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Sometimes she wonders what her name sounds like. She writes it on paper a few times a day, Ferguson, but at night she dreams "Governor! Governor!" or something else entirely.
Nobody calls her by her name. She forbids herself to speak it out loud in front of the mirror. Just to hear herself, to feel herself. Joan.
Who is that?
Someone calls that name and she lifts her head. Maybe it is in fact hers. "Joan?" Vera's voice sounds almost concerned, soft. Maybe her name and her self fit together after all, hearing her name from Vera's lips feels good, like it belongs.
And that cracks her heart open suddenly, too open, too much like breaking. Nothing ever belongs to her, nothing ever stays, why is it her name of all things that has the persistence, the insolence to stay, when she needs something else so much more – some –
"Joan?" A cool hand against her cheek, she looks up again, but the name taunts her now, does not want to give in, creeps steadily closer, takes everything, takes what she really needs – needs – needs – the always denied emotion is what seizes her completely now, makes her whole body shudder with pain. Yes, God, how she needs!
She needs – she cannot, will not think about that – she's so focused on that decision, that the emotion easily overruns her, possesses her. Twirls inside her like a raging beast and she feels more than she understands the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes, the silent scream erupting from her throat.
"Joan." Arms encircle her, press her against a small body and the name calms her now, settles gently against her fraying nerves, to slow her racing heart, to lull her into oblivion.
I am what you need.
And maybe Joan is right.