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writing_shadowsIt was, someone said, as if there was a curse on London that February. Maybe even on the whole country. No one knew where it had started, or how it had spread, but everyone knew that something was wrong. The curse trickled into people’s lives like cold water, numbed them, nagged at them, left them feeling cold and afloat in a sea of troubles.
In Cambridge, where Ruth Riley was trying to set up her new shop, the curse caused her to drop two bottles of important scents and misplace the carefully tanned hide of a much loved ghoul she had once flayed. She spent four panicked hours searching for it, and could only find a portrait of her Sire, painted in oils on canvas. She had no idea why she would have a painting of him. She hated him. She suspected that Jack Riley might have given it to her as a Christmas present.
She hid it behind the box that contained her Hannukah candles.
In Essex, near Colchester, Rosie Sparks found herself close to tears more often than not. She wasn’t sure why. She suspected she was just tired. She shouldn’t have been tired. The magics of Spring should be keeping her awake, but both she and Malachi were learning that the magics of Spring couldn’t stop the kind of exhaustion that comes from your brain working overtime, from the constant flow of new and difficult things.
Rose was taking pills, and Sam had lost more friends. Drago still hated her Motley, and Malachi still only had one eye. Mort had been stern with her, and she was increasingly coming to the conclusion that Snaggle might actually be less heroic and more demented, which was an unsettling thought.
At least she still had her pet dragon to console her, and she was hopefully going to be volunteering at her local Dog’s Trust rehoming centre from March onwards.
In London, Venice Fortescue was in a foul mood. It was the kind of bad mood which settled on her like a demon on her shoulder, and clawed at her whenever she tried to shift it. She wanted to hurt someone. She wanted to hurt herself. She wanted to stop hurting. Nothing felt right. She took Moorcroft to bed because he was warm and she was cold, and then afterwards found herself feeling even colder, and sharp with him because it felt as if all she had ever been was an accepting cunt for whoever could take her.
She twitched when Rex was protective and twitched when he wasn’t, and had found herself resenting him for wanting to play the sex games that they had always played. Yet she knew that she would want to hurt him if he didn’t.
When she was on her own she remembered a conversation she’d had with Rex and cried.
”Who really thinks they can marry a fourteen year old girl?”
“No one. The cynical part of me thinks not even him.”
She then despised herself for crying and for being weak. She wasn't weak. She was never weak. Other people cried, and waited for someone to come and kiss it better. She was tough, and cold and as sharp as a needle.
In her small Hollow, the mushrooms that she fed on nightmares grew fat and plump.
On the outskirts of London, where London met Essex, Rio Anderson was discovering a number of things.
First of all, she was discovering that every time she thought she’d hit rock bottom, she could always find a trapdoor leading further down. Her first night without Lennie had been agony. Her third night, when Holly had gone back to her own bed, and hadn’t spent the night wrapped around her Mum, had been worse. Her seventh night, after Jonah had come round to offer financial help, had been even worse.
Her tenth night, when she lay in bed going through all the practicalities of her new life, and it finally began to sink it, was so bad she actually got up, walked downstairs and sat in the kitchen with the bottle of sleeping pills that the doctor had given her a while ago, staring at them. In the end she flushed them down the toilet. Holly didn’t need that kind of thing right now.
Still, odd moments seemed to brighten her up. Isabelle telling her to cry, to shout, to fall apart if she wanted had made her feel warmed for a while. Ben’s lasagne, which he kept bringing by relentlessly, stayed edible. Jonah, alarmingly, made her feel almost as safe as he had when she was a kid. Having Holly around kept her alive, she thought.
Xenophon and Mal visiting had been unsettling. Mal, she thought, had been the worst. She’d wanted to hate him, unconditionally, but she hadn’t been able to. He’d been too tired, too battered. Then, after he’d left, she’d hated herself for not being able to hate him. He deserved it. He’d treated her with nothing but contempt, he’d killed her husband and he’d shattered her family. So why couldn’t she hate him?
She hadn’t seen Karei since the other girl had delivered the news of Lennie’s death. Rio wasn’t sure she could. Karei had been her best friend once. She had loved the other girl, relied on her. Now she was Jonah’s girlfriend, and that title came bundled up with a whole bunch of pain and guilt that Rio didn’t know how to deal with. She didn’t hate Kay. She just hated herself, whenever she was anywhere near Kay, and that was really a lot harder to get through.
On the thirteenth day after Lennie’s death, Rio forced herself to have a proper bath, instead of a dutiful shower, for the first time. She washed her hair, shaved her legs, and carefully applied eyeliner and lipstick. She brushed her hair out, and hung a silver St Christopher around her neck.
February, she thought, couldn’t get any worse. She might as well go out and face it.
She wondered, absent mindedly, where she would find the trap door.
In Cambridge, where Ruth Riley was trying to set up her new shop, the curse caused her to drop two bottles of important scents and misplace the carefully tanned hide of a much loved ghoul she had once flayed. She spent four panicked hours searching for it, and could only find a portrait of her Sire, painted in oils on canvas. She had no idea why she would have a painting of him. She hated him. She suspected that Jack Riley might have given it to her as a Christmas present.
She hid it behind the box that contained her Hannukah candles.
In Essex, near Colchester, Rosie Sparks found herself close to tears more often than not. She wasn’t sure why. She suspected she was just tired. She shouldn’t have been tired. The magics of Spring should be keeping her awake, but both she and Malachi were learning that the magics of Spring couldn’t stop the kind of exhaustion that comes from your brain working overtime, from the constant flow of new and difficult things.
Rose was taking pills, and Sam had lost more friends. Drago still hated her Motley, and Malachi still only had one eye. Mort had been stern with her, and she was increasingly coming to the conclusion that Snaggle might actually be less heroic and more demented, which was an unsettling thought.
At least she still had her pet dragon to console her, and she was hopefully going to be volunteering at her local Dog’s Trust rehoming centre from March onwards.
In London, Venice Fortescue was in a foul mood. It was the kind of bad mood which settled on her like a demon on her shoulder, and clawed at her whenever she tried to shift it. She wanted to hurt someone. She wanted to hurt herself. She wanted to stop hurting. Nothing felt right. She took Moorcroft to bed because he was warm and she was cold, and then afterwards found herself feeling even colder, and sharp with him because it felt as if all she had ever been was an accepting cunt for whoever could take her.
She twitched when Rex was protective and twitched when he wasn’t, and had found herself resenting him for wanting to play the sex games that they had always played. Yet she knew that she would want to hurt him if he didn’t.
When she was on her own she remembered a conversation she’d had with Rex and cried.
”Who really thinks they can marry a fourteen year old girl?”
“No one. The cynical part of me thinks not even him.”
She then despised herself for crying and for being weak. She wasn't weak. She was never weak. Other people cried, and waited for someone to come and kiss it better. She was tough, and cold and as sharp as a needle.
In her small Hollow, the mushrooms that she fed on nightmares grew fat and plump.
On the outskirts of London, where London met Essex, Rio Anderson was discovering a number of things.
First of all, she was discovering that every time she thought she’d hit rock bottom, she could always find a trapdoor leading further down. Her first night without Lennie had been agony. Her third night, when Holly had gone back to her own bed, and hadn’t spent the night wrapped around her Mum, had been worse. Her seventh night, after Jonah had come round to offer financial help, had been even worse.
Her tenth night, when she lay in bed going through all the practicalities of her new life, and it finally began to sink it, was so bad she actually got up, walked downstairs and sat in the kitchen with the bottle of sleeping pills that the doctor had given her a while ago, staring at them. In the end she flushed them down the toilet. Holly didn’t need that kind of thing right now.
Still, odd moments seemed to brighten her up. Isabelle telling her to cry, to shout, to fall apart if she wanted had made her feel warmed for a while. Ben’s lasagne, which he kept bringing by relentlessly, stayed edible. Jonah, alarmingly, made her feel almost as safe as he had when she was a kid. Having Holly around kept her alive, she thought.
Xenophon and Mal visiting had been unsettling. Mal, she thought, had been the worst. She’d wanted to hate him, unconditionally, but she hadn’t been able to. He’d been too tired, too battered. Then, after he’d left, she’d hated herself for not being able to hate him. He deserved it. He’d treated her with nothing but contempt, he’d killed her husband and he’d shattered her family. So why couldn’t she hate him?
She hadn’t seen Karei since the other girl had delivered the news of Lennie’s death. Rio wasn’t sure she could. Karei had been her best friend once. She had loved the other girl, relied on her. Now she was Jonah’s girlfriend, and that title came bundled up with a whole bunch of pain and guilt that Rio didn’t know how to deal with. She didn’t hate Kay. She just hated herself, whenever she was anywhere near Kay, and that was really a lot harder to get through.
On the thirteenth day after Lennie’s death, Rio forced herself to have a proper bath, instead of a dutiful shower, for the first time. She washed her hair, shaved her legs, and carefully applied eyeliner and lipstick. She brushed her hair out, and hung a silver St Christopher around her neck.
February, she thought, couldn’t get any worse. She might as well go out and face it.
She wondered, absent mindedly, where she would find the trap door.
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no subject
Date: 2010-02-03 04:01 pm (UTC)But yes a nice piece.
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Date: 2010-02-03 07:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-03 07:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-03 07:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-03 07:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-03 07:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-03 07:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-05 04:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-05 04:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-05 09:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-05 09:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-05 09:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-05 09:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-03 04:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-03 04:48 pm (UTC)Also because she has _no idea_ what to say. She did her most useful thing in saying Jonah should go visit. Now she mostly wants to be self-indulgent and mourn her sis. Which is not exactly excellent good friend material, I know!
But, a nice piece :) I need to write one tonight (ahhh, avoidance of work. How I love thee!)
no subject
Date: 2010-02-03 04:56 pm (UTC)Coz, in her mind, there's a difference between yearning after a time in your life when you could be young and crazy in love, and idealistic and have all these hopes and dreams, and actually wanting the person who was around back then. And she's never known whether she really wants Jonah, or just wants to be the person she was who was in love with him.
But either way, she knows she does get all wibbly about it, and so feels guilty if Kay is around at all. Hence avoidance, not really knowing what to say, and a conviction that she is best off just never speaking to either of them again.
(she was avoiding Jonah too. He just has 'I knew you when you were 12' privilege, which Rio is immeasurably susceptible to. If Satan turned up and said 'I remember you when you were 8', she'd probably let him in).
no subject
Date: 2010-02-03 05:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-03 07:21 pm (UTC)Well whatever gave her that impression?
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Date: 2010-02-03 07:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-03 07:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-03 08:17 pm (UTC)See, his legend spreads! Even Kildare's heard things about him!
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Date: 2010-02-03 09:26 pm (UTC);)
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Date: 2010-02-03 09:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-03 10:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-03 11:13 pm (UTC)(Or she can email him about it.)
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Date: 2010-02-03 11:42 pm (UTC)