Repose Halloween Spooktacular (reposehaunts) wrote in repose, @ 2016-10-24 22:26:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, cat dubrovna, dahlia haight, ~plot: halloween |
[Log: Antihero & Smells Like Teen Spirit]
Who: Antihero & Smells Like Teen Spirit
What: Hello, sunshine.
When: After the party.
Where: The B&B.
Warnings: Injury, blood, language.
Time passed. The cheerleader was not followed. Not immediately, at least.
The grinding and scraping overhead continued for a while. Back and forth, back and forth, like a panther pacing. But dawn hit the skinny casement windows in the basement, and the noise abruptly stopped. A few moments later, slow and plodding steps started down the rickety stairs. Dirty hightops appeared first, then jeans, then a shirt tie-dyed with scarlet, then--well, slacker queen had lost her head. Under a mask, that is. Bone and ash had been replaced by cheaply molded rubber and black mesh. A staple for the lazy costumer. Not even a little spooky. Delinquency--no, not-Delinquency--slid to sit down heavy on that last uneven step, and immediately regretted it. Every motion pulled at her side like it was made of tissue paper.
Her fingers gingerly touched the mess of torn shirt and clotting blood, still oozing like a lava field. She needed a better look to be sure, but the fact that she was upright and sitting here suggested it was nothing too pressing. Other than getting infected with like, ectoplasm or some shit. Or imminent blood loss. Remembering the dark stain left behind at the top of the stairs, the mask suddenly felt claustrophobic in all the worst ways. Christ. Why was she still in this fucking thing, anyway? It was like wearing a swamp. Fingers sought out the seam at her neck, and the not-slacker hunched and struggled to pull the mask over her head. A mess of damp and dark hair escaped, followed by the slap of wet rubber on the floor and a sigh.
Baby steps. Get shirt off. Investigate. Use shirt to sop up mess. ??? Figure out the other steps. She gently shook the sleeve of her unzipped hoodie off from her good arm, and slipped it off the other. It was like drawing a curtain, unveiling dense tattoo work whorling down her arms. The shirt posed a greater problem, though. Like one giant bandaid, she lifted an edge and slowly peeled the sticky fabric away from the wound. Like one giant bandaid, it fucking hurt. "Fuck fuck ow fuck ow fuck--" she hissed through gritted teeth. The wound also started bleeding again in earnest, but it was gonna do that no matter what the fuck she did. Shirt eventually came free, and she raised her good arm to tug up from the back of the neck. She only got part way before the fabric got caught on her shoulders, trapping her arm in the sleeve. She wiggled her other arm a little, and like trying to force transmission out of gear, she seized up with a groan.
Stuck with her shirt halfway up her back and over her head, not-Delinquency huffed. A very dignified huff. Definitely not a whine.