Judy Martin (boston_bitch) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2013-02-19 01:59:00 |
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Entry tags: | sister jude martin |
Who: Jude Martin
What: Dreaming (Narrative)
Where: Her flat
When: Afternoon of 2/18, after a nap
Warnings: PG13? Death and drunkenness.
Status: Complete
She's able to ignore the tremor in her hands as she moves around the dressing room, snapping cases shut and shoving things into her purse. The bottle of tequila she smacks down on the end table, figuring she'll save the last of that for later.
She isn't the singer anymore? They didn't want her around? Fine. No big fucking deal. Wasn't like it was the damn bass player they came to see. The band'll be shot without her.
Judy staggers in her long skirt, picking up the squat train case from her chair with difficulty. The neck of the bottle goes between her third and fourth finger, splaying out awkwardly over the case, thumping against its plastic side. The liquid sloshes, and she wants to toss it at the dingy wall, but she'll need a drink later.
She'll go home, have a nap, get her shit and see what happens. Fuck Terry and his moralistic shit! It isn't like she's a drunk. It helps with focus. It helps her be on. It isn't the same at all.
Now up, behind the wheel of her big car, starting the grumpy engine and hearing it rev twice. Judy smiles grimly, making sure the lever's in reverse before backing out.
The roads are deserted; it's dark and foggy, and that suits her just fine. Ten minutes and she's home, and maybe she can actually make it without some idiot going five miles an hour. That was all she fucking needed after
- a thump. Bone-shattering but quiet, terrifying but possibly mundane. Maybe roadkill, or a log. But logs don't scream.
Judy's out of the car as fast as a wobbly drunk can be, and she's fine until she sees little legs, pure white stockings and a blue dress. A broken pair of glasses. The little girl isn't breathing.
No, no, no. No, that's all she needs. Judy can feel the breath leaving her own throat, terror choking her like a burglar.
Only one thing occurs to her, and that's to run. She climbs back into her Packard, not bothering to look for blood, she's already marked. She clatters away in a cloud of fog, hands quivering more noticeably now.
Judy jerks awake on her couch, neck throbbing and breath short. It takes her a second to remember where she is, but the fear doesn't leave. The fuddling feeling of wanting booze washes over her, but instead she reaches for her phone and dials.
Voice mail is still a voice, and it helps. She doesn't even leave Candy or Oliver a message, instead just holding her breath, and listening to them speak.