river tam (takemysky) wrote in the100, @ 2015-04-13 22:41:00 |
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Entry tags: | !log/thread, matt murdock / daredevil (616), river tam |
WHO: Matt Murdock + River Tam
WHEN: Evening of April 13
WHERE: Random hallway!
WHAT: River makes a run for it; Matt finds her; River continues to befriend older men; somewhere, Simon is crying.
STATUS: Incomplete!
River had run.
She knew Simon had told her to stay, but she couldn't. No, no, no, not what the thrum of unfamiliar faces, too close, and the persistent press of almost-there needles. (She knew how this ended; she was strapped in a chair, and they were telling her, 'shh, shh, and what do you see, River, you need to tell us what you see,' and then there would be disappointed faces, and more needles, and she would ask where Simon was, but they would tell her there was no Simon. She had clung to her memories of her brother with fragmented fingernails, waking up to find gaping holes in her brain -- recluses in her grey matter, and she wondered if Simon had been there, lingering in traces of moments she could no longer remember. Would she wake up one day, and he would be gone? Because surely, surely that would be the day that she would wake up and be gone too. And where she would go? Where would River go if her body was still there, but she was erased from her own mind? What happened to a soul when the mind and the body were still functioning but the essence of everything that was River -- dancing and laughing and teasing and reading -- was gone?)
So, she couldn't stay. Sorry, sorry, Simon, she was saying over and over, but she had to move, and was running down hallways, blinded by her own fear; she was a clumsy creature suddenly, feet hurting with the smart of hard, unfamiliar floors. She needed to be outside, even though she knew it wasn't safe. Everything felt poison and sickly, like worlds were the terraforming was off, struggling to to be a live thing, but slowly decaying from the topside down to the core.
Her skirt was tangled about her legs, and she was still clutching a messy handful of jacks, and she ran until she was blinded by her fear, and then collapsed onto the ground, shoving herself into the corner. One hand was pressed against the side of her head, as if she could physically calm her ricocheting thoughts. She pressed her face against her other forearm, and began to cry messy tears; she had never been a crier, not when she was a baby, not when she was child -- always more stunned by the fall and unable to register the hurt, but not it seemed to be that she only felt the hurt. As if it all seventeen years worth of her falls had caught up with, brittling her bones and overwhelming her oversensitive brain.