Participants:
| Scene Title | No Sleep Till Brooklyn |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | The waters cold, Clothing is heavy, and damned if she'll die at the bottom of a river. |
| Date | January 28, 2009 |
Shoreline of Brooklyn
You got to go to the lonesome valley
You got to go there by yourself
She never made it off the bridge, her hand closed on some exposed rebar in vain hope of hanging on as it collapsed inward, a loud scream from Abigail as she grabbed a hold of Gillian with one hand, exposed rebar with the other. But gravity claims them and down she goes with the dark haired woman getting separated along the way. The impact of the water cuts that off, lungs and mouth automatically shut to preserve oxygen.
The water is cold, was cold. Cold enough to shock her, pull her from her healing induced reverie. Once her limbs get in tune with her body, forget the impact, she struggles to follow the little bubbles up to the surface. But a kevlar vest lined with metal isn't conducive to going upwards.
Nobody else can go for you
You got to go there by yourself
She gives a mental scream at the audacity of it. Survived Kazimir Volken and she's going to drown. Cold, alone, sinking to the bottom of a river in New York. No sunset, the pain of suffocation. This how sailors feel. The water pulses now and then, another piece of debris falling, impacting. She can feel the current of the river snatching at her, pulling her away.
Oh, you got to ask the lords forgiveness
Nobody else can ask him for you
Down and down she goes, golden hair in the dingy dirty river water, set to eventually carry her out to sea, her hands working at her jacket, hampered by the water, tug at the zippers, get out of it. Her air's running out. The blue and white jacket is caught by undertow and ripped from her hands. She focuses now on the latches that keep her vest on her body. Metal, get rid of the metal. Her palm hurts from the rebar biting into flesh, but she ignores it.
You got to go to the lonesome valley
You got to go there by yourself
If it could be seen, she's crying, trying hard not to let out any of her captured air or swallow water, lips pressed closed. Her tears mixing with the water as one last little miracle is dragged forth from the depths. The vests latches undoing. She kicks herself in the water, turning upside down, letting the vests weight pull itself off her, unwrangle her arms and when the deadly weight is lifted, her boots gone as well from the water filling them, she's letting out all that harbored air, using the bubbles to see which way is up and when she sees it, she's kicking and clawing her way through the water to the surface.
Nobody else, nobody else can go for you
You got to go there by yourself
Air has never seemed sweeter. Abigail knows how to swim and her arms and legs kick in concert to keep her above water. Air and water lap into her mouth, a choking gasp as she looks around, place where she is, and seeing shoreline starts to swim there. Use the currents to angle herself to land. The bridge is far off, she can see if it she but takes a moment to. But she's not. Thursday. She needs to make it to Thursday. She promised she'd make it to Thursday.
And she will. Abigail makes it to shore, no one to greet her, not even dark clothed geared individuals. Her jacket will wash out down the river and likely be found by someone. But Abigail's not hanging around the shore. Chattering teeth, soon to be a victim of hypothermia, Abigail crawls her way across the shores of Brooklyn. She knows a place. Deep in a neighbourhood of crack dealers and god only knows what else, but she knows a place, knows who to call. Hopefully, she can get there before even consciousness can abandon her, or before her body says it's too cold and has had enough.
Lonesome Valley - Farfield Four
 January 28th: Almost |
 January 28th: Dreaming's Rescue |
