|dahlia is a total (kayo) wrote in repose,|
@ 2015-11-28 22:05:00
|Entry tags:||*log, brett trent, dahlia haight|
Trailer Park: Dahlia & Brett
Who: Dahlia & Brett
What: In need of a Good Samaritan. And probably a hug.
Where: The trailer park.
When: After midnight.
Warnings/Rating: Cutting for swears. Rest TBD.
Staggering up the two steps to the front door of the trailer, Dahlia propped herself up against the door and just leaned there for a second, trying to get the world to stop drunkenly spinning for two seconds. Sniffling loudly in the cold, she dug out her keys with her stiff fingers from her pocket--and promptly dropped them. Unsteadily sliding down to pick the key chain up, she wrenched back up with soft griping on fogged breath and tried to put them in the lock...only to find the lock wasn't there.
Dazed, she tried a few more times, the scraping key-on-metal sound continuing somewhat optimistically. (What if the lock decided to show up after all? Maybe it was just running late.) She didn't realize she was leaning on the handle of the door, where the lock actually was. She didn't realize that her keys still wouldn't have worked, regardless.
She didn't realize this wasn't her door at all.
It was dark, well into the chilly blackout of twilight. The trailer park wasn't particularly well-lit with its half-heated attempts at street lights between plots here and there--so the fact that Dahlia, disoriented and absolutely shitfaced, was actually standing several plots down and trying to break into a darkened trailer that wasn't her own? Didn't quite register.
Not a lot had, recently. Most of this week had passed her by from an impenetrable bubble of apathy--presumably, her asshole brain's misguided way of saving herself from how much she hated this time of year. Being one of few employees who hadn't requested time off for the holiday, she had cycled through wake up, go to work, crawl home, sleep fitfully over the last few days with little variation on the theme. However, after the third or so night of being forced to numbly listen to patrons whimpering about being alone on the holiday weekend after getting caught cheating on their wives or what-the-fuck-ever, Dahlia had hurriedly scribbled out an I.O.U. to her boss on a coaster and stuffed it into the register.
She then dimly remembered huddling out back after closing, sitting in stale cigarette butts on the frozen asphalt while shotgunning part of a fifth of something cheap she'd lifted from the stock room. It made her throat burn and her stomach roil and her eyes water but that, at the very least, kind of felt like a feeling.
Her memory got blurry quickly after that. Though the trailer park was a just short walk from the bar, how she had managed to make it that far without being hit by a car or sliding into a ditch was, in of itself, a small marvel. So there she was--remnants of a whiskey bottle clutched in one hand, mashing her keys into metal siding with the other--all while swearing under her breath for another miracle like some kind of profane prayer: Jesus fucking Christ, where the fuck is this lock, fuck this, just let the fuck me in, it's so fucking cold, fuck everything, blessed fucking be, amen.
Divine intervention couldn't come fast enough. In increasing frustration, Dahlia thumped the side of the trailer--which still wasn't her own, no matter how badly she wanted it to be right now--with a fist.