Freaky Friday: Venice/Nemoa
Feb. 9th, 2011 05:08 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
annwfyn.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
writing_shadowsVenice didn't need to open her eyes to know that something was wrong. Rather, the wrongness of the situation was evident just in the strange new sensations running through her body. There was a weight on her chest that wasn't there before, a thickness in her waist and hips. She felt heavy, unwieldy, cumbersome in her very bones.
She opened her eyes, finding them sticky and filled with sleep. How did this happen? That never happened. Venice woke up, every single morning, with the dawn. Every time the sun rose, so did she, filled with a sickening kind of happiness that no amount of chemicals seemed to be able to suppress. Ever since the hellish incident in Klosters, which had stolen two years of her life and cursed her with feathers and an embarrassing social life, she'd been unable to lie in, incapable of remaining comatose past dawn.
Venice rubbed at her eyes sleepily. A bedside clock swam into her bleary vision. The time was startling. The face she saw partly reflected in the glass of the clock was even worse.
At least Nemoa's vocal chords were apparently designed to smother sound, and Venice squawk of horror only came out as a gasp.
Nemoa???
She scrambled out of bed, landing on her feet with an uncomfortably heavy thump. Gah! Did this girl take no care of herself at all? And how the hell had this happened?
She stalked with some determination across the dark but cosy bedroom (and who on earth decorated with that much black? Jesus, no wonder Nemoa always looked so miserable) and flung open the heavy oaken wardrobe with some determination, only to fall back with a gasp of horror as a wave of artificial fabrics greeted her. The hideous stench of polyester was positively thick in the air and Venice shut the wardrobe door again very rapidly before it overwhelmed her.
Oh god. This got worse and worse! Not only was she currently carrying the equivalent of what felt like half a dozen bags of sugar, liberally pasted across her breasts and hips, but she couldn't even cover up all that horrific soft flesh with nice clothing. She managed to open the wardrobe door again, just a crack. She thought she saw some crushed velvet in there and shut it again.
Venice took a deep breath to try and get control of the horrible panicked feeling which was rapidly rising up in her chest. She was not going to panic. She was not going to cry. She wasn't just some pathetic little fairy cry baby. She did not get upset. She was Venice Fortescue, and all that that entailed.
She stalked back to the bed with some determination and inspected the bed sheets. They looked as if they were quite good quality cotton, and so she began to strip them from the bed with some determination. Somewhere in this godforsaken cave (and she remembered Moorcroft saying that Nemoa lived in a cave. Who really lived in a cave?) would be a pair of scissors and a needle and thread. Maybe a sewing machine if she were really lucky. The first thing to do would be to run together a nice little cotton shift dress with a pleasant line to it. She might see if there were some curtains which could be cannibalized as well, and maybe there would be some bits and pieces in the wardrobe which would be made up of usable fabrics.
Once she had done that, she would need to investigate Nemoa's make up bag, and hair care products. And once that had happened...
Venice frowned.
Well, obviously she'd need to find somewhere which sold laxatives and work out how much excess weight she could shed as quickly as possible without collapsing from dehydration. And then she'd need to work out exactly who was likely to be of use in this situation. And she needed to do all this whilst keeping an eye on her demented Albanian receptionist, who was almost certainly running rampant through Venice's dress making business as she lingered.
Venice sighed in a long suffering day. Today was clearly going to be one of those days. Still, it could be worse. At least this particular nightmarish and surreal wake up call didn't feature Colombians, Ukrainians or hallucinating Argentinians. Or cats. She hated it when that happened.
She opened her eyes, finding them sticky and filled with sleep. How did this happen? That never happened. Venice woke up, every single morning, with the dawn. Every time the sun rose, so did she, filled with a sickening kind of happiness that no amount of chemicals seemed to be able to suppress. Ever since the hellish incident in Klosters, which had stolen two years of her life and cursed her with feathers and an embarrassing social life, she'd been unable to lie in, incapable of remaining comatose past dawn.
Venice rubbed at her eyes sleepily. A bedside clock swam into her bleary vision. The time was startling. The face she saw partly reflected in the glass of the clock was even worse.
At least Nemoa's vocal chords were apparently designed to smother sound, and Venice squawk of horror only came out as a gasp.
Nemoa???
She scrambled out of bed, landing on her feet with an uncomfortably heavy thump. Gah! Did this girl take no care of herself at all? And how the hell had this happened?
She stalked with some determination across the dark but cosy bedroom (and who on earth decorated with that much black? Jesus, no wonder Nemoa always looked so miserable) and flung open the heavy oaken wardrobe with some determination, only to fall back with a gasp of horror as a wave of artificial fabrics greeted her. The hideous stench of polyester was positively thick in the air and Venice shut the wardrobe door again very rapidly before it overwhelmed her.
Oh god. This got worse and worse! Not only was she currently carrying the equivalent of what felt like half a dozen bags of sugar, liberally pasted across her breasts and hips, but she couldn't even cover up all that horrific soft flesh with nice clothing. She managed to open the wardrobe door again, just a crack. She thought she saw some crushed velvet in there and shut it again.
Venice took a deep breath to try and get control of the horrible panicked feeling which was rapidly rising up in her chest. She was not going to panic. She was not going to cry. She wasn't just some pathetic little fairy cry baby. She did not get upset. She was Venice Fortescue, and all that that entailed.
She stalked back to the bed with some determination and inspected the bed sheets. They looked as if they were quite good quality cotton, and so she began to strip them from the bed with some determination. Somewhere in this godforsaken cave (and she remembered Moorcroft saying that Nemoa lived in a cave. Who really lived in a cave?) would be a pair of scissors and a needle and thread. Maybe a sewing machine if she were really lucky. The first thing to do would be to run together a nice little cotton shift dress with a pleasant line to it. She might see if there were some curtains which could be cannibalized as well, and maybe there would be some bits and pieces in the wardrobe which would be made up of usable fabrics.
Once she had done that, she would need to investigate Nemoa's make up bag, and hair care products. And once that had happened...
Venice frowned.
Well, obviously she'd need to find somewhere which sold laxatives and work out how much excess weight she could shed as quickly as possible without collapsing from dehydration. And then she'd need to work out exactly who was likely to be of use in this situation. And she needed to do all this whilst keeping an eye on her demented Albanian receptionist, who was almost certainly running rampant through Venice's dress making business as she lingered.
Venice sighed in a long suffering day. Today was clearly going to be one of those days. Still, it could be worse. At least this particular nightmarish and surreal wake up call didn't feature Colombians, Ukrainians or hallucinating Argentinians. Or cats. She hated it when that happened.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-02-10 07:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-10 01:21 pm (UTC)I think it's an anorexic thing. There is literally no problem in Venice's life which she doesn't try and deal with with being thinner first. And the obsession with clothes, and to a certain extent interior decor/her environment comes next.
I think I'd have to skip ahead in the day to avoid writing a number of stories in which a vapid parrot wails 'polyester???' over and over again.