kate galloway; (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dedikated) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
hadriel_logs2016-05-20 08:47 pm
dedikated) wrote in hadriel_logs2016-05-20 08:47 pm
Entry tags:
( log two | Event/Post Event | no room to breathe )
Who: Kate + whichever unfortunate saps run into her.
What: Dream aftermath
Where: The clinic ; The bar ; random other places in Hadriel (aka wildcard option)
When: During and just after the event.
Warnings: Terrible experimental writing, many a reminder that Kate's username is not just for show, guilt complexes, blood, vomit, alcohol and probably a whole lot more.
1. C L I N I C
[ There is blood everywhere.
(On the floor on the walls on her clothes her hands--)
Her spine is rigid (inflexible like the bodies of the dead the dead all of them dead) when she wakes, shot upright in her bed as if electricity courses through her. Kate tears off the blankets with the urgency of someone trying to remove acid soaked rags from their skin, darts to the bathroom before her shaking legs give out, and collapses into the bath.
Water washes over her (when did she switch that on) from the shower head above and her nightclothes cling to her skin, stick there until she begins clawing at the hems to try and yank them off.
(Blood goes down the drain. Swirlswirlswirl it would be such a pretty pattern if it didn't stink of death and decay-) and she doesn't cry because (she never cries, as though her tear ducts haven't worked since she was an infant and in pain with skinned knees) the water scalding tracks down her bare back and across her face is enough wetness for today.
But she shakes and she vomits over the side of the tub and onto the clothes she'd thrown in a soaking pile and her hands claw against the porcelain and when she pulls back
(-red dripping never ending)
there's more.
When she leaves the shower (not clean yet, never going to be clean, never was in the first place), her head is spinning from the heat and the smell of bile and stomach acid lingers in the room, bringing more of it up before she manages to stumble out and into the coldness of her apartment and collapse on the floor, too tired (too wrecked) to get to the chair.
(Tick tock goes the clock)
And suddenly it's an hour later and her skin is dry
(and her hands are still so red-)
and her phone is blaring music (an alarm she never normally needs to hear) because it's time for work.
(It's time to let people put their trust in someone with more blood on her hands than the gods themselves.
A stupid decision, really. Who had ever heard of a reformed killer?)
So she gets dressed. She burns toast. She throws breakfast in the bin and hops on the nearest roof to head to the Clinic. She blocks out the sound of her inner monologue screaming obscenities in the whistle of full speed free-running and enters the Clinic through the office window. There is filing, cleaning to be done.
(There are people who will need patching up after their escapades in the caves, she knows
and her hands are still so red-
-Blood on your hands never really goes away. You wear skin coloured gloves or bleach your skin to pretend it never happened.
But it never really goes away.)
She picks up a bar of soap instead of a pen and scrubs scrubs scrubs as if she thinks it will make any difference. She swallows down lumps in her throat when someone enters the building and shakes her head like a cat shaking off water and pretends that her hands are clean. Pretends that there aren't visions of pools of blood and corpses swimming in her head.
(Just like every other day, right? The intensity doesn't change the course of action. Focus on things that aren't the blood and you'll be fine.) ]
2. B A R
[ Kate doesn't feel any more human
(because, of course, she isn't. Doomed to die sooner for the benefit of running faster and playing with obscure powers that should never have been hers. She is not the analyst who requires them-)
but she can pretend, for a few hours, that the dreams haven't completely shaken her to her core. That there is no war in her mind reminding her that repression of the issues is not dealing with them. She can hide those things behind indifferent looks and flat eyes just like before. Use words to keep them locked up from anyone who might see her and use alcohol to lock them up from herself.
One drink, the strongest you have in larger quantities than should be recommended.
She selects a stool at random and glances around, like she's actually here to interact. Because acting like nothing ever happened is far better than hunching into herself and hearing are you okay again and again. And the privacy of her own mind is all she really wants right now, after ten days of being plunged into the fears and anger of the minds of too many people. So she sips her drink and nods a greeting to the next person who passes by her seat. ]
3. W I L D C A R D
[[ bump into her while walking about. Find her apartment and crash it. See her stuttering outside the caves because food vs holy fuck I do not want to see blood for the next twenty years. Or figure out something else and hmu at![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
windlicht ]]
What: Dream aftermath
Where: The clinic ; The bar ; random other places in Hadriel (aka wildcard option)
When: During and just after the event.
Warnings: Terrible experimental writing, many a reminder that Kate's username is not just for show, guilt complexes, blood, vomit, alcohol and probably a whole lot more.
1. C L I N I C
[ There is blood everywhere.
(On the floor on the walls on her clothes her hands--)
Her spine is rigid (inflexible like the bodies of the dead the dead all of them dead) when she wakes, shot upright in her bed as if electricity courses through her. Kate tears off the blankets with the urgency of someone trying to remove acid soaked rags from their skin, darts to the bathroom before her shaking legs give out, and collapses into the bath.
Water washes over her (when did she switch that on) from the shower head above and her nightclothes cling to her skin, stick there until she begins clawing at the hems to try and yank them off.
(Blood goes down the drain. Swirlswirlswirl it would be such a pretty pattern if it didn't stink of death and decay-) and she doesn't cry because (she never cries, as though her tear ducts haven't worked since she was an infant and in pain with skinned knees) the water scalding tracks down her bare back and across her face is enough wetness for today.
But she shakes and she vomits over the side of the tub and onto the clothes she'd thrown in a soaking pile and her hands claw against the porcelain and when she pulls back
(-red dripping never ending)
there's more.
When she leaves the shower (not clean yet, never going to be clean, never was in the first place), her head is spinning from the heat and the smell of bile and stomach acid lingers in the room, bringing more of it up before she manages to stumble out and into the coldness of her apartment and collapse on the floor, too tired (too wrecked) to get to the chair.
(Tick tock goes the clock)
And suddenly it's an hour later and her skin is dry
(and her hands are still so red-)
and her phone is blaring music (an alarm she never normally needs to hear) because it's time for work.
(It's time to let people put their trust in someone with more blood on her hands than the gods themselves.
A stupid decision, really. Who had ever heard of a reformed killer?)
So she gets dressed. She burns toast. She throws breakfast in the bin and hops on the nearest roof to head to the Clinic. She blocks out the sound of her inner monologue screaming obscenities in the whistle of full speed free-running and enters the Clinic through the office window. There is filing, cleaning to be done.
(There are people who will need patching up after their escapades in the caves, she knows
and her hands are still so red-
-Blood on your hands never really goes away. You wear skin coloured gloves or bleach your skin to pretend it never happened.
But it never really goes away.)
She picks up a bar of soap instead of a pen and scrubs scrubs scrubs as if she thinks it will make any difference. She swallows down lumps in her throat when someone enters the building and shakes her head like a cat shaking off water and pretends that her hands are clean. Pretends that there aren't visions of pools of blood and corpses swimming in her head.
(Just like every other day, right? The intensity doesn't change the course of action. Focus on things that aren't the blood and you'll be fine.) ]
2. B A R
[ Kate doesn't feel any more human
(because, of course, she isn't. Doomed to die sooner for the benefit of running faster and playing with obscure powers that should never have been hers. She is not the analyst who requires them-)
but she can pretend, for a few hours, that the dreams haven't completely shaken her to her core. That there is no war in her mind reminding her that repression of the issues is not dealing with them. She can hide those things behind indifferent looks and flat eyes just like before. Use words to keep them locked up from anyone who might see her and use alcohol to lock them up from herself.
One drink, the strongest you have in larger quantities than should be recommended.
She selects a stool at random and glances around, like she's actually here to interact. Because acting like nothing ever happened is far better than hunching into herself and hearing are you okay again and again. And the privacy of her own mind is all she really wants right now, after ten days of being plunged into the fears and anger of the minds of too many people. So she sips her drink and nods a greeting to the next person who passes by her seat. ]
3. W I L D C A R D
[[ bump into her while walking about. Find her apartment and crash it. See her stuttering outside the caves because food vs holy fuck I do not want to see blood for the next twenty years. Or figure out something else and hmu at
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Watch old reruns of Three's a Crowd- I mean, c'mon- who doesn't.
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Shitty old tv they play reruns of a little too often if you ask me.
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Ah. [ And that would explain a lot. Even if it exists back home, she sucks at keeping up with the TV, unless it's the news left on as background noise in her office. ] Why watch it, then? [ The TV, in general. She's been in her flat in LA for a month and still hasn't got around to buying one. There's plenty of rooftop to run when she gets bored, though. ]
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Like Hell Dean is saying that out loud. ]
Because sometimes it's easier than the rest of the crap you've gotta do. I mean, watching someone else fuck up their life's got its perks.
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... but they're not talking about that, are they? They're just chatting about TV. ] Until it's all fixed half an hour later. [ She drains her glass and gets a new one with a quick gesture. ]