Who: Convicted What: Reveal (and life-changing event thinger) Warnings/Rating: Language
Shit was fucked.
That was the first thing she thought when she found herself back in the studio, surrounded by familiar crap that suddenly felt like it wasn't hers. Which was fucking ridiculous, and she knew it was ridiculous, but jesus fucking christ, it felt like it was real. Or like it wasn't real. Whatever. It felt fucked up, and she wondered if this shit could just back up and stop for five minutes, just long enough that she could get her head screwed on right with more than temporary fucking twist ties or something. This city was complete shit for people who didn't know which end was up. With trembling fingers, she found her last pack of cloves, and she lit one and tucked it into her mouth. Opening the bottle of vodka took some more work, but she managed it with shaking hands. One fucking drink. Just one. Just to take the edge off. She took a long drag off the cigarette, and then she swallowed down the vodka quick enough to make her throat feel like it was on fire. It was nice. It was something to concentrate on beside the blood that wasn't beneath her fingernails, but that should be. She could still smell it.
Ok, maybe a second drink.
She dropped onto the old couch, and she smoked the clove so low that her fingers burned. She gulped the vodka down a second later, and she pressed the empty glass to her forehead. She didn't even want to call anyone, because the last time the hotel had pulled this kind of shit was when everything had spiraled. It had all fucking led to Ian, and she didn't even want to think about that. She didn't want to think about what she'd done, either, and she could remember loving every fucking minute, which just made her want to have some kind of mental fucking breakdown.
Breaking someone's nose was one thing. Killing someone and liking it? That was a whole new level of fucked up. And everyone already thought she was like borderline mental asylum candidate anyway. She couldn't own up to this shit. No fucking way. Someone would get the bright idea that she shouldn't be walking around with normal people, and there was no way she was letting anyone lock her away again. No fucking way. Not now, because now she knew that all it took was enough fucking money to drag her out from wherever she went.
Her fingers shook as she looked for her pot stash, and she rolled a joint and lit it. She puffed fast enough that the sweet smoke went straight to her head. And yeah, ok, that was better, yeah? All she needed was a few fucking minutes. A few minutes, and maybe another drink. But, no, because eventually someone would check on her, and they'd know something bad had happened if she was drunk. Half a drink. Just enough to get buzzed.
A half hour later, and the bottle was mostly gone. She'd gotten rid of the heavy jeans she wore, and her hair was pulled back in a messy braid. There was blue and red paint on her hands and knees and feet, and a there was a new slab of canvas on the studio floor, where a swimming pool with red, red blood was starting to take shape.
Sam didn't even notice when Gwen's constant mental disapproval left the fucking building.