, but you were extremely active! Docile sounds like such a slap in the face, but you don’t have it in you to resist that insult...
“Docile, docile, docile. You are quite docile, Valerie.”
“I’m...docile...” you agree rather quickly. For once, to your shock, it felt so nice to just agree and to not have any resistance, but your head hurts so badly.
“Valerie is a passive, compliant girl.”
“I’m...a passive and compliant girl...” you say with a long sigh without any hesitation, and it was true. You were so unassertive, but that was just who you were. That’s why you don’t have a bunch of friends, as what they see is what they get when it comes to your compliant, quiet personality. You were a feminist but were afraid to put yourself out there to march. Your mom told you community college was your only option, and you accepted it. You didn’t run for student council and you accepted your lack of playing time on the soccer team despite being a starter last year. You weren’t one to argue...ever.
“Good girl,” the man says. “You’re cute.”
“I am cute...” you say robotically, your face and body adjusting ever more slightly to give yourself a more attractive appearance. You knew you were cute...but you would never go after a guy you liked. Hopefully they came to you.
“You aren’t all that modest, actually,” says the man, his words not stopping.
“I’m not all that modest...” you say, your dress becoming a colorful top and shorts. You liked to show off your body. It was that simple. But if someone told you you were a slut...maybe they were right.
“And...you’ve got short red hair,” says the man, seemingly satisfied.
“I have short red hair,” you say, your hair now fitting that description. Everyone said you should grow it out and dye it blonde, and they are probably right in saying that you’d look better with it like that, but you just like it like this for whatever reason. You never even liked long hair.
The man smiles at you genuinely this time.
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