trevor harper / chris redfield (ceaseless) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-03-12 21:18:00 |
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Entry tags: | chris redfield |
Who: Azeneth.
What: A narrative - leaving Las Vegas.
Where: Her apartment.
When: Recently.
Warnings/Rating: Some swearing. Mostly she's just mad.
She'd stayed here too long. Longer than she'd expected; longer than she'd wanted. It had gotten away from her. Working out here was great, sure, and some of the people were great, and the strip was more fun than she'd had in a while, but now everything had caught up with her and had to be paid for and there was academic probation looming over her head.
One month of being stuck on the wrong side of a door. One stupid month, and because she was unwilling to carry out someone else's life, she let him carry out hers. He'd been able to keep the questions at bay for a little while but sooner or later nobody wanted to listen to him anymore, even if she was telling him what to do, and he got fed up in turn and now - shit.
So Azeneth decided to go back.
It's one paper.
"It's one very fucking important paper," she snapped as she shoved clothes into a duffel bag. "And now it's a week late, and I'm not even close to finished. You couldn't even help out with that much."
You didn't help me any. Spent most of the time complaining, as I recall.
"I'm not a blazing glory mercenary. I don't know how your life works, but you should at least remember what it's like to be normal." The rest of the clothes, she figured, she could just give to a Goodwill or something. There weren't many.
So you're just running away? There was a tinge of irritation to the voice, and that made her angrier than it should have. That, and the accusation, and how everything had piled up in one stupid month --
"Yes, I am!" she snapped. "Because some of us actually realize that's a valid plan of action. Some people know you can't win every fight, especially when you can't survive on pride. And maybe if you could get this," and here there was vitriol, more than she intended, "then maybe you wouldn't wind up getting so many people killed."
The response was silence: a thunderous, furious, stung sort of silence. A part of her regretted what she'd said, wanted to take it back, but - she'd meant it. She was tired of him and his world, of suffering through his nightmares because he couldn't keep his own brain under control.
If he wasn't such a stereotypical action hero trope, she might have been less angry.
So she packed her bags and threw out what was left over and sent goodbyes by e-mail while she waited in the airport, sulking, and after a while the silence turned into just silence and the rest of the thoughts in her head.