🎵 𝄞 🎸 𝄫 🎷🎶 🎻 (jukejoint) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-05-27 22:15:00 |
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Entry tags: | christine daae |
Who: Sam
What: Narrative: Reveal & Going home
Where: Passages → Waterhouse Clinic → Aria
When: Las Vegas Plot
Threads: Affected; Fifth Floor Hall and Affected ; Kitchens
She had no idea who dragged her out of Passages when morning’s light finally began to stream through old, dusty windows. She only knew that she woke up at the Waterhouse Clinic, a scream on her lips, and a nurse shushing her and calming her. The stitches hurt like a fucking bitch, but she refused to go the hospital. And the doctor at the clinic, knowing more about Passages than any other medical facility in Las Vegas, didn’t insist. They wrapped her arm, and they stitched the claw marks on her shoulder, and they averted their eyes as they stitched the telling wounds on her chest and bandaged her throat.
She considered calling someone, considered being that fucking damsel in distress she was trying so hard not to become. Considered sobbing all over herself like she wanted to. She reminded herself, not for the first time in recent months, that she’d been running drugs for her father since she was five, and pickpocketing for her mother since she was six. Pigtails and bare feet on a playground, no one suspecting the dirty blonde girl in second-hand clothes from her brothers. She wasn’t a fucking damsel; she’d never had the chance to be one. She wasn’t going to start now. No matter how much she wanted to.
She was like a rag doll, one stitched back together with twine and cotton, and she insisted they let her leave on her own fucking steam, after an IV’s worth of antibiotics and a promise to go right to the hospital if the fever didn’t break by that evening.
She left in borrowed clothes, and she hesitated before giving the cab driver directions. She could go to Iris,’ or she could to Louis,’ or she could find Elias, Shailee or Tristan. She had options, but she didn’t want to go to any of those places. She told the driver to take her to the Aria, and she dozed on the drive, in and out, waking up with a stifled scream often enough that the driver thought he was carting a fucking nutcase around.
But Las Vegas was a mess, and the driver seemed disinclined to ask questions, and she was grateful for the extra few minutes before she needed to find the strength to pretend everything wasn’t a fucking mess.
The suite was cool and quiet, and she turned on every fucking light before making her way upstairs with a bottle of whiskey in her hand. She stopped at the top of the steps, taking a long swig, and she considered her course. In the end, she turned toward Neil’s room, stopping to make sure it was empty before she went inside.
She took a long shower, hissing her way through the pain of the intentionally scalding water, and she found one of Neil’s shirts and slipped it on over a pair of his pajama pants. The fabric engulfed her, covered all the wounds but the ones at her throat, and dragged past her feet and her hands. She dug out her journal, and she made the effort at a few messages there, the whiskey making it easier for her to force that bravado right where it belonged, where people expected it to be.
No, she wasn’t doing the damsel in distress thing. Fuck that, and fuck Las Vegas. She curled up beneath Neil’s blankets, the exquisite sheets obscuring the Frankenstein horror beneath, and his door locked, barring his entrance in case he returned. The room was cool and safe, despite the lights being turned on at full glow, and her fingers found the sound system and turned to one of the operas that she found so inexplicably soothing these days. She slept, in and out, and the whiskey bottle fell from her hand and tipped sideways, spilling amber liquid on the floor and making the room smell uncomfortably sweet; she didn’t even notice.