Meg (meganmasters) wrote in hotelhelllogs, @ 2013-04-14 01:14:00 |
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Entry tags: | castiel, meg masters |
Who: Meg Masters and Castiel
Where: Viewing room 1
When: Saturday, April 13, evening
Warnings: possible language
Ghostly Encounter: Opt-out
Summary: Meg has decided to grit her teeth and get something potentially unpleasant out of the way
Status: Closed/Ongoing
Meg sat slumped in the corner of the first row, fanning the frayed edges of her hair across her fingers. There was no hope for it. She'd have to chop it all off. The last time she'd had short hair it had been a blessing. With the amount of traveling she'd been doing, the upkeep was so much easier. But that didn't mean she liked it. Maybe she was just old fashioned, but she'd been more than happy to return to the world of long locks. After everything else, it seemed almost ridiculous to hate Crowley because of her damn hair, but she did anyway. One reason among many that she wanted to see him flayed alive and left to rot. Why was she doing this to herself? She was many things, but a glutton for punishment wasn't one of them. The whole thing made her feel vaguely nauseous. She thought about him, about fighting him, watching him, taking care of him, and sneered with contempt, but she wasn't entirely sure if it was directed at him...or herself. He was like a wound that wouldn't get better because she couldn't stop picking at it. The mental image was appropriately sickening. She hated herself. But still...she'd been about to die. She'd known it, had expected it, and certain things become clear once you accept that finality. She couldn't let well enough alone. She would suffer through this and, when it was over, hopefully be able to leave it behind. They'd never spent much time together as just themselves, after all. It would be over, finally over, if she could just grit her teeth and make it through one evening. She hoped so, anyway. That was assuming, of course, that he would even show, which was in no way a certainty. She strongly wished she'd brought something to drink. Meg ran a finger along the scar tissue at her wrist. Without the constant friction of rope, they had healed well enough, but they'd left their marks. Those, too, would eventually fade. Demonic healing wasn't perfect, but it got there in the end. She looked forward to that moment. Maybe, just maybe, if she could make it that long then the feeling of living on borrowed time would disappear. "I want to live, Clarence..." she muttered to herself. |