Maggie D likes to play (fastandloose) wrote in rooms, @ 2014-07-19 16:24:00 |
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Entry tags: | !sons of anarchy, *narrative, maggie donovan |
Who: Maggie Donovan
What: Narrative, coming-to.
When: Immediately post TWD boot-out.
Where: Sons of Anarchy
Warnings: References to rape, violence.
She came to with sand mingled with blood in her mouth and she thought she'd gone back five years. Five years and new bruises cresting the angry yellow of old ones in layers, the dull taste of pennies thick in her mouth when she woke and her breathing thick as humid nights. She remembered five years: beer bottles littering the kitchen counter-tops, the lazy comfort of drinking away the bad taste of her own attempts at cooking. Knuckles against her cheekbone. She reached for the sheet, the heat blistering over her bare back, to twist herself into the poor comfort of sheets, to find the pillow not getting up yet except her spread hands found more sand and dirt instead of comfort and she rolled the hell over and her body parts screamed at her in concert. She knew without looking that she looked pretty ugly right now, an echo of broken noses in the hasp of her breathing through crusted blood but she didn't give a shit about the superficial. She didn't know where the fuck she was, and she was pretty sure finding anywhere else to be rode on getting picked up by someone who knew where all this dust and sand belonged - and doing that wearing panties and someone else's blood was likely to get her locked up. The journal, that was a few feet away. Notebook, with the pencil thoughtfully shoved into the cracked leather spine and she scribbled a note to family, to the rest of those she'd been in lock-up with but the world didn't give a crap if you came at it as a group, you stood a better chance of sneaking in under the gaps alone, and she was alone right here, right now, with a town in the middle distance, but far enough on hot sand Maggie knew it would hurt like a bitch to try. But there was nothing dead in the middle distance. Nothing that walked wrong and smelled wrong and she wasn't food and everything ached but there, and she thanked god for that, not Jack, and mostly because the thought of an ER with clinical sympathy and plastic evidence bags for a man she knew would never do time for it, made her more tired than the rest of it. She walked. On bare, blistering feet, she heaved herself up out of the sand, and she walked, blood drying black behind her. She walked toward the road, because the road held danger but the road led to town and she knew from years of desert in the backyard that the desert was more danger than anything else. The first truck blipped past without stopping, music in the back-draft, and the second skipped on by too. The air was heavy and she was sticky, black-crusted with the death of one man whose name she didn't know but she kept on walking. The third car, it was a low-slung saloon and a woman driving and she figured that was why she stopped. A woman with a lifetime's worth of fast-food wrappers in the back of her car and that made Maggie want to smile because familiar, except she didn't think she could. She let the woman flap, and she said no thanks to the hospital, because wherever the hell this was, she didn't have goddamn insurance, and she leaned her head against the cool glass of the window and listened to the radio tinkle in the background, someplace called Charming as artificial cool air blew over her bare knees. And when the woman drew up alongside the hospital anyway, she bailed someplace between the admitting ward and the bathroom, opened doors until the flash of carpet and the hallway beyond said hotel instead of some place in Southern California, and when she hit dusty carpet, she backed up to the wall and slid on down to sitting. And then? She wrote her brother. |