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savetheearth2014-07-05 08:09 pm
belphe) wrote in savetheearth2014-07-05 08:09 pm
(no subject)
Who: Belle Goldman / Lazarus Lawliet
What: Belle REALLY doesn't handle having control over her life taken away from her very well and Lazarus has very poor timing.
Where: Their apartment
When: Late evening, July 3rd
Accommodating someone else's memories of having killed before was one thing. Belle had been given the leeway to explain it away as having any number of reasons behind it. Maybe they had been involved in a war, for example...or maybe it had been self-defense. The following barrage of memories of having taken greatest pleasure in it, however, had been intolerable. There had been a vague sense of duty, but it had been overshadowed entirely by unbridled joy and exhilaration at taking a life, piercing someone's flesh, tasting someone's blood...
The more she let herself fixate on it, the more she withdrew from others out of fear that whoever owned those memories might be lying in wait for a chance to inflict themselves on one of her patients. Her only distraction from it, aside from the occasional oddness from her housemate, had been her nightly Skype chats with Russell, who had been keeping in touch more often following the debacle downtown. Hearing about his day-to-day life in comparison to the chaos of Locke City was a welcome dose of badly-needed normality. She hadn't even minded when conversations would traipse off into worries about his engagement.
Worries had fed into concerns and second-guesses about whether he was rushing into marrying Karen or not. She had advised him as best as she was able until it he'd logged in one day, dejected, and announcing she'd broken off their engagement. She had spent many late nights consoling him, during which the boundaries of their friendship had started to blur. They had begun to talk about more personal things, and their time at school together....eventually he'd asked if he could come to visit her in a couple of months, and before she could tell him it was likely a bad idea, she had already singled out a week in the calendar that she'd be free.
She didn't know if she could call it the beginnings of a relationship or not, but whatever-it-was had granted her the stability to keep going to work. Her confidence in working closely with others, however, hadn't been helped, those who hadn't been clued in weren't aware of her reasons for being distant were quickly becoming frustrated. Her patients had taken notice of the fact their young therapist had become closed off, and seemed to go out of her way to be distant, and they had voiced their displeasure to Dr. Korai.
After receiving the latest today from a disappointed mother who had hoped to seek post-natal counseling for her depression and had not felt at all comfortable in Belle's office, a confrontation had finally happened. Glen had called her to his office just before lunch, requesting an explanation for her shift in behavior. The more she'd tried to explain herself, however, the more everything had quickly gone downhill. Glen's temper had risen at her refusal to give him straight answers to direct questions, and Belle's composure became badly-rattled as she struggled not to just admit to everything. Honesty seemed much easier than trying to hide behind the flimsy shields of lack of sleep and stress about her mother's condition.
So shaken had she been, that Belle hadn't been sure what exactly had happened next. He had stepped closer, telling her up-close that he had no patience for someone who wasn't going to take this profession seriously by bringing their drama from home to work. She needed to decide, he'd said, whether she wanted to be a doctor, or whether she wanted to be a child hiding behind her mother.
They had begun again....a dark picture-play of memories. Piercing, cutting, twisting, dripping red. Thrilling in the kill and turning men to meat
All at once, Dr. Korai had been on the opposite end of the office, nursing a set of freshly-raked scratches that began on his brow and trailed down his cheek as if someone had clumsily tried to take his eye. The hunted look he was giving her had filled her with a sick certainty that she'd been responsible for it. He had not needed to ask her to leave, as she'd been quick to scuttle out on her own, gathering her things and leaving the plaza in hurried silence. It wasn't until nearly three hours later that she received the phone call she'd been expecting. Glen, having regained most of his composure, informed her stiffly that her residency at Oakwood had concluded.
And, just like that, her life as she'd known it the last few years was over, leaving her to sit in the rubble in bewilderment. Like others who'd had the same thing befall them on the network, she didn't even know where to begin putting the pieces back together....and so, for the time being, she'd opted not to.
Several texts to Russell, and one voicemail were finally returned with a brief "Karen's over here. Talk later?" response, which had earned her phone a banishment to the top drawer of her nightstand. It had been her own fault for assuming, she supposed...and probably her own wishful thinking.
In a desperate attempt to inject some sort of familiarity to her day, she had gone out to pick up things for dinner. Instead of food, though, she had come home with two bottles of vodka, one of which she was seven shots into as she laid sprawled on the sofa.
Belle had never made a dedicated attempt to get drunk before, and knew it was not going to fix anything. She had said as such to her patients many times before. Though, for the time being, it seemed to have hazed away her ability to care, which made it much easier to think. He might press charges, she thought, slowly swirling the small remnant of clear liquor in the bottom of the souvenir shotglass that had sat, unused, on top of her bookcase for as long as she'd lived there. There would be a lawsuit, and then she'd be forced to explain herself to the courtroom. Maybe they knew who she'd once been and would leap at the chance to hold her accountable for that person's past killing.
What: Belle REALLY doesn't handle having control over her life taken away from her very well and Lazarus has very poor timing.
Where: Their apartment
When: Late evening, July 3rd
Accommodating someone else's memories of having killed before was one thing. Belle had been given the leeway to explain it away as having any number of reasons behind it. Maybe they had been involved in a war, for example...or maybe it had been self-defense. The following barrage of memories of having taken greatest pleasure in it, however, had been intolerable. There had been a vague sense of duty, but it had been overshadowed entirely by unbridled joy and exhilaration at taking a life, piercing someone's flesh, tasting someone's blood...
The more she let herself fixate on it, the more she withdrew from others out of fear that whoever owned those memories might be lying in wait for a chance to inflict themselves on one of her patients. Her only distraction from it, aside from the occasional oddness from her housemate, had been her nightly Skype chats with Russell, who had been keeping in touch more often following the debacle downtown. Hearing about his day-to-day life in comparison to the chaos of Locke City was a welcome dose of badly-needed normality. She hadn't even minded when conversations would traipse off into worries about his engagement.
Worries had fed into concerns and second-guesses about whether he was rushing into marrying Karen or not. She had advised him as best as she was able until it he'd logged in one day, dejected, and announcing she'd broken off their engagement. She had spent many late nights consoling him, during which the boundaries of their friendship had started to blur. They had begun to talk about more personal things, and their time at school together....eventually he'd asked if he could come to visit her in a couple of months, and before she could tell him it was likely a bad idea, she had already singled out a week in the calendar that she'd be free.
She didn't know if she could call it the beginnings of a relationship or not, but whatever-it-was had granted her the stability to keep going to work. Her confidence in working closely with others, however, hadn't been helped, those who hadn't been clued in weren't aware of her reasons for being distant were quickly becoming frustrated. Her patients had taken notice of the fact their young therapist had become closed off, and seemed to go out of her way to be distant, and they had voiced their displeasure to Dr. Korai.
After receiving the latest today from a disappointed mother who had hoped to seek post-natal counseling for her depression and had not felt at all comfortable in Belle's office, a confrontation had finally happened. Glen had called her to his office just before lunch, requesting an explanation for her shift in behavior. The more she'd tried to explain herself, however, the more everything had quickly gone downhill. Glen's temper had risen at her refusal to give him straight answers to direct questions, and Belle's composure became badly-rattled as she struggled not to just admit to everything. Honesty seemed much easier than trying to hide behind the flimsy shields of lack of sleep and stress about her mother's condition.
So shaken had she been, that Belle hadn't been sure what exactly had happened next. He had stepped closer, telling her up-close that he had no patience for someone who wasn't going to take this profession seriously by bringing their drama from home to work. She needed to decide, he'd said, whether she wanted to be a doctor, or whether she wanted to be a child hiding behind her mother.
They had begun again....a dark picture-play of memories. Piercing, cutting, twisting, dripping red. Thrilling in the kill and turning men to meat
All at once, Dr. Korai had been on the opposite end of the office, nursing a set of freshly-raked scratches that began on his brow and trailed down his cheek as if someone had clumsily tried to take his eye. The hunted look he was giving her had filled her with a sick certainty that she'd been responsible for it. He had not needed to ask her to leave, as she'd been quick to scuttle out on her own, gathering her things and leaving the plaza in hurried silence. It wasn't until nearly three hours later that she received the phone call she'd been expecting. Glen, having regained most of his composure, informed her stiffly that her residency at Oakwood had concluded.
And, just like that, her life as she'd known it the last few years was over, leaving her to sit in the rubble in bewilderment. Like others who'd had the same thing befall them on the network, she didn't even know where to begin putting the pieces back together....and so, for the time being, she'd opted not to.
Several texts to Russell, and one voicemail were finally returned with a brief "Karen's over here. Talk later?" response, which had earned her phone a banishment to the top drawer of her nightstand. It had been her own fault for assuming, she supposed...and probably her own wishful thinking.
In a desperate attempt to inject some sort of familiarity to her day, she had gone out to pick up things for dinner. Instead of food, though, she had come home with two bottles of vodka, one of which she was seven shots into as she laid sprawled on the sofa.
Belle had never made a dedicated attempt to get drunk before, and knew it was not going to fix anything. She had said as such to her patients many times before. Though, for the time being, it seemed to have hazed away her ability to care, which made it much easier to think. He might press charges, she thought, slowly swirling the small remnant of clear liquor in the bottom of the souvenir shotglass that had sat, unused, on top of her bookcase for as long as she'd lived there. There would be a lawsuit, and then she'd be forced to explain herself to the courtroom. Maybe they knew who she'd once been and would leap at the chance to hold her accountable for that person's past killing.
The thought made something between a humorless laugh and a sob escape her, which she drowned with the last bit of the contents of the glass.
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