dahlia is a total (kayo) wrote in repose, @ 2016-08-15 00:07:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, connie gunster, dahlia haight |
[Log: Dahlia & Connie]
Who: Dahlia & Connie
What: Friendship, and rehab, and friendship rehab.
Where: The Capital.
When: Recently-ish.
Warnings: Swears and light recovery stuff, but probs nothing else.
The Capital had a variety of neighborhoods--the closer they got to the edges, the less city they began to read. The address given was in an old historical district, a place where the traffic died down to a low murmur on tree-canopied streets. Homeowners were afforded luxuries like small yards and elderly trees and the sense of prestige that came from hosting multiple generations. The house at the address had all of those, and yet still managed to look deceptively modest next to its neighbors.
In the shade of the front porch, Dahlia sat on a bench, bare feet up on the rail. Few would guess anything had changed. She always looked hollowed out, like a shell-shocked veteran--and today was no different. She was still tattooed arms and boxer shoulders, but the chronic fog was gone from her expression. There was brightness in her gaze, something nobody had seen from her in months. The smell of liquor and depression that used to follow her like a storm cloud had lifted.
For now, she was soldier standing down. She had to remind herself that sobriety wasn't a match. It wasn't rounds of three until she knocked it out, ding, fight over. Sobriety was a war, and the battle lasted forever. Detox was utter hell this time, yeah. Left her with the little hospital band still around her bruised wrist and a host of new problems competing for attention with all the old ones, the whiny little assholes they were, that she had steadfast ignored via whiskey. It was hard to feel optimistic as she stared down the front line with few weapons, and fewer friends. The odds were against her, but when hadn't they been?
Dahlia brushed shower-damp hair out of her face, sighing. Still, she was trying. She was trying in the ways she knew that didn't involve drinking, so--not a lot, yeah. She was supposed to be resting, since apparently the two fucking weeks of shaking sick in detox left her totally restless. So she had texted Connie and then went for a long enough run--which meant until she felt like dying just a little--and felt infinitely better afterward. Even if her sifu was out on errands, Dahlia could still feel her disapproving from miles away. Whatever. Tomorrow, rehab started in earnest. Today, she coped by way of tasteless shirts and sprints down familiar streets and distractions.
Plus, a little pup therapy. Snapping gum between her teeth, she rubbed the clipped ears of the pitbull sprawled happily across her lap. It kept her fingers busy, and disguised the obvious tremor when her hands were idle. Another dog, a big German shepherd, lay panting nearby in the cooling heat until he lifted his head, looking toward the front gate. Then the shepherd was off like a rocket, sticking his fluffy head through iron slats to boof at somebody approaching on the sidewalk. Like he did with every passerby, really.