Damaia (i_cast) wrote in we_coexist, @ 2011-01-02 04:30:00 |
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Entry tags: | baba yaga, in arkham |
Drip, drip, drip. (narrative)
The fragile seeming woman hung there. Her arms pinned to sturdy T form by cold iron. Her hands encased in the same iron, all the way up to her elbows. She hung there, her head bowed forward. Surely something kept her up. Sheer willpower? A band of iron under her pj top encircled her waist, which gave some support, but very little. An IV had been connected at her neck, but what was dripping through the line was anyone's guess. Drip, drip, drip.
"She eats children like you." Her voice had a scratch to it; the scratch spoke of anger, knowledge, and age. It had a hollowness to it of distance. "She builds a house and eats children. I never ate the children. I don't eat children. Children are stringy. They smell like sour milk."
Drip, drip, drip. Scratch, scratch, scratch. One would think that a hospital facility such as Arkham would be cleaner. One would think that rats wouldn't scurry by, settle at the woman's feet. One would think that the doctors and orderlies would keep spiders out of the woman's hair, off her body, away from her clothes. One would think that the woman would actually complain, but she seemed more intent on making sure people understood that she was not the one who ate the children. One would think that the orderlies would actually be concerned, but the woman wasn't any different from the rest of the current inmates. Sure, she was hanging there encased in iron, drugged to the gills, but she wasn't any different. She wasn't special. She wasn't a danger.
"You can't have my cabin. I hate it, but it's mine. Mine. No one else's but mine." She had only a few topics of discussion, this woman hanging there. She'd go into great detail about the cabin, giggling now and then because she'd never tell how anyone could get in. It was her secret. Only she would know. Not even that Totenkinder bitch would find out. Drip, drip, drip.
Whenever the woman got a little too worked up, they'd up the dosage, change how much was getting into her system. Her body refused to settle; oh, it didn't change, but there was a feeling of age and youth all at once that could be unsettling. She didn't seem to be that lonely, what with the spiders and the rats always coming to visit. Yet, he staff were careful. They'd put her out of the way. Locked away with only a doctor to watch her, to record her ramblings then leave. Drip, drip, drip.
The crone, Baba Yaga, was caught again.