Wednesday Night: Late.medusae_xNovember 24 2005, 10:48:20 UTC
While Faith is down gambling, Duce writes a diary entry and then stuffs the diary deep into the lining of her flight bag. Grimly attacking the minibar, she begins going through alcohol at an unhealthy rate.
Then again, the purpose is oblivion ASAP. She's thinking too much. Thinking is bad. Being completely trashed and giggly is good.
Sunday morning, or The Morning After.medusae_xNovember 27 2005, 08:09:20 UTC
Duce woke Sunday morning. The first thought that penetrated her sleep-fogged mind was warmsoftfeelsgood, and she sleepily cuddled tighter before recognising that she was snuggling up to.. someone. Her snakes, being antagonizing little bitches, refused to look for her and she could hear them sniggering inside her mind. She kept her eyes tightly closed until she belatedly recognised that she had something tied around her head as a nightblind. That caused her to breathe a sigh of relief. Images from the night before began to surface. Drinking. Drinking more. The abject failure of gravity on more than one occasion. Walking. The Wizard of Oz. Jonathan holding her up. Faith holding her hand and singing. Elvis. Faith punching Elvis.
That made her smile briefly. There were more images of Elvis, and one of her fist punching a plaster Elvis and exploding that pouty sneer into a thousand tiny plaster fragments. Jonathan throwing rice. Rings. Gold rings. Gold wedding rings. Her entire body tensed. From where she was laying, with her hands
( ... )
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Then again, the purpose is oblivion ASAP. She's thinking too much. Thinking is bad. Being completely trashed and giggly is good.
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That made her smile briefly. There were more images of Elvis, and one of her fist punching a plaster Elvis and exploding that pouty sneer into a thousand tiny plaster fragments. Jonathan throwing rice. Rings. Gold rings. Gold wedding rings. Her entire body tensed. From where she was laying, with her hands ( ... )
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