Pamela is made of (hemlockandhoney) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-07-26 16:50:00 |
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Entry tags: | poison ivy |
Who: Brielle.
What: Reactions followed by some bad news.
Where: Her apartment.
Warnings: A little blood, a little sadness.
Slumped against the carpeting, Brielle took a moment to try and steady herself while in a crumble of poise on hands and knees. It was not uncommon to go weak and blind from exhaustion and empty stomachs during such endless dance classes, but that had been long ago. And despite the familiar drop in her cramping stomach, Brielle could already tell this was different. That water glass felt like a cool weight beneath her hand, something to focus on, to fight back the feeling of otherness that was creeping in. Maybe she did pass out, because that's what it felt like when the first memory rolled over her. The scene felt familiar to her even if the thoughts were not her own. She too had been bones and knees well into her teens, nonexistent curves that made her the ballet ideal. She remembers monkey bars, and she too remembers what it feels like to live in a house where you do not belong. Especially after her father died and her mother sailed way past the deep end with a beauty queen wave and a bottle of valium. It doesn't seem so very different, more distorted memory than dream, although part of Brielle knows that she's still awake because she can feel the cool glass under her hand still, the other still against the carpet. What happens next though is startling, the feeling of being grabbed, taken, explored for femininity. There's a scream caught in her throat when it comes to an end, going black with the yearn for revenge still lingering like a phantom in the back of her mind.
The next rides in quickly on the coattails of the last, not even giving Brielle a chance to stand or process the vivid hallucination that she thought might have been some distortion of her own childhood until the very end. This is nothing familiar from the start. The gun doesn't make sense, she doesn't know anything about guns, and Brielle tries to drop it, but her fingers only fumble over carpet because somehow this isn't happening, even if it is. She sympathizes with the weeping woman waiting for her bullet, and Brielle whispers in frantic, chaotic French(in a room where nobody hears her), that it is going to be okay. The slap feels real even if the voice and the hands and that ridiculous hat are not hers. Distantly, you feel Ivy pique with crawling interest about the bowler's hat, and she laughs in Brielle's head at the sight of the bat wings, although Brielle sees nothing funny about the situation when the knife is pressed against the woman's skin. She's been held at the end of enough knifes and guns and belt buckle threats to last a lifetime.
She thinks it is over, but the world tilts again into something new. Something without guns or knives or men in vans. There is no fear in this darkness, only the soft hope of young love and lightheaded sanctity of being stoned, although Brielle has little familiarity with that subject. It's gentle and sweet in the planetarium, the dance and the promise of projected stars above. The oui gives Brielle pause, wondering, but it is not her. She knows that for a fact even as it coaxes a soft smile. This is a memory she would not mind having at all.
The feeling of being high wanes, but the smile remains, making Brielle almost forget about the previous memories. The fright, the strange thrill. But this one is different, the razor is somehow the first sign despite the pattering of rain on the windowsill and the shabby apartment. These are not her hands, and Brielle whispers a soft Wait as if he can hear her before the blade begins to dig in. She feels it, all of it. The sharp, quick twitch of metal. So sharp that it barely stings until it is over and the blood comes free as fresh squeezed juice. The rain on the cut rinses away the blood, but it still stings. Brielle closes her eyes to escape it, not the pain of the razor, but the pain of this heart. The hopelessness, the worthless pursuit of a life unenjoyed. She knows what that feels like, to just go on through the motions and endure the worst because it feels like she deserves it. Even with her eyes closed, she can see the razor coming again, and this time, when it digs deep, she doesn't make a sound.
When it comes to an end, Brielle thinks that it is all over, whatever in God's name it was. Her right hand hurts, and she glances down to where she'd been palming the empty glass, which now rested in crushed, bloody fragments against the carpet. Hissing, she pulls back her hand to examine the single shard that protrudes from her palm. Digging it free, the blood runs in a skinny line down her wrist and it makes her reflect on the razor. She idly wonders if it works, pushing yourself so far into the pain that nothing will hurt again. Brielle turns the glass over in her hand, examining it thoughtfully while looking at the pale interior of her left arm. But she was wrong about it being over, and Brielle drops the glass when the next memory washes over her. It's confusing, all names and thoughts that don't cohere for her except for the mention of Ivy, who is carefully silent throughout the momentary glimpse into a confused, angry girl's world.
Brielle doesn't understand this one at all, and Ivy continues to offer nothing on the subject. To Brielle, it looks like something out of a movie, the fire, the suit, the technology. But it's the deep weight on his shoulders that she understands, the burden, the responsibility, the want to do right while somehow failing.
The final memory leaves Brielle screaming. The gush of blood over her hands -- no, not her hands, but she felt it. She felt the anger and the rage like nothing she's ever known, the justice that came from slashing through the man's throat with that blade. But the sight of it makes her ill, and Brielle scrambles into the kitchen to wretch and dryheave against the sink while simultaneously praying for it to be over. She doesn't know how long this has gone on, but it somehow feels like forever. Tears stain her face and blood coats her hand from the broken glass, she feels clammy from some sort of shock. It is the jangle of her phone that finally stirs Brielle away from the kitchen with shaky steps. She answers, trying to keep her voice steady.
Obviously unsuccessful, the man on the other end hesitates, "Ms. Gentry, are you alright?"
She swallows, roughly forcing the quiver in her voice down, "I'm fine.."
"Well, I called to tell you one last thing. Although I am no longer your legal counsel, I did some digging into the possibility for your restraining order, and.. I'm sorry, but frankly I advise against it."
Shocked, Brielle is forced to take a seat on the carpet, blood still dripping from her fingers. "What? Why?"
"Apparently there is a warrant out for your arrest in New York, felony arson.. you.. set a public building on fire, ma'am." He sounds apologetic, but dismissive at the same time. "If you go in to file a restraining order, they might just put you in a jail cell, sweetheart. Just a heads up." Then click. Brielle stared at the phone for a moment, still overwhelmed from the memories to even fully grasp what the man on the phone had just told her. She turned her green eyes to wall, vacant and processing. Numb to the point that she didn't even feel the cut in her hand, not at all.