Edith Olson (skintightsecret) wrote in savingthegames, @ 2014-05-21 11:43:00 |
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Entry tags: | edith olson, ethan drake |
Who: Ethan and Eddie
What: Two petty criminals hang out until Eddie unwittingly tells Ethan about the Jack Frost/Ciara incident.
When: Wednesday the 21st, 6:40pm
Where: The Rails
Warnings: Language, bad behaviors, tbd
Edith Olson was a self-destructive, terrible decision maker. On countless occasions when at the crossroads of the right path and the wrong path, she erred towards making repetitive mistakes and then retrospectively wondered why the fuck she ended somewhere worse than she'd started. Really, at twenty-four she should've started making some amendments to her tendencies and choices.
It didn't help that for the first time in a long time she'd come into a crisis of conscience, one that had almost had her spilling her guts to Mink in a text message. Though she'd been furious at the time that he'd warned her that he'd be implicated if she revealed her crime to him, after a while she was resigned to agree he was right. But she wasn't going to text him and tell him that. Maybe later after she pouted some more. It did, however, make circumstances that much more strenuous. She didn't have many friends - not the kind you could tell secrets to and trust in. She knew people. Clients, marks, dealers, random neighbors. Even Max was someone she wasn't yet all the comfortable in opening up with and he was probably the closest thing she had to an actual friend. So what was she going to do in this transition? She was already a mess and no amount of drugs or sex or alcohol could stuff this guilt in a locker to leave her alone. Eddie had even originally planned on telling Tristan, if only to keep him away from her and to better keep him safe from whatever ten thousand ways she could break his heart further if he stayed, and now it was a waiting game for Sunday. Was she expecting the worst? Yes. Was she alright with that? No. Did she have a choice? Nope.
At this point it wasn't like she wasn't already assured a spot on satan's registry, so she stalked an older middle-class gentleman who had unleashed a couple racist and derogatory remarks to a Hispanic woman standing outside of a local La Tienda. Deciding he wasn't worth the pity, Eddie slipped into his body, had him hand one hundred dollars in cash to the woman, and pocketed the rest for herself. The ragamuffin bartender sat on the steps outside of her apartment building counting the bucks, grinning at the prospect of further paying her mother's hospital bills.
"And they say that crime doesn't pay." She laughed, pocketing the cash. "Can't tell me two-hundred thirty-five dollars isn't a damn fine rebuttal."