Heidi Petrelli (walks_again) wrote in parabolical, @ 2008-10-06 22:02:00 |
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Entry tags: | heidi petrelli, narrative, peter petrelli (future) |
who| Heidi Petrelli
where| The Hyperion; LA
when| Late Evening or Early Morning.
what| Everyone copes differently.
status| Narrative and Complete.
rating| PG
For an Apocalypse, Heidi Petrelli thought as she paused at the bottom of the stairwell to shuck her shoes, this one was certainly taking it's time.
The cold floor on her sore soles made her wince, but it seemed inconsequential to other ped-pain she could still remember. Her sensible shoes had long become impractical for the minutely to-and-fro jog from place to place around the hotel, though it was through no fault of their own. Barefootedness would have only resulted in a faster track to similarly sensationed drawbacks, with the additional risk of vomit falling directly on her feet, but in the non-quarantined first floor, it was a blessing to strip down to socks.
Hooking two fingers into the heels, she carried them with her across the empty lobby to the desk. She couldn't swear to who's shift it was, and she found herself greatful to them reguardless. A moment of solitude was likely long overdue, and putting it off seemed wasteful when the oppourtunity had already arisen. Setting the shoes to the side of the desk, she ducked under it and after a moment, and rummaged until she located the radio she had tucked away for Claire and Gabriel to make use of on slow days. Sure, they had their iTunes and tunePods and Windows Winamp Version 5.5 (She thought of them this way, despite being perfectly up-to-speed with the media-related applications found on the modern computer, because it made her feel old. She liked feeling old from time to time--it prepared her for old fogeydom and helped stave off future midlife crisises.), but Claire had smiled when she found it, and that was what mattered. After rubbing off the bit of dust that seemed to gather on anything (or anyone) in the hotel that didn't move at some point over the course of the day with the hem of her shirt, she switched it on, and fiddled with the dial until she found a familiar voice.
"Well, that's unsettlingly well-timed." Heidi said to the noones that were there, and setting the radio on the desk, took in the sight of the empty lobby. She moved into the first two notes of the song, but found the energy and will to dance thoroughly absent and came to a turning stop. Her skirt settled lifelessly around her knees, legs stationary while she moved her arms to first pinch the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, then press the heels of her palms against her eyes. They were the part of her that ached the most, if one discounted the bruises of emotional battery, but that was understandable. They'd seen alot the past few months, and even more in the still heavily present days. Bodies were unusual, but nothing new. She'd been to funerals and the like, thought Nathan and Peter dead, and her father's health had been in a slow decline since college (Had the Apocalypse found New York? Delilah always drank tap water. Was she sick right now? She should call. She could call, if she trusted herself not to slip and tell them everything.); but watching a baby die, and finding fresh bodies of friends still warm in their beds was an entirely seperate thing.
She gathered a large bushel of air into her lungs, and then exhaled, one hand dropping while the other ran over her face, stopping at her mouth to hold in a small, hysterical laugh accompanied by a hiccup. Heidi had been doing her utmost to maintain a low-level, continuous calm for Peter, and damned if she was going to see it slip. Opting for fresh--or as fresh as it could be, with the physical embodiment of Pollution wandering around to muck up the atmosphere--air, she went for the doors. It was only a Yellow Lockdown--A talk to Peter about colour-coding would be called for when this was all over, she mused--which meant her goal was achieveable without setting off every beeping, screeching, ringing, or flashing bit of machinery from the lobby to Mars. She took care to remain on the hotel-side of the treshold, head resting on the cool metal doorframe, enjoying the bit of balmy breeze that made it over the courtyard walls.
At the desk, Neil Daimond told her how they both were subject to the blues now and then, and she agreed.