A Life Flickering, Pt. II
Date: Wednesday, 16th August; into later days BACKDATED
Location: St. Mungo's Psychiatric Ward
Characters Involved: Primarily Deirdre Burke and David Mason (NPC)
Rating: PG-13 for violence.
NOTE: Continued from
here, here, and finally here. First two are journals, last one is the first part of this particular action.
David was in a state, in every conceivable incarnation of the phrase, and the gesture of trust that was allowing Deirdre into the room appeared to be as far as his generosity was willing to stretch at the present. She could not approach, and was thus faced with a dilemma: draw near and risk the consequences of her patient's self-directed wrath, or wait until he dropped from exhaustion. As it was likely his adrenaline-charged system was masking the actual seriousness of his condition, waiting for this episode to subside would merely allow him to, as he inevitably would, bleed out.
Somehow, with the frantic speed but simultaneous calm that the situation required, she managed to inch her way across the room to assess the damage. Perhaps the fact that she looked more disheveled than any of her recent acquaintances had ever seen her unnerved David to the extent of curiosity. Murmuring as one would to a skittish, life-frightened colt-though with none of the condescension-she crouched alongside the man, the soles of her worn sneakers sharing the same viscous puddle as those of her charge. Bluish black and swollen half moons were set deeply beneath her eyes like literary underscores. Her hair was everywhere. She wore a ratty old brown sweater. When the look was paired with the oversized sweats, she was quite the sight-a bit frightening, she thought.
But Deirdre was nothing---nothing---compared to the state of her client. And she knew it, and hated (hated) herself for contemplating for just a fraction of a second to put on an acceptable outfit before Apparating to the hospital. Hated the orderlies for thinking they could handle it on their own. Hated the people who didn’t understand the disorder as they should. Hated the people that depended on potions and pills and social niceties. Hated herself.
His arms were in poor shape. He had evidently succeeded in scratching away the skin of his wrists and had gone on to the methodical, chillingly detached task of bursting the main vessels. One by one. The swollen, contained rivers had relented under his thumb and forefinger and were now flowing viscously over his hands and through the creases on his white, hospital issue slacks.
David looked up at Deirdre, dreamy and resigned. Distantly, he comprehended the fact that she had ripped strips of fabric from her sweater and was binding each of his forearms in a merciless tourniquet. And that she was binding his hands together. Tightly.
“Hey…”
But by then, David had lost all the will, strength, and blood required to protest the advent of the pale snow of Healers filtering into the room.
Deirdre did not return home that night or the next day. She replaced her copper-crusted clothing with a pair of ill-fitting turquoise medical robes. She stayed in that room. She sat by his bed. She ate the food he offered to share. Most of all, she listened. She heard of the chaos in which he had existed, of the numbness he had employed in order to survive. How he had hollowed out his mind in order to function. How now his perfect plan had backfired. How he felt quiet and empty amidst a storm of emotions he should have been feeling. Like the eye of a storm, like a bell, very cool and still inside, the stopper muffled.
When she finally emerged, Deirdre had limp strands of hair greasily pulled behind her head in a fist. Her robes were bedraggled. She smelled. She had gotten through.
No longer was there an incessant, terrified, shamed monologue repeating in her head my fault my fault my fault my fault. And though she still believed as much, they had come out the other side together.
She had gotten through.
NOTE: Continued here and mentioned here.
Location: St. Mungo's Psychiatric Ward
Characters Involved: Primarily Deirdre Burke and David Mason (NPC)
Rating: PG-13 for violence.
NOTE: Continued from
here, here, and finally here. First two are journals, last one is the first part of this particular action.
David was in a state, in every conceivable incarnation of the phrase, and the gesture of trust that was allowing Deirdre into the room appeared to be as far as his generosity was willing to stretch at the present. She could not approach, and was thus faced with a dilemma: draw near and risk the consequences of her patient's self-directed wrath, or wait until he dropped from exhaustion. As it was likely his adrenaline-charged system was masking the actual seriousness of his condition, waiting for this episode to subside would merely allow him to, as he inevitably would, bleed out.
Somehow, with the frantic speed but simultaneous calm that the situation required, she managed to inch her way across the room to assess the damage. Perhaps the fact that she looked more disheveled than any of her recent acquaintances had ever seen her unnerved David to the extent of curiosity. Murmuring as one would to a skittish, life-frightened colt-though with none of the condescension-she crouched alongside the man, the soles of her worn sneakers sharing the same viscous puddle as those of her charge. Bluish black and swollen half moons were set deeply beneath her eyes like literary underscores. Her hair was everywhere. She wore a ratty old brown sweater. When the look was paired with the oversized sweats, she was quite the sight-a bit frightening, she thought.
But Deirdre was nothing---nothing---compared to the state of her client. And she knew it, and hated (hated) herself for contemplating for just a fraction of a second to put on an acceptable outfit before Apparating to the hospital. Hated the orderlies for thinking they could handle it on their own. Hated the people who didn’t understand the disorder as they should. Hated the people that depended on potions and pills and social niceties. Hated herself.
His arms were in poor shape. He had evidently succeeded in scratching away the skin of his wrists and had gone on to the methodical, chillingly detached task of bursting the main vessels. One by one. The swollen, contained rivers had relented under his thumb and forefinger and were now flowing viscously over his hands and through the creases on his white, hospital issue slacks.
David looked up at Deirdre, dreamy and resigned. Distantly, he comprehended the fact that she had ripped strips of fabric from her sweater and was binding each of his forearms in a merciless tourniquet. And that she was binding his hands together. Tightly.
“Hey…”
But by then, David had lost all the will, strength, and blood required to protest the advent of the pale snow of Healers filtering into the room.
Deirdre did not return home that night or the next day. She replaced her copper-crusted clothing with a pair of ill-fitting turquoise medical robes. She stayed in that room. She sat by his bed. She ate the food he offered to share. Most of all, she listened. She heard of the chaos in which he had existed, of the numbness he had employed in order to survive. How he had hollowed out his mind in order to function. How now his perfect plan had backfired. How he felt quiet and empty amidst a storm of emotions he should have been feeling. Like the eye of a storm, like a bell, very cool and still inside, the stopper muffled.
When she finally emerged, Deirdre had limp strands of hair greasily pulled behind her head in a fist. Her robes were bedraggled. She smelled. She had gotten through.
No longer was there an incessant, terrified, shamed monologue repeating in her head my fault my fault my fault my fault. And though she still believed as much, they had come out the other side together.
She had gotten through.
NOTE: Continued here and mentioned here.