Post by Eurydice on Jun 11, 2007 23:56:01 GMT -5
((Somewhere around six months after the Martian campaign.
*blows kisses at DK* ))
Jo burst into the second pantry with the force of a tornado, bleeding, bruised, and doubled over, clutching the doorframe with desperate fingers. Her hair had come loose and was scattered around her shoulders and face like a dark yellow haze. There was a burning pain in her thighs and abdomen that had not yet fled her, and even staying upright and on her feet was far too much of an effort. Each breath she took tore through her lungs like a searing knife, pushing out of her chest with all the force she could muster, to rush out of her bruised throat in a weak, involuntary cough.
Keep moving.
The large medicine chest was still open—Maratte hadn’t bothered to close it when he’d gone—and Jo lunged for it, pawing through the contents senselessly until her hands found some vaguely familiar bottle of antiseptic, dark glass and yellow label, and closed around it, trembling so violently that the bottle practically burst in her hand. Staggering to the sink, she grabbed a fistful of towels, dumped them unceremoniously under running water, and upended the strong-smelling stuff from the bottle over them. She watched the liquid pool and rise with dull interest. Breathing was still a process that was happening much too quickly, heart and lungs straining against battered bone and muscle. She broke into a coughing fit again, hugging herself in pain and leaning on the countertop until her rebellious muscles stopped convulsing.
Keep moving.
Stripping away what was left of her shirt and vest, she snatched one of the towels, dropped it, cursed, picked it up again more carefully, and pushed it against the naked skin of her arm. It burned and stung at her, mocking the countless cuts and bruises already there, but she didn’t slow down, and she didn’t stop. Blank and dizzy, she switched arms, cleaning the other, and then her face, neck, and chest.
Maratte had left the brandy out, too. Gripping the bottle with both hands (although, she noted hazily, it was getting harder to move her left arm), she tilted back and took a long, hard swallow of the amber liquid, anchoring herself on the unrelenting burn of the alcohol; she let it cut through the haze of pain, dizziness, and humiliation, for she had no time to deal with any of those things.
Just keep moving.
She was dimly aware of wiring for a cab, dressing in borrowed clothes, and sinking back against the kitchen table, right hand still clamped around the bottle of brandy. Jo took another long pull, savoring the powerful fumes of the drink as they brought her to something resembling wakefulness and awareness. The fire in her lungs was still unbearable, though. Jo forced her uncooperative legs across the room to the row of windows facing east and managed to pull one open a crack; winter air broke against her. The fire and ice combined were somehow enough as she sank onto the dark wooden bench by the window, letting the burn within and the freeze without calm her, force her back to something rational, functional.
Sitting there, she caught sight of her reflection, against the pitch of the night. The long, streaking cuts across her face had stopped bleeding but were dark still, violent and vibrant, giving her an oddly mottled look.
Jo Parry stared at her reflection, and a pale, exhausted, hunted creature, battered and lost in this great house, stared back through clear, hopeless eyes.
*blows kisses at DK* ))
February 2, 1877
Jo burst into the second pantry with the force of a tornado, bleeding, bruised, and doubled over, clutching the doorframe with desperate fingers. Her hair had come loose and was scattered around her shoulders and face like a dark yellow haze. There was a burning pain in her thighs and abdomen that had not yet fled her, and even staying upright and on her feet was far too much of an effort. Each breath she took tore through her lungs like a searing knife, pushing out of her chest with all the force she could muster, to rush out of her bruised throat in a weak, involuntary cough.
Keep moving.
The large medicine chest was still open—Maratte hadn’t bothered to close it when he’d gone—and Jo lunged for it, pawing through the contents senselessly until her hands found some vaguely familiar bottle of antiseptic, dark glass and yellow label, and closed around it, trembling so violently that the bottle practically burst in her hand. Staggering to the sink, she grabbed a fistful of towels, dumped them unceremoniously under running water, and upended the strong-smelling stuff from the bottle over them. She watched the liquid pool and rise with dull interest. Breathing was still a process that was happening much too quickly, heart and lungs straining against battered bone and muscle. She broke into a coughing fit again, hugging herself in pain and leaning on the countertop until her rebellious muscles stopped convulsing.
Keep moving.
Stripping away what was left of her shirt and vest, she snatched one of the towels, dropped it, cursed, picked it up again more carefully, and pushed it against the naked skin of her arm. It burned and stung at her, mocking the countless cuts and bruises already there, but she didn’t slow down, and she didn’t stop. Blank and dizzy, she switched arms, cleaning the other, and then her face, neck, and chest.
Maratte had left the brandy out, too. Gripping the bottle with both hands (although, she noted hazily, it was getting harder to move her left arm), she tilted back and took a long, hard swallow of the amber liquid, anchoring herself on the unrelenting burn of the alcohol; she let it cut through the haze of pain, dizziness, and humiliation, for she had no time to deal with any of those things.
Just keep moving.
She was dimly aware of wiring for a cab, dressing in borrowed clothes, and sinking back against the kitchen table, right hand still clamped around the bottle of brandy. Jo took another long pull, savoring the powerful fumes of the drink as they brought her to something resembling wakefulness and awareness. The fire in her lungs was still unbearable, though. Jo forced her uncooperative legs across the room to the row of windows facing east and managed to pull one open a crack; winter air broke against her. The fire and ice combined were somehow enough as she sank onto the dark wooden bench by the window, letting the burn within and the freeze without calm her, force her back to something rational, functional.
Sitting there, she caught sight of her reflection, against the pitch of the night. The long, streaking cuts across her face had stopped bleeding but were dark still, violent and vibrant, giving her an oddly mottled look.
Jo Parry stared at her reflection, and a pale, exhausted, hunted creature, battered and lost in this great house, stared back through clear, hopeless eyes.