Tara Page (alwaysinthedark) wrote in zenithrp, @ 2017-07-07 15:10:00 |
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Entry tags: | #day 084, marco, tara |
Who: Tara, open Marco
When: Around 9 AM, give or take
Where: 4th floor Hallway
The light was wrong. The light was wrong in a lot of ways. The angle. The brightness. Tara shifted uneasily under the covers as she began to stir from sleep to wake, blinking her big blue eyes. She realized quickly the light wasn't the only thing that was wrong. Everything was wrong. This wasn't her room. These weren't her PJs. Pushing herself into a sitting position, she groaned as the wave of nausea crashed over her. As she lifted her arms to cradle her head, she was aware of the pressure, of the line swinging from her arm. With a quiet cry, she yanked the needle out, pressing her thumb over the welling blood. She was no stranger to panic, and she could hear it knocking. Sitting up in bed, the covers pooled around her waist, her arms tangled together, she looked wide-eyed around the strange room. Bed, dresser, nightstand, mirror, camera, box -- Camera. Box. Her breathing quickened as tears welled in her eyes. Where was she? What had happened? Had she been in an accident? The last thing she recalled was ... ... was what? The barn. The barn. The late foal. Was that it? What had happened though? There wasn't anything but blackness until now. What was missing? Was the barn the last thing, or just something she thought was the last thing because it was where she spent most of her time? With one hand still clutching her other arm, applying pressure to the hole in her skin, she scrambled out of bed - and faceplanted as uncooperative legs tangled in unfamiliar sheets. She took the brunt of the fall on her shoulder, another soft cry crossing her lips. Kicking her legs free of the sheets, her eyes shot up to the camera. Who was watching her? Why? Using her bare feet, she shoved herself a little farther from the bed until she was clear of the tangle of blanket and sheet, and for a moment she simply stayed where she was. There weren't a lot of coherent thoughts just then, and definitely no plan of action because how did you make a plan for something like this? Hugging herself, Tara remained on the floor, staring at the box like it was some exquisite new form of viper before she moved toward it, peering at it. With the hand not gripping her arm, she flipped open the top and pushed herself back as if she expected something to spring out at her. Nothing did, and she craned her neck to see what was in there. Clothes. Clothes were good. Clothes were really good. She reached in and pulled out her jeans, her shirts, her jacket, her boots, socks, underwear, and bra. She also tried not to be creeped out about the fact someone had stripped her, done who knew what to her, and redressed her. Shuddering, gagging a little, Tara bundled up her clothes against her chest and looked around. There was a door ajar, and she gave some very serious consideration to standing up before electing to shuffle toward it. Whatever it was, she imagined the camera couldn't see through a closed door. Halfway there, she reasoned there were likely other cameras, and she tried not to think about that, either. Once she reached the bathroom, she eased inside and closed the door behind herself, leaning back against it. She took several hitching breaths before she climbed up to her feet, bracing her back against the door, her clothing still clutched against her body. And then she took a minute to assess herself. Sore. Confused. Groggy. Pain in her arm. Pain in her shoulder. Pain in the ... back of her neck? Reaching up, fingers burrowing under sleep-mussed hair, Tara groped at the back of her neck but didn't really feel anything except maybe a pin prickle more of pain when she pushed. Letting her clothes drop, she continued to focus on her breathing until the grey at the edges of her vision backed off. She had to think. She had to get through this. One step at a time. First step, get dressed. Looking around the bathroom, she shifted her weight against the door before she started to fumble her way out of the hospital gown. It was about then she noticed the bracelet, and she frowned at that as she studied it. Her name. A number. She could feel the panic threatening again, taste the sour in her mouth as the nausea returned, and she closed her eyes and went back to breathing. In, out. Deep breaths. When she had a handle on that, she opened her eyes again and reached for her panties - but carefully, slowly, moving like an old lady. Using the door for support, she pulled them on. Then her jeans. Socks. Bra, shirt. She pulled the flannel on over the tanktop but didn't button it. She wasn't going to worry about her hair. Sliding her feet into her boots, she let herself out and headed toward the door only to find it locked. While she couldn't find it in herself to be surprised, she was dismayed, and once again felt the panic threatening to well up. So the door was right out. Windows? Tara moved toward the window, and gazed out at the snow before looking for a lock, or a catch, or a lever to open it. She found nothing, and trying to pull it up did nothing. So she looked around for something else. Something else to try, to do, to make a plan with. Her eyes caught on the blinking red light on the computer, and she moved to it curiously, jiggling the mouse to wake it up. She read, re-read, and re-re-read the words on the screen, but even after the third try, none of it made sense. Still, she followed the instructions because what else was there for her to do? She saw other people had written things, and as she skimmed back some, she realized she wasn't alone, and she wasn't the first. It should have relaxed her, but it made her more than a little uneasy. Still ... she tried posting her own message: Hello? and once that sent, she head the clicks and thumps that she'd long since associated with deadbolts and latches. Oh, thank Christ. Without bothering to see if anyone replied, Tara darted for the door, stumbling against it as her knees gave out before she worked it open and all but fell out into the hallway. Landing in a crouch, she looked around the expanse of the hallway and stood up slowly, carefully. Her head swam, her vision went briefly grey, but she plunged on anyway, stumbling about as she looked for stairs, or something to get her to a ground floor so she could get out. |