annie nikolaev ☆ mary, queen of scots. (ofscots) wrote in dunhavenic, @ 2017-09-09 22:59:00 |
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Entry tags: | !narrative, * kit, c: annie nikolaev |
WHO: Annie Scott, mentions of James Scott
WHEN: Sunday, August 20, 2017; Morning
WHERE: Annie’s house
SUMMARY: Annie’s father wants to make sure she’s okay and Annie remembers her “delusions” of attempted poison.
WARNINGS: Brief mentions of poison, death, attempted murder.
"Are you sure you're up for leading the children's choir at worship this morning, sweetheart?" It had been exactly one week, give or take a few hours, since Annie had had the misfortune of vomiting in front of a hall full of church ladies and cementing her humiliation by curling up on the kitchen floor while muttering about poison and attempted murder. It had turned out to be a bad case of the flu, her fever making her at least somewhat delusional, and she knew that the ladies all understood that, but no explanation was able to erase the image of the insides of her stomach landing at the feet of Judy Morrison. As it turned out, nothing could quite erase the image of a woman killing over in her meal at a table outside of a monastery after eating poisoned food that had been meant for Annie, either. Not that she was telling anyone that. "Yes, Dad, I'm fine. I pinky promise," Annie replied, cradling the phone between her ear and shoulder as she poured strong, black coffee into what she was pretty sure was supposed to be a soup mug. "It was a 48 hour bug. I'm not dying." "All I'm saying, Bug, is that you're allowed to take it easy for a weekend. We all know you have a lot on your plate with everything you do at the church, getting ready for the new school year, and planning the wedding. If you needed a Sunday off, we'd all understand. Leslie can step in for you when you need her." Annie stopped pouring to focus on the conversation. "I am perfectly capable of seeing to my own obligations," she said, and then cleared her throat as her faire accent--something of a mix of various Western European influences--slipped out. "Sorry, Dad, that didn't come out right. Tell Leslie I'm on my way. I promise that, should I need the weekend off, I'll tell you," she continued, and then added, "Case in point, I'm definitely going to need the three Sundays after my wedding off. Tell Leslie she can take on the choir then." "All right, Bug. Well, hey, Mr. Johnson just walked in, so I'm going to let you go. See you in an hour--oh, and your mother says to make sure Alex and you are at dinner tomorrow night by 7. Love you." "Love you, too, Dad. See you soon." Annie clicked off the cell phone, letting it drop with a thud on the countertop. She wrapped her hands around the mug, enjoying the warmth of it despite the humidity that was already persisting outside that morning. Lifting it to her lips, she hesitated, taking a sniff of it. Something smelled off about it. Then again, that could have just been the fact that she'd used an extra scoop of coffee grounds that morning. Annie frowned, remembering again the vivid reality of her delusion. The poisoned food, the dead taster, the confirmation that someone wanted her dead. Maybe she'd just grab a coffee on the way to church, instead. |