| [Seeking A Watcher -- Kris/Corbett Interaction] |
[30 Oct 2005|01:38am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 blank |
] |
Kris had returned home, cleaned up and tried to sleep. Sleep hadn’t come to her so she had paced the apartment and when that hadn’t tired her out to the point of passing out, she had slipped on her boots and slid her jacket on over her shoulders.
She had so much going on in her head and so many things that had gone unsaid that she just need to stretch her legs and get rid of all that nervous energy. Her legs carried her through Searchlight and back to the apartment which housed the two Watchers she was close to.
Kris tried knocking but no-one answered so she stepped back and settled herself down against the pavement to wait. She drew her legs up and settled her arms across the top of he knees. She sighed as she leaned down and settled her chin against her arms.
She ached from head to toe and yet her physical pain could no way compare with the turmoil taking place beneath the surface. Rhiannon worried her and she didn’t know if there was anything she could do to help her and her father weighed heavy on her mind.
Kris closed her eyes and took to resting her forehead against her arms. She focused on calming her breathing and trying to clear a very loud and generally confusing head, one thing at a time or she was liable to go insane.
She just hoped that Corbett would be home soon.
|
|
| Mania |
[30 Oct 2005|09:57am] |
The water runs clear and cold over my fingertips. The lower half of the sink basin is filled with pink suds. I rub a thumb around the cuticles of the opposite hand, and free the dried remnants of lawyer’s blood with detachment.
In the corner of my eye, I see the switchblade. It shines silver and imperfect from the lid of the toilet. For a moment, my hands go still beneath the spray. Forgotten. I can’t take my eyes off the blood. I picture what it might’ve looked like from the inside. Her stomach warm and pink and secure, suddenly torn open by the tip of my knife. A peek of dim light allowed through the gaping wound, and then more as the knife rips upward.
I should’ve slipped my fingers inside. Touched her like no one’s ever done before.
The drain makes a gurgling sound. I turn back to the task at hand; Cleanliness, for the sake of appearances.
Once my hands are unbloodied, I bring my fingers to my shirt hem and peel upwards. Bit my bit, the white skin of my stomach is exposed, and along with it, the abrasions from street pavement. I pull the fabric up and over my head, then toss it by the door. My pants follow suit. The cotton blend is harder to peel past old wounds.
In my bra and panties, I survey the damage in the vanity mirror. Grime combines with scabs to mar my neck and chest, and a faint bruise colors my shoulder an unhealthy purple. A souvenir from the scuffle with Kris. I run my fingertips across it, turning partway around to see how far it goes. I feel a smile coming. I wonder if she can count my fingerprints around her neck. Maybe Matthew can assist.
Cupping my palms beneath the stream, I let them fill with chilled water, and lean close to splash it over my face and neck. Over and over, until my skin gives birth to gooseflesh. Trickles of clouded water run the length of my torso to puddle in my navel.
When it’s done, I use a cloth to towel away the moisture. I leave the cleaning of cuts and scrapes for later. Impatience has made me half-hearted.
I flip the light switch and wander into a dark hallway. An open laptop provides the apartment’s only illumination. On its screen, an electronic article posted to the Beacon Online. “Famous Diamond Missing After Museum Heist. Police Search for Suspects.” It’s really something what you can do with an internet connection.
Open boxes and a kennel line one wall of Joseph’s bedroom. My things. The only ones I’ll need until this is done. I kneel beside an open lid and begin to riffle through layers. My fingers search for the faded material of an old sweater, a pair of jeans, and worn tennis shoes. Not a hunter’s clothes, but a woman’s. Where I’m going, they’ll need to see me as harmless. Another pretty girl who heard too much. Got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Blah, blah.
I catch sight of myself in his mirror. If the clothes feel strange, they look alien. Too soft, too regular, like a college student on break. Utterly at odds with the hysteria I am on the inside. I sort through the jumble of keys, money, and weapons on his dresser and pull out an elastic band. Coax my hair into a ponytail and give it a firm tug.
The smell of his skin is fading from bed sheets. He’s been gone too long. I walk over to twist my fingers in the corner and close my eyes.
It’s like this sometimes. Fighting off the anger that surges to life in my chest, and breathes fire into my heart. It’s all I can do not to crush every solid thing within reach. To break my own bones, if nothing else presents itself, just to hear the satisfying sound. To scream, dig my nails into my neck, and claw the skin right off my chest.
Maybe I will. But right now there isn’t any time. I have a date with the LVPD.
|
|
| The Squeaky Wheel |
[30 Oct 2005|12:19pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
blank |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Ghost of You - My Chemical Romance |
] |
Even now, all these years later, what he remembers is the creaking noise.
He and his parents were living just outside of D.C. at the time, close enough that his mother could get to her job in a law firm but not in the city itself. He remembers that Corrinne was at work that afternoon but he doesn't remember why. She'd been ambitious even then, not content with her position as a legal clerk, having higher goals in mind. If she wasn't at the office, she brought the office home.
But none of that matters. What matters is the sound of the creaking.
Even at eight, Oliver was a strange, vaguely unhappy child who went to private schools at his mother's insistence and didn't socialize well with other children. He was bright and liked to read, but his teachers had difficulty making him cooperate in group situations and often noted that if something weren't done about his attitude it would turn into a more serious problem.
They didn't know the half of it.
( November 18, 1992 )
It was ruled death-by-misadventure. Despite his frequent bouts with depression, Saul Jerzyck had given no sign of being likely to commit suicide, and with no note left behind it was eventually declared an accident and left that way. Oliver wore a suit for the first time at his funeral, the tie uncomfortable and the shoes a half-size too large. He didn't cry, didn't even seem to realize where he was. On the inside, though, he was screaming.
Screaming and still hearing the creaking sound.
|
|
| Murder in Miami (Eighties Style) |
[30 Oct 2005|07:41pm] |
-- 1984 --
"Juh-juh-juh-jitterbug." Two snaps of long fingers.
"Juh-juh-juh-jitterbug." Another two snaps. Her hands clasped behind her back, shoulders straight, head turned to the left side. The sleeves of her white jacket pushed up to the elbows, slacks perfectly creased down to her white pumps. Her pink blouse open and fluttering in the breeze. Deanna felt the thump-thump-thump of the beat reverberate in the soles of her feet. Nighttime in Miami. The electricity of the life around her entered every pore.
( You put the bang-bang-bang into my undead heart )
|
|