Roman Ballantine (ex_grizzly714) wrote in pastarillius, @ 2008-03-08 17:50:00 |
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Entry tags: | roman |
Who: Roman Ballantine.
When: Two years ago, early morning.
Where: Serith, a bar.
What: Roman turns sixty-five.
Warnings && Ratings:NC-17.
Colors swirled beneath her weighted eyelids as she shut them against the drowning music filling her eardrums, watching the beats pulse neon explosions across the black slate enveloping both blood shot brown hues. People were laughing around her, their high pitched voices prickling like needles into the sensitive canals and sending her long spine to shiver with an internal cringe. Each burst of laugher became more painful then the last, making her fingers curl into the skin of her palms tightly until the first few layers broke under the pressure of her nails. Blood pooled freely, dripping down her reddened and scuffed up, clutched knuckles. The little drops landed against the dirty floor, breaking apart and then smearing between the creases of chipped up charcoal tile. Roman felt every single puncture, her senses heightened yet increasingly distorted. The room vibrated around her, thudding against her clothing and tugging beneath the corners to burn at her flesh. The drugs in her system, a cocktail of lively substances, had turned her into a breathing magnet for floating sensations. Her vision blurred behind her lids with a dizzy head, sending tingling waves up over the nape of her neck that rolled down the length of her back and alerted both motionless feet. She had to get up, she had to get away, but her limbs were refusing to work in tune with her fuzzy thoughts. It took three tries before she finally managed to lift the crown of her heavy head up off of the cold wall, struggling to force her eyes open just enough to watch her clumsy boots as they meet a floor that seemed to be wobbling uncontrollably beneath her. Catching at the wall, one of her hands left a trail of rich red as she fumbled one foot in front of the other, her head bent lowly and her eyes squinted in an attempt to better focus on her steps. The world around her hummed and shook, sending a sick feeling to crawl up her throat and lace the bumps across her tongue with a bitter whiskey-cotton dryness. Roman was attacked, on all sides, by various things. The glowing light of the open bathroom doors stung her eyes until they watered around the tiny corners, the music blaring out of the old jukebox like knifes stabbing through her skull. Grasping the support of the wall, her free hand rose upwards to roughly stroke a palm across her right eye, tainting it with the vivid crimson of fresh blood. Roman didn't feel the motion, nor did she smell the liquid that it left behind. When her hips shoved through the doors and into the bathroom, her unsteady feet made it three more shaky steps before giving out and sending her to thump downwards on to both bent knees with a bruising clank of bone. Turning over until she feel limply onto her back, both eyes were now tightly shut together in order to block out the burning light as she pulled in several ragged breaths of air that filled her drugged up lungs painfully tight. Roman felt as if she were on a carnival ride, one that rocked up and down like a ship set to sea while viciously spinning around and around in repetitive circles. She didn't know how she had gotten to where she was, or the one drug that had tipped the scale towards the eventual outcomes favor. No one was going to come and pick her up, take her home, tuck her into a safe bed. The Pardue brothers had done it as children, but they were both married and domesticated now. Johnny had done it as teens, and he.. he was gone. He'd been gone for what felt like lifetimes. So as she lay lifelessly against the harsh chill of the bars cold bathroom floor, she hadn't any fanaticizes of being picked up and taken away by safe arms. There was just this. This sick feeling in her gut and a mind that didn't care enough under the drugs influence to attempt concentration that may possibly be able to remedy her current situation. She was alone, and that was just the way that it was now. She built her own messes, and she lived through them on her own too. Roman was positive that she was going to die in one of them sooner or later; sooner being the most likely assumption as far as she could figure. Nodding out, her face fell to the left side so that one cheek pressed up against the tile, long legs flattened out and her arms loose against both sides of her blazing rib cage. Bruises already marred her arms, little rounded circles and finger imprints, a few stitches along the left forearm that itched with some soon to peal scabs. When the darkness washed over her fading conscious state fully, she couldn't break the rhyme of any one of her distant thoughts. It was her birthday. She'd been informed by her father three weeks ago, a warning that her mother was planning on a surprise breakfast that would likely include embarrassing stories of her youth as well as useless gifts that she neither wanted nor needed. Because of this, Roman hadn't been home in twenty-two days. No contact whatsoever in the hopes that it would slip her mothers mind. Roman had grown to hate her birthday, as it only reminded her that the years were continuity rolling by her without much meaning or change. Each year was a scar cut through her bones, hollowing out marrow and rendering her just a fraction weaker than the birthday before. She felt like a mummy, dried up and dusty, crumbling around all of her edges while others tried to wrap her up for preservation; tried to save her body while forgetting the soul inside. Appearances were all that seemed to matter if one was to dig down to the truth of the matter. As long as she could smile, as long as she could make it through the days without cracking the outward foundation, no one worried. It was a ball; masked faces with painted purple lips set into permanent grins. Beneath the misleading plastic Roman was decaying. She was giving up. She hated her birthday because it reminded her that she was supposed to be living. The reality was, she watched the settings around her change and molded to fit what was called for. There was no life, no personality, nothing distinctively her. Her heart only beat because the others around her told it to. It had no reason or will of it's own. She felt as if she were falling through a black hole, desperate to finally reach the bottom and crash. The hands against her skin were enough to drag her through her intoxicated pit, fluttering both brown eyes behind their lids as she swallowed down the dry lump caught within the center of her long throat. Quick hands were on her hips, rough fingers folding over the hem of her jeans and tugging downwards. Forgetting herself and the situation that she'd collapsed in to, it took her a few long moments before she managed to open her eyes a crack, catching the crown of dark hair looming above her. When her gaze roamed lower and the realization set in that he was removing her pants, she immediately attempted lifting both forearms in a try at shoving him away. The whiskey in her system rocked against the various other drugs, making her hands heavy and numb as they brushed over the bare bones of the mans shoulders. With her panicked heart thumping through the top of her chest, she grinded the back of her skull against the hard floor and tried sitting her torso up with a grunt, only to loose her balance pathetically when the man swiftly rammed the heel of his hand into her collar bone. Clanking her head against the tilted floor again, a ringing blur buzzed through her brain while both eyes tightly shut to clear the vivid colors away and fight the sickness pulling up from her stomach. She still had her leather jacket on, and as the man sat up onto his knees to undo the button of his own jeans, she sloppily shoved five fingers into the inner pocket and withdrew her old switchblade. Snapping it open, she squinted one eye in order to focus the other better, shoving the point of the blade into the flesh just below and to the left of his navel. It was hard enough to break the skin and catch his attention, drawling blood while he flinched with a rising head. Peering his greens down at her, she spoke with running words. "There might be two of you, but i'm still quick enough to slice them both from navel to ear before those pants have a chance to come down." In all honesty, she wasn't sure if she was or not. Though experience had told her that if you speak with enough confidence, the majority will believe you despite any inner doubts. Watching him watch her, she seen his mind mull over his options before he stood and pulled the fabric back up over his hips with an angry tug, sniffing a cocaine nose before a shout called out from the bar. His attention shifted, then turned back, a smile crept over his lips as one broad shoulder shrugged while reaching an arm out for his shirt tossed against the sink. "Your lucky night, baby." When his feet turned him away, Roman lowered her unbearably heavy hand and pressed the cool blade to the last inch of her exposed abdomen. She laid there for a few more moments, thick eyelashes pressed over her cheeks, before finding enough energy to pull her jeans up from their place at her thighs. Snapping the button closed, the switchblade was shut against the pocket a moment before she rolled over with a gritted jaw. Using her knees and one slippery palm, she crawled into the closest dirty stall, her boot thumped against the door in order to slam it shut behind her. Sliding the knife back into her pocket, both long arms then rested against the sides of the porcelain bowl, her wobbly head lowered to stare at the dirty water for what seemed like hours. Finally, and with a deep breath, she managed to call up some of the contents in her stomach. With any luck, it would be enough to clear her head so that she'd actually make it back to The Factory tonight. If not, she'd be spending a few more long hours right where she was. Flushing the smell down, Roman wiped at her mouth with the back of one arm, leaning up until her spine knocked against the stalls flimsy wall. Resting her head into the support as both eyes once again closed, she swallowed down the bitter taste in her mouth and silently wished herself a happy birthday. Another year, and she was still breathing. What she wanted, more than any gift that someone might have thought of, was for it to simply stop. She wanted off the ride now, an end to her own personal carnival of twisted situations. She was tried of being alone, tired of feeling abandoned by everything -- including herself. Everybody left her eventually, in one way or another. It seemed that even she hadn't the tolerance to deal with herself. Sighing as the world swam around her body in tickling waves, her cheek pressed up against the wall while legs lay crumpled at her side. She thought about Johnny. If it was her birthday, than his would have been coming soon too. She tried to remember what it felt like to feel at home no matter where you were, what it felt like to belong somewhere without any questions asked. She thought about how she'd disappointed her entire family, how she'd let them down so many times over now. She thought about Efrem and the shotty job that she did as a sister, all of the people who'd passed in and out of her life -- close enough to see yet never close enough to touch. Though, as most always while in such a state, her mind rounded back to Johnny Luca without any hesitance or restraint. Her ghost. Tightening both eyes as she stroked her cheek up over the wall in search of a better position, Roman fought with her lungs until they drew in and released air somewhat steadily. Her life had turned into such a fish bowl. She missed being free. She missed the brightest shade of blue that she'd ever seen. She missed knowing that she was still alive and being thankful for it. She missed absolutely everything. It was another year, and she spun just a little deeper into her hole in the ground. Eventually it'd be nothing but a self made grave. Opening her eyes to blink browns against the littered floor, she licked both dry lips and lay silently. If she tried, she could feel his hair brushing up over the sensitive bone of her collar. If she tried, she could smell him through the vomit and shit, the stale piss and old sweat. If Roman tried, she could almost remember what it felt like to go home. Almost. |