Phaedra M. Paderborn (painbreak) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2009-09-09 00:20:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | morphine |
Who: Morphine [Closed Narrative]
Where: An apartment near The Highway.
When: Tuesday night, late. Hours after dinner with Marijuana and Heroin.
Warnings: PG. Mention/suggestion of assault. Simply a narrative otherwise.
She stared idly at the computer screen. Its light was strange to Phaedra and even stranger that she was finding solace, comfort, in the artificial glow it provided her. The spartan and simple apartment where she stayed was dark; something about turning the lights on had her on edge. There was something off kilter about her every movement in the days that followed her younger brother's assault on her. Her eyes had taken on a slightly milky, glazed haze, but within that haze there was a spark of something wild, something fierce. Her vivid red hair, often straightened and sleek, had been left alone - unkempt curls took its place. In the shadows of the apartment she stayed in, Morphine sat in the glow of an artificial light, on the floor, knees drawn up beneath her as she leaned against the wall, cloudy eyes staring head on into the darkness.
What had she become? What had they all become?
It had started with a drink.
Idle conversation.
And then, she was opening her eyes. Greedy fingers at her dress, like claws, tearing at material and fabric of a dress made specifically for her. Vivid blue eyes, ravenous.
What had she become? What had they all become?
She'd thrown him without realizing what she was doing, but by the time she was across the hall and digging finely manicured black nails into either side of his face, she had been totally aware, dragging herself from the haze he had created in her mind, in the nervous system. She had woken because her very existence conflicted with the effect of the poison that had gripped her so. She had thrown him as if he were a rag doll in that moment, moved swiftly across the hall, and whispered mercifully as she left marks on his face and bruises along his back that his action was foolish, and to be left in her hands would be a mercy. Had she called Hazel then? Did her assailant leave?
She spoke the words. The words had consequences. Opiate fingers, opiate eyes. Eyes. She hesitated to draw her gaze across the jar that sat stoically beside her laptop.
She sat in the darkness of the apartment where she stayed, across from and so near to her Other that she could feel his dreams, but not see them. And she struggled to remember. What had she become? She narrowed her blue eyes, as if peering into the shadows for answers to questions that had yet to be asked. Everything was so fragmented.
There was a sweet taste in her mouth left over from dinner.
Morphine drew her knees up to her chest, draping thin arms around them. She leaned her head back until it softly touched the wall behind her.
She smiled quietly, in the dark.