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| [Thursday, October 18, 2007 at 5:18 pm] |
| Subject: People Will Talk |
"Breana! Over here!"
The light bulbs were going off all around her and Breana was doing her best to smile through the nerves, putting her best foot forward as her mother had always been fond of saying.
She had gotten the invitation to this movie premiere several weeks ago and tossed around the decision of whether to go or not at all and after much persuading from her agent she'd finally accepted.
Breana had some of the best designers working for her and all of them were responsible for the very striking red dress now clinging to the assets that almost every viewer got a look at during her time on screen as Bethany Richards.
She turned into another camera, letting her glossy lips part into another jaw aching smile. Breana had already answered questions and had spoken about her love for Birthright amongst other things.
Currently she was praying that she didn't trip over the heels that she'd worn to accentuate her legs and the flow of the dress.
In Hollywood, people talked. It was the nature of the town, especially if you were in show business, and in Hollywood, everyone was in show business. From the girl who bagged your groceries at the supermarket to the guy who cut his grass at six in the morning, there were wanna-be actors, actresses, screenwriters and directors everywhere you looked. And thos people all talked. Gossiped, really.
People had been gossiping about Gwen Hawkins ever since her first marriage crashed and burned, leaving her broke and her movie career in the toilet. Her not-lamented-at-all husband Trevor had spent all of his money and most of hers on drugs, hookers and cars until he very publicly dumped and divorced her for a nineteen-year-old model/actress with the IQ of a boiled turnip. Thus began her downward spiral into bankruptcy and the beginning of her grudge against the 'little snots'.
( Gossip Magnets )
Once a rough sequence of credits started to roll, Gwen extended her hand and wrapped her fingers around Breana's. She had never really cared that much about who talked or what they said anyway. When you'd gotten as many bumps and bruises as she had, you either got a helmet or you developed a thicker skin. She'd done both.
Breana's lips tugged into a wry smile at Gwen's comments and she relaxed back into her seat, trying to find a comfortable way to sit and once she had she settled there. It was only when she felt Gwen's hand close around hers that Breana turned her head, glancing at their hands before looking at Gwen. She offered the other woman a smile and squeezed her hand, figuring the support and the reassurance of Gwen's presence couldn't go amiss.
Just two friends, holding hands casually. And people began to talk..... |
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| [Thursday, October 4, 2007 at 10:48 am] |
| Subject: Physicality |
Every morning after her shower, Gwen Hawkins spent thirty minutes standing stark naked in front of a full-length mirror. Inspecting the inevitable damage of passing time, examining the problem areas, deciding what needed working on the most. She had gotten her own trailer hauled onto the lot instead of letting the production company rent something for her, because what they'd been offering was very much not adequate as far as space went. She had already been more or less established as a star even before Birthright, having done a string of adventure movies, so she had a little more leeway in her contract than some of her co-stars.
This morning she was pretty satisfied with what she saw. Her ass might be drooping a little more than she'd like, but she could work on that. She wasn't twenty anymore. But she still looked damned good for her age and she knew it. And the little snots who were trying to take over the movie industry these days just made her work harder, put more effort into it. Handball three times a week, the gym when she had time for it, martial arts lessons with a black belt she'd met while studying up on fighting styles. Anybody could keep their weight down if they were living on cocaine and bottled water. Ask these brats to drop a few pounds through hard work and they'd look at you like puppies who'd just been spanked with the Sunday paper.
Gwen turned her back to the reflective surface, checking out the backs of her thighs and the way her butt looked. "Not bad, old girl," she said with a nod. She dragged on some jeans, then fixed a protein shake and drank it. She'd check the gossip rags today, see if they at least spelled her damn name right. And she needed to call Kevin, her trainer, to talk about adding something new to her exercise regimen. Kevin was a total sadist when it came to putting her through her paces, but it was what she needed if she was going to maintain herself.
Life was hell when you were playing an immortal sometimes. But it was worth it just to get the sixteen-to-twenty set yowling your name when you showed up at the con nearest them. Definitely worth it. |
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| [Monday, September 10, 2007 at 7:58 am] |
| Subject: The Scene of the Crime |
| Mood |
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 satisfied |
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"Another soldier down. We're havin' fun now, aren't we, baby?"
Quite a crowd had gathered out in front of Samantha Blanchard's house by the time the ambulance arrived, accompanied by two more squad cars with their sirens going full blast, and the rubberneckers continued to come and go after the yellow police tape had cordoned off the area, signalling that this was now officially a crime scene. There were cops in the house, searching the premises thoroughly for the murder weapon, and the sad, bloated remains of Gerald Watkins had already been zipped into a body bag and was being put into the ambulance to be taken to the morgue for an autopsy and recording of the cause of death. To the woman in the nondescript street clothes who lit a cigarette as the wheeled stretcher was rolled past her, it was an entertaining spectacle, a circus being put on for the two-legged vultures that hovered just beyond the thin barrier of tape. Everybody loved a car wreck.
"It's terrible," another woman said, and Grace looked at her with thinly veiled amusement. "I see her almost every day when she goes to work. A police officer, no less. And that poor little child. I can't imagine how such a nice-seeming woman could have done such an awful thing." "Well, even Jeffrey Dahmer had neighbors," the vampire said, turning back to face the house. Blanchard was already gone, having been taken away in handcuffs, and Child Protective Services had been called to take Cory out of the house to an undisclosed location. Grace had always enjoyed seeing her labors bear fruit.
The human beside her continued to gawk, wringing her hands in a theatrical fashion, and the level of murmurming in the crowd grew as another detective stepped out onto the porch, her gold shield glinting where it was hooked to her belt. Grace looked her over, wondering if they'd try and connect the dead cop to Blanchard as well. This whole thing was turning into a real laugh riot as far as she was concerned, and it was enough to make her a litle excited, a little horny. SuperBitch was going down, and she was going down hard.
Those cult fuckers had spent their money well.
Time to slip off into the darkness now, before the television crews arrived. Not that she didn't want to hang out and gloat some more, but it would be prudent to take off now before some nosy-ass took her for a neighbor and tried to get a quote out of her. She could watch the news and keep an eye on the papers for the next week or so, watch the stain spread further and further across Blanchard's life until the Slayer wished she'd never seen Las Vegas, much less set foot in it. Her bill had finally come due. Grace wondered if she had enough good karma to pay it off. Probably not.
The vampire made her way out of the crowd, leaving a thin trail of cigarette smoke in her wake.
She'd done her job, and a good one at that.
Edmund would have been proud of her for being so efficient. |
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| [Thursday, August 30, 2007 at 12:37 pm] |
| Subject: Who's Your Daddy? |
| Mood |
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 complacent |
| Music |
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Breathe Me - Sia |
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The lobby of the Wynn Hotel was ornately decorated, the most richly appointed place the handsome young man sitting on the couch near the reception desk had ever seen. It made his hands itch thinking about all the money that had been spent here, and was still being spent by foolish tourists and Nevadans alike. His girl had done well for herself.
Thank the Lord he'd put on a decent jacket, otherwise he'd have felt out of place.
"He's been sitting there for three hours." Frank Pendleton, the current desk clerk on duty, lowered his voice so that he could speak to Tanya Jessup, who was going to take his place in less than thirty minutes. "I don't think he's so much as moved since then, not even to use the restroom. I asked him if he wanted to leave a message, but he said he wasn't 'bothered' by the wait. I'd call Security, because I think he's creeping out some of the guests, but he's not really doing anything. He's just...sitting there."
Reuben heard it all, of course, every last word, and he twitched his shoulders the slightest bit beneath the heavy fabric of his frock coat. There, he'd moved, maybe now they'd leave a man alone and stop whispering about him like he was a piece of particularly ugly furniture. She'd be here soon enough, and he had nothing but patience for her.
Grace had never stayed in a five-star hotel before, but after collecting her money from Tattoo Face she'd decided to upgrade. The Wynn was right on the Strip, which made it conveinent for her to come and go to her various interests as she pleased, and Deanna seemed to like it well enough here. Swinging back through the doors to the lobby, the vampire started towards the desk to pick up her messages.
"You have a visitor, Ms. Hutchinson," the dude behind the tall desk said, and Grace crammed the small stack of papers he'd handed her into her pocket, feeling the back of her neck prickle. Visitor? Well, good Christ, did she already have trouble following her home? A girl couldn't go anywhere anymore.
The prickle intensified as she took a scan of the lobby, and when she saw the dusty pair of cowboy boots propped up on an overstuffed cushion, a breath she didn't need hitched in her chest. Well now, here was a surprise. And one she could unlive with.
"Hi, lovin' man." She'd already paced the distance off between them, coming to stand where they could look at one another unimpeded. It had been at least six years since she'd seen him, her favorite dirty boy of them all, who'd been ever so kind in gifting her with the bite all that time ago. "Didn't expect you to come trackin' me down. Figured you to be out of the country."
"Was," Reuben answered, looking her over with a slightly detached expression. "But it's been a few years. And it's still August, if only barely." The older vampire removed his boots from the cushion, lifted himself out of the seat in one motion. He was a head taller than she was, and Grace had to look up to make eye contact. Something that felt like chillbumps raced up her spine and then spread out across her back, and she shifted her posture as if she had an itch she couldn't reach. He almost smiled, the left corner of his mouth lifting, and he dipped his head to say the next two words directly into her ear.
"Our anniversary."
The move gave him a better look at the still-unhealed bite Katherine had left her with, and he regarded it with that same dimly amused look he got when he watched the occasional bit of television. "Somebody mark you?" he asked, his Oklahoma accent brushing across her ears like fine-grained sand, and she shook her head. "It's nothin'. Old business. Somethin' that got taken care of." "Mmm. I think I read about that. You come out here to get famous?"
They regarded one another in the ensuing silence, and his hands had already gone behind his back. Grace could almost see his fingers lacing together as if he were praying. Her lovin' man, her trouble man, her dead man. And he made her calm...until he made her be otherwise. She took a discreet sniff at him. He smelled like road dust, gasoline, coffee, and blood. Las Vegas had just gotten a little bit hotter.
His growl echoed hers, so low that no one else could hear it, and he offered her a rare flash of straight white teeth as he hovered closer. "You ain't got no kiss for me?" But his hands were still locked behind his back, the fingers neatly intertwined. Waiting on her, wanting her to reach for it.
She went up on her toes, found his mouth with her own, and it went on for so long that Tanya Jessup, who had been left at the desk by herself while her co-worker went to attend to something for a guest, seriously considered turning a firehose on them. Such things just weren't done in an establishment like the Wynn, at least not in the lobby.
"You hungry?" Grace asked when the kiss finally broke, and Reuben shook his head. "Naw, I ate on the way in. I could use a cup of coffee, though." "They got all kinds here," the younger vampire answered. "Black with no sugar, right?" "Always." One of his hands finally snaked out from behind his back, and he slipped an arm around her waist. She leaned her head onto his shoulder just a fraction before straightening up again. Having him right up against her like this felt like home.
"I wanna hear all about Las Vegas, Gracie..." |
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| [Monday, August 6, 2007 at 10:32 am] |
| Subject: Breaking and Entering |
| Mood |
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 working |
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Had anyone asked her, Grace would have said that Samantha Blanchard was just not very bright. The woman wasn't only a Slayer, she was a police detective, and yet she somehow felt like it might be okay to leave her place unwatched while she was probably out on patrol somewhere. Especially when there was likely a missing persons report out on one Mr. Gerald Watkins, not to mention a vampire cult or whatever the hell looking for her kid. Dumb. Dumb and sloppy.
Ah, well, at least that would make this easier.
The vampire parked around the corner, then walked back past the house to make sure no lights were on. It was two a.m. in the morning and nothing was moving. There was hardly even a breeze. She listened, grateful for her lack of breath leaving the silence undisturbed. Then she paced back towards her vehicle, counting the steps off in her head in case she needed to make a dash for it. Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen. Fourteen steps. Okay, that wasn't too bad.
She examined the Slayer's car once she walked back, wondering about alarm systems and how easy it would be to open the trunk without attracting attention. The palms of her gloved hands ran over the vehicle's surface lightly, and when nothing happened she moved around to the trunk to examine the lock. Had to be a little careful here, didn't want to leave evidence of tampering. The mechanism looked simple enough, but you could never tell with some of these new models. Fortunately, she had her handy set of burglary tools with her, and she pried gently at the lock with a few of the picks before finding something that fit. Gently, now, very gently...there! Praise having long-term criminal tendencies.
Grace left the trunk slightly open, took up a light jog back to the Plymouth. There must have been no neighborhood watch around here, because she had half expected some nosy neighbor to have peeked out of their windows by now. But the night remained silent except for her footsteps and the occasional sound of traffic a coupel of streets over, and the vampire continued her work undisturbed.
Rigor mortis had already come and gone for Gerald, and she lifted him out of the trunk as though he weighed no more than an infant. She elbowed Samantha's trunk the rest of the way open, then deposited the corpse inside, unfolding a blanket she'd discovered there before draping it over him. "There," she said with a sort of macabre approval. "Now you look like a murder victim."
The trunk clicked shut as she closed it, then took one last visual sweep of the area before easing back to her waiting car. The engine started, and she pulled away from the curb without turning on the headlights. With her vision she didn't need them, and if she could slip off into the dark without incident, then all the better. At the first stoplight, she flipped them on, then swiped up her cell phone from where it lay on the seat beside her.
"All right," she said to the recorded voice on the other end. "The second phase is finished. Now someone just...needs to find the body. Ever tried making an anonymous phone call?" |
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| [Sunday, July 29, 2007 at 1:34 pm] |
| Subject: The Paying of Respects |
"Fuck, man..."
Grace stared at the newspaper in her hands, dropping her weight into a chair as she read through the article again. Missing and presumed dead. What the hell had Hannah gotten herself into? Her brow creased as she finished the story a second time, and she looked at the streetlight where it shone through the window before turning her attention back to the words printed on the page.
"Damnation." There was something slithery and uncomfortable underneath her breastbone, and she remembered the tiny blonde facing her in her driveway, facing her real self and being so brave about it, if a little quivery. She remembered being a seven-year-old, being served breakfast at Hannah's kitchen table. Oatmeal with lots of raisins, because that was what she'd asked for. And a big glass of red Kool Aid, a beam of early morning sunlight shining through it.
"For a little while there, it was almost like startin' over."
The vampire read the article (obituary) one final time before folding the newspaper up and setting it aside. She'd liked the girl, damn it. Hannah had been brave and plucky and kind. And the world already felt a little darker just from not having her in it anymore. Grace no longer grieved as she once had, as humans did, but she'd owed the blonde a debt, one that hadn't been paid to her satisfaction. Now it looked like it would never be completely paid off.
But she could still pay her respects.
She got up, grabbed her jacket off of the bed and pulled it on. The sun was down now, and she could make the drive in less than an hour. She hadn't eaten key lime pie in years and years.
She owed that much to a tiny girl named Hannah, one who'd been nice to her once. |
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| [Monday, May 21, 2007 at 4:32 pm] |
| Subject: Back Inside Her Skin |
| Mood |
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 aggravated |
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There was no one in the mirror. Grace knew because she kept looking, checking for the reflection of a face that hadn't seen its own image in more than three decades. She'd woken up half an hour ago, and since then she couldn't quite tear herself away from the lack of a pair of angry, confused eyes staring back at her from the reflective surface. It was three o'clock in the morning, and all was silence. Her clothes were in a paper grocery bag on the lowered toliet seat. Thank fuck she'd convinced Hannah to bag them up, just in case they'd help her...get back home.
The vampire let out a humorless chuckle, ran her hands over her face. Home. Her home was wherever she wanted it to be, and had been for a long time. Dallas, Chicago, New York City, a six-month stay overseas in Germany where she visited the Black Forest and attended Oktoberfest. Maybe one day she'd go back there, she'd like to brush up on her German again.
Her palms moved down past her strong jawline to her shoulders, then further down over her breasts until they'd passed across her flat stomach and onto her hips. She had worked off the minimal fat of her girlhood, burned it away in the fires of hard physical training. In the moonlight that spilled through the small bathroom window, she looked like she'd been carved out of marble. But there was no mirrored image of herself to confirm that she was there at all. And that was the sole relief she could find.
Paper rattled as she opened up the bag, hauled out her familiar jeans and dragged them on over her bare legs. Her belt buckle jangled quietly, and she clasped one hand around it to silence the noise. She thought she could hear the little diner waitress snoring in her bedroom, and she wanted to be dressed and gone before the sun came up to trap her here. The trailer would turn into a killing box if she didn't disappear, and she didn't want to end up filling a vacuum cleaner bag.
Discomfort tastes like Juicy Fruit. The thought came unbidden, and Grace paused as she dragged her shirt over her head. She could still taste it somehow, the too-sweet flavor of the gum she'd shared with Julie. Was the werewolf back to her normal self too? If so, then she'd better get her ass out of here in double-quick time before she told one of her little do gooder friends. The vampire picked up her leather jacket and slipped it on, her boots in one hand. She'd put them on outside, then make a balls-out sprint for her car. And after this, she wasn't coming to Searchlight without some kind of anti-mojo charm.
Just before she exited the bathroom, Grace took a long, very close look at the balnk mirror. Nothing. She was back to being herself. The girl she'd been had been replaced by the woman she'd become, and the woman she'd become had led her to her new self, starting the moment her heart had ceased to beat. Grace smiled, but it was the smile of someone who knew that the joke wasn't funny. She itched. The hand not holding her shoes clenched into a fist, and she padded in utter silence towards the front door to let herself out.
The door clicked shut behind her, and she gave the surface of it a small salute. She owed 'Miss Hannah' a debt, and she always paid her debts. But she had to get gone first, out from under the pale light of the moon and back to the city. She still had things on her agenda, and some deep-buried Something regretted that the next time she and the blonde saw each other the waitress would know what she was. But it was a thing she would never speak of, nor even acknowledge. Hannah had been kind to a stranger, and that bore recieving a proper reward. It was the way Grace did things.
Her boots were pulled on and laced, and the vampire kept to the shadows as she left the trailer park, knowing it wouldn't be long before she reached the Plymouth and could get the hell out of this creepy-ass town. She hoped that little girl, or whatever she'd really been, got eaten by something. Kids really were nothing but a pain in the ass. |
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| [Tuesday, April 10, 2007 at 6:25 pm] |
| Subject: Let's Do The Time Warp |
It turned out that finding something new to do with herself was a little more problematic than Grace first imagined, and so she decided to fall back temporarily on what she did best - crime. Theft, mostly, with an occasional random murder thrown in for variety. The underbelly of Las Vegas was a dandy hunting ground for a vampire with ambition, and Grace found herself with a fair-sized niche carved out for herself. But there was always room for more on her plate, and so she found herself down in Searchlight in order to meet a contact who seldom got into the larger city. Anything to make some money and stir up some trouble.
Only one problem. The guy never showed up.
"Sometimes I don't know why I bother," the vampire muttered, walking out of the Lighthouse Bar where she'd knocked back a few beers while waiting. She thought the bartender, a young guy in need of a haircut, had been giving her the stink-eye, which had been puzzling as she'd been on her best behavior, but she was annoyed enough not to give it much thought. "Leave the house for somebody so's you can get somethin' done and for what when they don't fucking turn up? Jesus...!"
She sat on the hood of her car and lit a cigarette. What to do? She could hang out for a couple more hours, hope that the guy showed up, or she could return to the city for the night and deal with things later. Why was everyone such a useless asshole, even the people you could generally trust? Grace smoked the cigarette down to the filter, then flicked it into the parking lot before sliding off of the hood and drawing out her keys. Fuck this shit. She was going home to Vegas and then she was going to figure out what the hell went wrong.
"Excuse me? Ma'am? I'm....I'm lost."
Grace almost didn't hear the hesitant voice of the child as she stepped out of the shadows just beyond the building that housed the bar, and she looked over her shoulder at the girl as they made eye contact. "Huh? Kid, what the...you out here by yourself?" The girl looked young, not much more than nine, and Grace shifted very slightly into predator mode. The night didn't have to be a total loss, after all. When had she last eaten someone that young?
"I lost my mom," the little girl said softly, and her dress flowed around her as she approached. "Can you help me look for her, please?" "I don't know where your momma is, kid, there's no one out here but me." "But you could help me look for her, couldn't you? Please? I want to go home." The child held a hand out, and Grace caught the briefest glimpse of a mark on the palm. Damn kids, what did she look like, a babysitter? Apparently this was just not her night. But if she could get the girl into the shadows...
"Sure. Fine, I'll help you look. It ain't like she can have gone far. C'mon." The door to the Plymouth banged shut, and Grace jingled the keys before dropping them back into her pocket. They'd go, she'd eat, and then it was back to the city. She hadn't been that hot to come down here anyway. She interlocked hands with the child, forgetting all about the marking she'd seen, and the two of them started across the parking lot towards another thick bank of shadows beyong the streetlamp. Just long enough for the demon's talent to take hold, a time-release gift to the unaware vampire.
Just as they were about to leave the pool of darkness, the girl slipped her hand out of Grace's and went darting away, giggling as though she'd just pulled the world's best trick. Surprised, Grace gave chase at first, then stopped in her tracks and just cursed up at the sky. "Fine, enough, I get it," she said to no one in particular. A glance at her watch revealed the time to be past midnight, and she suddenly yawned jaw-crackingly. Becuase with her current luck, the kid had some kind of sleep-causing mojo going for her, because that was apparently Grace's unlife now.
Fine. She'd rent a room at the El Rey or something, then make sure she wasn't bothered tomorrow. Seriously, why did she bother? Couldn't even have a light snack before bed. Grace kicked at some loose gravel, then wandered off in the direction of the motel. Maybe tomorrow night would be better. It certainly couldn't get worse, could it? |
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| [Thursday, February 15, 2007 at 2:33 pm] |
| Subject: Long Live The Queen |
| Mood |
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 determined |
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"The Queen is dead. Long live the Queen."
It was three o'clock in the morning, and Grace was completely sober. Unfortunately. It had been just past one when she stepped out of the Rack and Roll, yanking her jacket around herself against the chill of the late-night air, and she'd wandered back to Las Vegas to look for a liquor store. Everything was closed, so she ended up going through her own stash of booze to find a bottle of Glenfiddich scotch, well-aged and expensive. She drank one glass of it, washing down a tablet of Percocet to combat the twinge in her gut where the bullet wound hadn't quite healed yet. She'd be back at the top of her game in a couple of days, but why go through physical pain if she didn't have to?
The rest of the bottle was uncapped and poured out on the doorstep of Heaven's Peak, which was silent and devoid of occupants. A libation, an offering to gods who either didn't listen or simply didn't exist. Who said vampires couldn't be observant of certain customs, no matter how primitive? In the morning, not even the smell would linger, the alcohol having mixed in with the remnants of the snow to be swept away by a pre-dawn street cleaner.
She'd wanted to quit anyway, had been pondering it even before that night. Now she could turn in her resignation and start over without having to worry about attracting undue attention. If Ralphael blabbed, she'd just deny it. Most likely he wouldn't, but if he did, her conscience, such as it was, would remain untroubled. And her pride would remain undamaged.
Pride. She knew how some saw her, those who even knew of such things. Vampire. Monster. Sadist. Psychopath. And maybe they were even right, but when it was all said and done she was a creature unto herself, and she did things her way. And underneath that, possibly despite her own best intentions, she was still a woman, just as much a woman as Bethany Richards, and she didn't have to be told something to know it.
Bethany.
Grace respected the Slayer, as much as she was capable of respecting anything, and because she respected her she was going to leave things be. Darian couldn't have been more obvious if he had tried, the look of a self-hating man who despised how he felt but couldn't prevent himself from feeling as he did. And he would never touch her as long as Bethany was even remotely in the picture, as long as she was still rooted in his soul. The Queen had returned, and she, Grace, had been...dismissed? She liked Darian and that made her want to say no, but the cynic (realist?) in her had read the shift in his posture and attitude as it pleased. Dark-haired boys, so Goddamned treacherous.
But fuck it, she had never asked him to love her. There was disappointment maybe, wanting to keep him a little longer for the simple rarity of enjoying his company, but if he didn't want her like that then they'd never speak of it again. She'd attached no illusions to their arrangement and therefore no expectations. If he thought he could crush her with a look, he'd have to try harder.
The vampire put the cap back on the bottle, tossed it into the trash can on the corner. She looked at the club's facade once more before wandering off into the shadows, then nodded to herself. In the next week or so, she'd catch up with Bethany personally and give her the news. The woman deserved face-to-face respect, wherever she'd been. Grace had no ill feelings, towards her or the Dealmaker. But she would go her own way, wherever that happened to lead. This was Las Vegas, a city full of opportunity. And she was Grace Hutchinson, a law unto herself.
Long live the Queen, fuckers. |
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| [Thursday, February 8, 2007 at 9:55 am] |
| Subject: The Girl With Kaleidescope Eyes |
| Mood |
: |
stoned |
| Music |
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Heroin - The Velvet Underground |
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Mmmm, painkillers....
Grace is lying flat on her back, having only taken her shoes off before flopping down on the bed and taking four pills with water. By some miracle she managed to steal some Percocet, and now she's floating on a soft blue cloud of chemical comfort. She's barely aware of the gunshot wound, which still lurks underneath a protective cover of gauze, tape, and an Ace bandage. She certainly can't feel it.
Hell, its a stretch right now for her to remember she has feet.
The ceiling has really interesting patterns. The windowblinds are open, and the lights from the hotel's sign are flashing off and on across them like her own personal laser light show. Red, purple, red, purple, red.
Lucy in the sky with diamonds, indeed.
Maybe she should invest in a Kevlar vest. If she's going to be getting shot at random times, it might pay to have one of the things around. Good thing she doesn't have to worry about stupid stuff like medical insurance, but then again that might have prevented her |
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