Parker Ramsey, Speed Racer, (hereshecomes) wrote in repose, @ 2016-12-12 03:01:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | *narrative, pj ramsey |
Narrative: PJ Ramsey
Who: PJ Ramsey
What: Christmas Trees and Super Moons
Where: Her apartment
When: Now
Warnings/Rating: Nah
So maybe it looked like Christmas did throw up all over the garage, and the cars, and the fill up station. The inside of Parker's apartment was slightly better, the Christmas tree was a bit too big, but she made it work. Her mom's Christmas village was out on display, and she was spending a quiet evening at home drinking heavily and decorating her too big Christmas tree.
The full moon was the next night. The third Supermoon of the year. The third Supermoon of the year that she'd spend inside her barn unable to even see the damn thing let alone howl at it. There was a strangeness to trying to live her life normally, one she hadn't figured out yet, things she thought she wouldn't miss on account of not being stuck with a pack that wasn't so great. Things people, real people, couldn't possibly understand. So she downplayed them and did what she could to keep herself and others safe. It was a sacrifice she was happy to make. It was for the best, but it was still a sacrifice and sacrifices were supposed to suck and blow. So she was clinging to good things. Like decorating her Christmas tree and lit up garages and fill up stations, and being someone's Secret Santa.
Christmas carols were coming through the speakers on her record player, her whiskey was warming her belly, and her tree was making her dinky little apartment above the fill up station smell amazing, almost like being out in the forest. She thought about past Christmases in this apartment. She had never had one herself, but her father's first Christmas had been here. He'd been born in this apartment. That meant something to her. She was unwrapping ornaments that had been hung on trees over her whole life, some that had been hung on trees over her father's whole life. And one or two that had been hung on trees when her Grandmother was a young girl. That meant something too. She'd added a few of her own to the mix this year. A wolf howling at the moon. Of course. An Indian motorcycle. An El Camino she'd picked up on ebay. That one she snapped a picture of it once it was hung and texted it to Atticus immediately.