Participants:
| Scene Title | Caliginous Little Woman |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Joy suffers greatly after a morning with Mister Daniels. |
| Date | February 25, 2010 |
A House Abandoned in Flushing
The whiskey is gone. The whole bottle that she just stole from the seedy little liquor store. The kind of store where a bottle of Jack gone missing now and then is chalked up to acceptable loss of inventory.
Much of that bottle has been regurgitated into the bowl of the toilet over the course of the last hour. The amber tainted water swirls round and round before disappearing, leaving a fresh trickle to slowly replace it.
Joy Saint-Jacques holds onto the cool porcelain with knuckles gone white. It feels like she's on a merry-go-round – at least, that's what someone who's actually ridden one of those would equate it to – and she holds on for dear life, lest she be flung from this awful ride. Her reflection wobbles, swelling slowly as water fills the bowl.
“You've really done it this time,” the blonde murmurs to the distorted woman staring back at her. Her head tips forward slowly, the edges of her vision blur.
She sits up quickly, too quickly, and groans before pitching forward again to heave into the bowl. Again, all that comes is the amber liquid her system rejects. Morphine never did this to her. Morphine was kinder. And the narcotic high differs so from the buzz of alcohol, though both numb a pain that runs deep through her. The kind that isn't physical.
Tugging the handle again, this time the water is slow to drain, and doesn't entirely with the bowl still too shallow. The smell of her sick causes Joy to recoil and opt instead to lay on the cool tile of the floor. Bare but for a pair of frilly panties, she rolls onto her face to press naked skin to the calming, stable, unshifting surface beneath.
She isn't sure when she learned that this was a fantastic method for dealing with this sort of thing. It's the sort of thing she discovered by accident, but since discovered was a popular remedy. “Fuck me,” she growls against the tile beneath her lips, smearing pink gloss that transfers to flooring, then unattractively back to skin.
The world in her peripheral vision not only blurs, but also seems to dim, as though a darkness is slowly creeping in around her before swallowing her whole and leaving her blind, with the sound of blood roaring in her ears.
Xioajie.
The word is nowhere and everywhere. An echo in her own mind.
And her name – her name – spoken by a voice she never thought she'd hear again.
Odessa. He greets her in a language she doesn't speak, Wan an.
Her head lifts, but it's in vain. There's nothing she can see – only black. She calls his name, but she can't even hear it in her own ears. She shouts it two more times. Three.
To no avail.
Such cruelty, that he would call to her and leave her deaf and blind. She feels around frantically, groping about for anything. Her hand wraps around something solid. Fabric over leather?
As quickly as she was certain that he was with her, the presence is gone. Light floods her vision, sound returns. The world is as it was before the proverbial lights went out, except for the new presence occupying the bathroom. A small hand with red painted nails is wrapped around someone's leg.
And she is left to stare up at a vastly different person than she expected to find when her sight returned.
“You?”