- (tinieblas) wrote in rooms, @ 2015-02-11 00:14:00 |
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Entry tags: | !ocean's eleven, *log, *narrative, cristián martin-argüelles, sam alexander |
[Narrative & Log in comments]
Who: Sam
What: A day
Where: Seven Hills, Ocean's Eleven
When: Nowish
Warnings/Rating: Regular Sam warnings apply, and some adult stuff in comments
Three days became four, five, and her shrink said no, and Sam wasn't surprised. She was anxious as fuck, yeah? Even with the meds, and they'd let up on those after the mandatory. No more restraints, no more head so heavy she couldn't hold it up. Still dressed in insanity white, but her door was wide open now, and that shit helped. The shrink had made that call, even though it wasn't policy, but Ian had locked the fucking door, and Sam had told her in a session with the therapist. So, yeah, the door was open, and the hall's gleaming blue floors were right the fuck there, and that made it better.
And she was cleaned up, yeah? She didn't look like she'd walked off the street anymore, and so the assholes that worked at the place treated her different. Like Neil's name mattered more than whatever fucked up shit she'd done to end up on their doorstep. The scrubs she wore were thick and warm, no throwaway shit, and little white buttons lining her shoulder and cuffs, like looking pretty in the fucking things mattered or something. Her long dark hair was in a braid, and she sat in the conservatory, be'socked feet on the seat of the chair and a chessboard in front of her.
The room was green, expensive tiles and expensive plants, and it was filled with rich girls and richer women, all looking like their lives were shit. She could hear them talking, yeah? My husband left me for... and I can't stand my parents! and I hear them talking to me... and I won't eat! You can't make me!
She was near the window to the courtyard, the plexiglass scratched from whoever had been there before her, and she was just one more in a succession of bitches that couldn't deal with what life dished out. She moved the chess pieces around with little fucking attention, and she thought about Micah. She was counting days, yeah? She wanted to count days until she was out. She wanted to count days until she could go ice skating, or ride a coaster, or find a new warm door to settle in. She wanted to have the balls to ask about Lou, or to check on Lin, but all she could think was Micah. In her mind, the seconds until Valentine's Day tick tocked, and it was like this thing she had to get past in order to survive.
Like if she survived that, it would be ok. And that shit was impossible to explain to the doctors, yeah? It made her sound paranoid as fuck, her insistence that this guy that didn't exist in this fucking world was going to steal her away on some fucking pagan holiday devoted to hearts and cock. Yeah, no, that hadn't gone so good.
She tried to tell herself all the soothing bullshit she could, yeah? Thanks to some nice fucker, she'd forget all about Micah, yeah? And if she did end up in some fucked up place on Valentine's, she could just grab his fucking cane and ram him in the balls with it. She wouldn't be scared, and she wouldn't be fucking paralyzed, and he'd just be some gimp old fucker with a sneer and an accent. She was younger, faster, and she could slam that cane against his fucking balls and get away.
She tried to tell herself that, and she almost fucking believed it.
Visiting hours were announced overhead, and she watched as the zombie women in the room came to life, like some kind of fucking automatons. They fluffed their hair and reached into their pockets for lipstick. They refused to see so and so, only to grab onto them and cry when they walked in. People sat, settled, like they were going to spend the sunny afternoon on the plush fucking couches. Like they were visiting houses, and it was only their uncomfortably darting eyes that gave them away.
They all had nice fucking shoes; that was how you could tell a rich asshole. Poor fuckers, even when they got something new to wear, they didn't waste money on expensive shoes.
On the chessboard, she made the queen dance around the king, callouses catching on her highness' crown.
A second later, she put royalty aside, and she picked up her journal and messaged three things: 1) How many minutes remained in visitation. 2) The Door. 3) The address.