. (afrit) wrote in repose, @ 2016-04-24 14:50:00 |
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Entry tags: | *narrative, sam martin |
[Narrative]
Who: Sam
What: Narrative
Where: In a cell
When: This weekend
Warnings/Rating: Language, themes, etc.
She was scared.
She was scared, and the cell was small. Walls closing in, and the blonde sat on the cot, backed into the corner and knees to her chest. Rock. Rock. Rock. And it was like another place, narrow and no windows, and she couldn't get out, cot in the corner and just waiting for footsteps. Step. Step. Step.
They'd been good to her, nice to her, after Cris handed her off. They asked questions, and she didn't know answers, and her fingers clutched the sides of her head, like claws tangled into her hair. But they'd been nice to her, and she'd tried to be logical, yeah? Logical, or they'd lock her up somewhere different, somewhere with straitjackets tight against skin and strangling, and that was how it all started last time. So she tried to make sense, yeah? She tried. Memory loss. Gunshot wound. She tried to explain forgetting, and there was desperation dripping off her in sweat gone cold.
She was scared, and she was alone. It was like the walk to Bellevue, wave goodbye and see you when you're better, and she knew that wasn't fair. Feeling that wasn't fair, and she was too fucking much, and she knew that. She knew, and she understood, but she still felt the chill off those orchards and the silence of the drive, and she knew she needed to let it all go. She needed to let it all go. She'd caused this, yeah? This wasn't something foisted upon her by tiny hands and a wet mouth. It wasn't like what Cris was going through, and she needed to let it go.
And it was easy in that tiny corner, scrunched up and listening for footsteps. Because everything became that space, tiny, small, and coping. Coping. Coping. Coping. The small blonde became smaller, or she tried to make herself smaller, and she rocked small and tiny movements against that corner. There was nothing but her and silence, and she rocked and rocked. Until she was quiet. Until her head was quiet. She tapped it back against the wall, slow and repeated, but quiet. She knew she needed to look good, yeah? Logical. Logical. Logical, and don't slam your head against the concrete, not where they can see.
Sane.
She was glad Iris wasn't there. At least that was something, yeah? Maybe Iris was having bread with Manning, smiles and weight plumping a figure cadaverous. And maybe Cris was upstairs with the baby. Maybe he was napping or something, feeling better, and maybe Meredith was quiet too. Somewhere. Wherever. Shoulda killed her, yeah? Meredith. Instead of someone Sam couldn't even remember. Then Cris would be safe. Meredith would be gone. Sam closed her eyes, and she tried to will it into being, which maybe wasn't very sane, but she tried. And no one needed to know.
Rock. Rock. Rock. And she was quiet, yeah? She wanted to SCREAM. She wanted to tell them they needed to get her out of there before Ian came. But she knew she needed to be good. So, yeah, she was quiet. Rock. Rock. Rock, until she lost track of time.
Rock.