mk robinson is a fallen star. (alittlered) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2014-01-21 01:53:00 |
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Entry tags: | mary jane watson |
WHO MK Robinson.
WHAT A narrative: MK receives some news.
WHEN Recently.
WHERE Nondescript bar # 20000
WARNING Talk of self-harm/drug use, some cursing. The usual with MK.
The bar had a erratic sort of energy to it -- for a good ten minute, a buzz and clatter would fill the entire space and make it feel alive, then it would die down in one strange fell swoop. It was tucked away somewhere about fifteen minutes from the Strip, where most tourists rarely ventured out, but locals frequented when they wanted to escape the glitz and glamor of Sin City. People who couldn’t care less if you were a showgirl or splashed across TMZ or a fucking model, which drew MK to it months and months ago, when she was spiralling out of control after losing her baby. No one asked about the marred, washed-up model that curled into the corner and drank entire bottles worth of liquor. The bartender, a young woman just around the redhead’s age by the name of Rosie, grew sympathetic to her during her frequent visits to the almost-dive. MK would, in vague terms, confide in the woman in a way she hadn’t confided in anyone in a long time. In turn, Rosie gave MK a safe place to drink away the pain that suffocated her and threw anyone out who tried to give the fallen star a hard time.
MK wasn’t there much anymore, truthfully. Not as often as she used to, not after Adam popped the question. Rosie congratulated MK when she saw the glint of expensive Tiffany, but in that sort of way that women wary of a man would. She’d heard the redhead’s stories about Adam, and frankly she didn’t trust the man as far as she could throw him. But then again, she was supply liquor to a known junkie, so she couldn’t really climb up her high horse.
The redhead strolled in that night with her phone in her hand, swiveling it back and forth between her fingers precariously. Looking as if she wanted to throw the goddamn thing against the wall. She waved a hand to Rosie, who immediately started on MK’s usual -- Johnnie Walker Blue on the rocks -- while the redhead saddled up to her usual stool. The iPhone immediately went onto the bar, and she kept staring at the red dot on the phone icon. A missed call from a New York number she didn’t have saved. Calls with a New York zipcode were never good news. When the drink was placed next to the screen, she glanced up with worried red eyes to a sympathetic smile. “Trouble in paradise, sweetheart?” Rosie asked gently.
MK rolled her eyes childishly, downed her drink, and as the booze burned her throat, she coughed out, “Another.” Rosie stared for a second before moving back to oblige. The redhead heaved a huge sigh and pressed a couple of buttons to get to her voicemail. Then, she pressed play on the first voicemail, one she’d listened to far too many times in the past hour.
Hello, Ms. Robinson. My name is Dr. Greene, from Jamaica Hospital Medical Center. I’m calling regarding your sister, Gina Robinson. It’s very urgent that you call me as soon as you can. My extension is--
She ripped the phone from her ear and slammed it on the bar as if she hadn’t heard it yet. As if she didn’t know exactly what was going on. In that moment of quiet, she thought of all the escape plans she had. She thought of losing herself to pills that night or the pretty little razor she hadn’t touched in months. She thought of how Adam would be so unequipped for something else awful happening, and how much that made her sick to her stomach. She thought of Wren and Luke, who loathed her beyond comprehension now. What was she going to do, now that she had burned all her bridges? Now that she couldn’t cope the way she wanted to? With sharp cuts that stung something wonderful and made her feel almost human again, with red smeared and slowly dripping down her forearm, what was she going to do now that she had nothing?
Without even looking up at her bartender buddy, she snatched up her second drink and drained that one as well. She could feel Rosie burning a hole in the top of her head. “I think--I think something’s happened to my sister,” MK choked out, tapping her glass for one more. She pressed her fingers into her eyes to stave away tears pricking at the corners of her eyes as the whiskey burned her stomach and warmed her insides. She hadn’t called yet, but she would. Nothing she could do now could change whatever happened to Gina. No matter how bad it was. She was miles and miles away, and it would take her hours to fly back over. Nothing she could do or say could change what might have happened to Gina.
And if it was bad? Well, MK knew how to deal with all of that, didn’t she?