Re: log: dahl/connie at B&B
"You--" Dahlia stammered again, momentarily at a loss for words, staring at Connie like she suddenly didn't know who she was. It was too late, much too late, her brain already taken her dodging looks just as an admission of guilt and fitting it into the frantic reshuffling going on in her head. Nothing felt right. She didn't remember spaghetti. She didn't remember hanging out with Connie, other than a few weeks ago. But everything felt shaky and fuzzy as she tried to make sense of all that had happened--or apparently hadn't, except in her own head--so maybe she didn't remember a lot of things. So Connie could just see the trust she had for her closest friend getting violently kicked out from under her, projecting clearly across her face.
In that moment, Dahlia looked very small. Like the teenager she'd remember--particularly at the end, right before her entire life fell apart. Then everything slid back into place, and her expression went dangerously flat right before it exploded, red-faced, and furious.
"Wh--what the FUCK, CONNIE!?" Her voice hit the roof. Before she really knew it, she was on her feet, in Connie's face, screaming, "What? You think--you think this is fucking funny?? Yeah? That I'm like s-some--some cheap date for you to--to fucking roofie--" Unthinking, she threw out her hands to shove Connie by the shoulders, and hard.
As the anger abruptly faded, Dahlia stormed away--left feeling sick, and violated, and deeply afraid. But her weak knees and sudden nausea were just further proof to her that something had, indeed, been slipped into her system. And that terrified her, because Connie had no idea what damage she could've done--maybe had already done, other than torching their friendship--because her imagination truly didn't need the help from hallucinogens. But she wouldn't know until she tried to close her eyes to sleep. If she could ever sleep again. Her sleep terrors used to be manageable--or, well, as 'manageable' as whiskey before bed most nights was--but that was better than the alternative, and the shit she used to rely on.
Dahlia found herself facing the front door of the house--this house, one of very few places she ever felt at home in--while leaning her forehead against the door frame. She curled her trembling arms around herself for a moment, trying not to start sobbing. Not here. Not yet. "Just--christ, man," she choked, with wounded disbelief and the flatness of resolve in her voice. "I--just--" She sniffed. Shit. Failed. "F-find some--other guinea pig f-for your shitty experiments, creep."
And then the door opened, slammed shut, and Dahlia was gone.