The sound of her heartbeat in her ears not being loud enough to drown out the beeps of the equipment is enough to drive Rachel insane.
Or is it more insane? Bah.The semantics of that particular query are quickly dumped into the yawning pit of those things that the Atomic Redhead isn't remotely interested in addressing. It makes good food for her inner demons, she's found, and if they're fed... then the chance is there for them to actually be
quiet. It doesn't always stick, of course, but the attempt's better than doing nothing at all. And considering how her current surroundings have memories that she'd love to pawn off on someone else nipping at the heels of her mind, well--she needs all the help she can get. There's only so fast that a kitsune can run, after all. A harsh exhale drives the antiseptic tang that seems to choke up the air of every hospital she's ever set foot in as she takes a step forward, then another, the hard sound of her boot-heels seemingly echoing far louder than they ought to in a space so small. It's a space that's
too small, to tell the truth of it. And whoever came up with the idea of using pale pastel greens and blues to try to make the room seem soothing, well... they need their heads examined, and she doesn't mean in the more common sense. A cranial key and a saw is more what
she has in mind, and maybe one of those old National Geographic (Or, at least, she
thinks that's the company that made'em.) anatomy books with the layered plastic pages so she can compare and contrast, maybe find the source of the fucked-up notion of eternally ruining those colors for the vast majority of the populace. Ah well, it's nothing a can of spray paint won't fix. A faint chuckle that takes more effort than it sounds like leaves her as she brings her gaze up to regard the man she's come to visit.
"So d'ya think gunmetal gray or Goffic black'd be better for the wa--"Even though she knows what she's going to see, actually seeing the sight of what Brytain Rollins did to one of her dearest friends causes reality to skip, her mind hitting a pothole that leaves her speechless. The Atomic Redhead visibly recoils, fox-mad eyes unable to take the sight of what the man most know as V has become. She's seen worse, really she has. On a couple occasions that are shoved well away from the public eye and buried in the deeps of a subconscious that'd rather self-destruct than let those hidden evils resurface, she's either done worse or... or been
through worse. A trembling hand reaches upward to the back of her neck, fingertips feeling over scars that--wait, no. She isn't the one with the broken neck in her past. That was...
Wasn't it her?
No, that wasn't her. That was Leah Gaines, former wrestler and drunk and current directionless and depressed layabout. She thinks, anyway. She knows the neck injury can't be Nat's, not since Will would Pretty Boy Assassin his wife into retirement if that was the case. But wouldn't Richie fuck her into a comatose state to keep her from wrestling if the neck injury was hers? Cockrings are a wondrous thing, after all, an amazing and wonderful invention that... can't divert her attention from someone that looks far too close to an actual member of the undead for her comfort. Of all the times to regret choosing to draw a zombified Abraham Lincoln on his office's nameplate-- her next exhale is weak and shaky as she toys with the sleeve of that oversized sweater whose stripes might perhaps be a bit too reminiscent of
A Nightmare on Elm Street for comfort at the moment.
"Oh, Lincoln..." Her voice comes out in a whisper that threatens to stick in her throat on the way out as she forces herself to look, to take in the wounds that the razor wire inflicted amidst the ugly bruises that seem to swarm over his skin. His arms looked like a topographical map of World War II, maybe something in Vietnam--no, Vietnam was definitely
higher up, what with the way his skin was peeled back enough to expose some of his sub-dermis and maybe even the layers beneath that whose names escape her in the moment. It's enough of a Hellish landscape to make the barbwire-facelift his... well,
face seem like a walk in the park. Refusing to even consider what lays beneath that sheet that looks more like a dingy funeral shroud than something a living person deserves, Rachel lets herself get sucked into the gravity that has always kept her in orbit in the nameless man's life, her hand reaching out to rest against a patch of skin on his cheek that's not as torn up. Her touch is light, gentle--deft as a surgeon, though a quick glance to the IV bags floating like hot air balloons around her tells her that such isn't truly needed. Morphine and Propofol and... other shit she can't read.
Oh my.Even with tolerance levels in mind, she knows that he's beyond reach on a mental level--and that's probably for the best. Keeping her composure's something she can manage if she's not being pressed and questioned on it, and she knows him. He'd press, alright. He'd find a way to tapdance on all of her buttons until she let it all out because of how very rare it is that she'd even consider
not saying something. She'd wind up in his arms like a child, sobbing out her worry and anger and sadness and how his last match should have been with
her because she's been there for longer, through more at his side... even though she knows that expecting something,
anything from him is about the fastest way to Hell that there is. Not that he'd let her down--when it truly matters, he's always been there--but much like his aversion to any serious attempt at names, there's nothing he dislikes more than being confined, be it physically or otherwise...and here Annabel Lee thought that their bond was inappropriate since the Atomic Redhead is married. It has nothing to do with that and everything to do with four in the morning zombie movies and French translations, with booze and back alley shenanigans and the word 'bromance' being used straight-up without so much as a shred of irony. In a world where her blood family's all but gone, the man she calls Lincoln is as close to a sibling as she's got. And even if she's never had any for real, even if the closest kin she's ever kept a bond with are her cousins?
She has enough of an idea to know what sisters do for their brothers to reach out behind herself with her foot, hooking it around the stool behind her to wheel it to where she can take a seat.
Both of her hands swallow up one of his own as she sinks down to his level in a physical sense, having long since shared the theoretical one with him for many a year. Even though he's not going to regard her with those blue eyes, even if he's not gonna make her laugh or slug him in the shoulder with his usual candor, even if there's no way in Hell that she can sneak their shared bad zombie movie collection into that damned sterile and almost
hostile environment... she's going to do what she can to try to reach him in that medicine-induced darkness to let him know that he's not alone. He might be beyond being scared or feeling much of anything, but that doesn't mean she's not allowed to be scared for him.
"Nah, you're right. The walls're fine as they are. So, tell me." Her hands tighten, her knuckles turning white even as her voice rises in its usual sing-song tone--just like a funeral, since her chatter's for her benefit rather than his own.
"You havin' a meetin' with the other zombie presidents so you can plan Drumpf's assassination or what?"
Oh I wish I wish I wish I wish a B̡̭̙̼̩͉͎̮̗͓̈́̋I̓̀ͮͪ̀̾̓͏̟͈̮̀͢Ṱ̣̯̮̝͔̿́ͯ̉̾C̢̭̥ͩ̎̇ͥ͛ͥH̴̱͕̮ͭ͒̏B̛̘̰͈̯̙͔ͣ̍ͧ̽̄̔̋̀̎͜O̡̝͚͇͚͉͔͉͗̍̔̍̕͡Y̢̥͂̅͆ͥ͢͠ would.
August 5th, 2015
Excerpt from learn2lovethebomb.blogspot.com
Y'know, there's always a double-edged sword to bein' right.
Yeah, I knew that Hell's Bell-- cuz I think she deserves that bit of srs-ness, that gravitas that I know so many people are gonna see her shiny smile and ignore--was gonna be cut from the same tough-as-fuck cloth that Nat is. I saw the resemblance and gave her all the credit in the world. I ain't gonna sit here and play whiny douchebag since there's already one of those in my bout and I don't feel like bein' accused of gimmick infringement. We'll get to that later, though, cuz Hell's Bell? As much as I was pissed off at myself for slippin' up, that ain't gonna stop me from sayin' the obvious.
You won our match fair and square.
I ain't gonna sit here and say you got lucky 'cuz that'd be pants-on-head retarded, and disrespectful to boot. You gutted it out against everything I threw at you, you saw an opportunity that a lot of the vets I've gotten into the ring with woulda' missed... and you took it. You did good, kid--and you also proved that my comparison of you to my cousin was spot on. Down the road, when we get that rematch, I get the feelin' we're gonna tear the roof offa whatever building they decide to set the ring up in. Maybe I'll yank my win back from you, maybe not. Goddamn, it's fun to have a challenge that ain't in regards to me not just tearin' someone apart for bein' an egotistical fuckhead.
Can I keep you?
(In a totally platonic way, of course.)
I'll feed you homemade baked goods.
Promise!
Anyway, there's a big difference between ol' Hell's Bell and the fuckstick they're puttin' in the ring across from me this week. I didn't wanna maim her, didn't wanna hurt her--and maybe that's what cost me. Bein' honest with y'inz, I can't tell you for sure because even I can't see every last little thing in the few seconds it took for me to start off 'round here with a loss. There's always details that get lost, but that's how it is. Speakin' of lost...
Caleb Houston.
Sir 'Hops Around Between Companies The Way That Fleas Jump From Critter To Critter'.
Mister 'I'm Not A Dickwad, I'm Just A Loose Cannon So That's Totally An Excuse To Be An Arsehelm'.
Duke 'Diet Zero McHannon With Half The Talent And Ass-partame-Caused Verbal Diarrhea'. (Cha cha cha.)
I want to rip every last hipster hair out of his poser-ass beard.
Let's see, where to begin. Beyond the whole wildly fluctuating between losing yourself and finding yourself and trying to quit whatever-the-fuck you're hooked on and embracing it--which hey, not all that wander are lost. But you? You're lost because let's face it... you can't see a single Goddamn thing, not as far as your head is up your ass. And before you ask? Yes, I know that for sure. Not only is there no way that there's a body mod artist on the face of the planet that'd install a little Plexiglass viewer-window-thingie, but your rectal muscles would block any and all attempts you'd make to use echolocation since, y'know, muscle constriction on your ears. Though now I wonder what you'd shout to bounce offa shit since clicking is so totally too mainstream for you.
"I'M EDGY BECAUSE 4CHAN DIDN'T LOVE ME ENOUGH AS A CHILD!"
"WHERE'S THE PABST BLUE RIBBON?!"
"LOOK, MA-- I'VE GOT A MENTAL ILLNESS TO USE AS A CRUTCH! TUMBLR TOLD ME SO!"
Fucking seriously, dude. I'm supposed to respect you when you lean on any and all excuses that don't mean havin' to take responsibility for your actions? C'mon, son. I know that you're not, like, Deas levels of incompetent in the ring--but how the fuck is anyone supposed to take you seriously when your response to the road in any given company gettin' tough is to tuck your tail between your legs and run? It ain't just in regards to your career in the ring though, thinkin' about it. I mean, if what I heard was true, you've tried to show the world how tough you are by... trying to publicly blackmail a rookie that didn't date you on Twitter.
No, really.
The man that brags about how he's so dangerous and uncontrollable that he's gotten fired over it, the guy that likes to puff up and strut around like he's the hottest shit there is for hours and hours and hours on end-- 'cuz repeatin' yourself is so totally going to make your words mean more instead of puttin' everyone to sleep!--the dudebro that I'm supposed to be dreadin' to face because he's so above me and all that other generic shit I'm sure he's gonna say. Cally-Boo-Boo-- 'cuz believe me, he's worth condescendin' to--once got his pants so poopy at not gettin' sex when he put the kindness tokens in... that he threatened to ruin someone else's relationship because he didn't get his way. There are pre-pubescent girls that are more mature than that, and I'm actually bein' serious in sayin' so. I mean shit, Cally-Boo-Boo-- there are white collar criminals with more fuckin' cred than you because at least when they tried blackmail to get their way, it was for an actual profit of some kind! Since, y'know, clearly you were just swimmin' in pussy before you got the piece you're draggin' down now. Except for how not really, because if you were... then you wouldn't have reacted like a fuckin' neckbearded manchild over bein' turned down. What're you holdin' over that poor unfortunate soul's head, mm? Curious minds want to know.
'Cuz whatever it is, it can't be as bad as havin' to fake it for three seconds every night.
But since we're talkin' about fakin' it... am I supposed to be sympathetic to the whole shitposting all day, every day about bein' homeless and how no one's there for you? 'Cuz I'm not. For one, considerin' how you've got that poor other redhead--wait, she's a redhead, too?!
EMERGENCY RESCUE PROTOCOL ENGAGE!
Eden--I think that's what I read your name as-- you can do better than a needy, lying, manipulative little coward that can't stand on his own two feet. It ain't your job to be his mama, and it ain't your destiny to rip off chunks of your soul for him to burn so he can stay warm. Compassion don't mean shit if it's takin' so much from you. I know how it feels to be saddled with a leech that won't give like you give and love like you love. Ditch the dudebro poser and find someone that's actually worth a good God damn. Cally Boo-Boo's tears won't hurt you.
I believe in you!
Anyway, you have her ridin' to your rescue at your beck and call, so it ain't like you're actually sleepin' out in the elements. And that brings me to what pisses me off the most about you, Cally-Boo-Boo, and you better listen right close for once in your self-absorbed little life. How fuckin' disrespectful do you have to be toward someone you claim to care about, that shows up and hangs tough and that supports you the way that I wish to God someone had supported me right after I divorced Adge... only to turn around and post emo-edgy as fuck shit like 'Never needed anyone to have my back before. Why start now?' It's obvious she cares about you, not to mention that you obviously do rely on her thanks to how it seems to me that damn near anyone else has seen through you to know that you ain't worth the air you breathe. I don't know how she tolerates it, or why anyone would tolerate that sort of manipulative bullshit--because that's exactly what it is. You use people, wrench at their emotions and then go all nuclear Jersey Boy the moment that you don't get the end result you want... and you try to point the finger at mental illness 'cuz you think it'll absolve you of all your sins. Sorry, you sack of dicks, but it don't work like that. Maybe mental illness explains some of that shit, but by no means does it excuse it. Trust me, I know. Been there, done that, actually have the professional diagnoses to back me up. But then again, I don't need to lean on any of that... not like you do.
Ain't it a shame, how I just tore away the curtain you use to hide how much of a fraud you really are?
(I'd wipe my ass with it, but I don't know where it's been.)
But you know what? I'm bored with rippin' you limb from limb from a keyboard--and while your whiny dad-of-the-Stepford-Rapist tears will probably be delicious, it won't be near as satisfyin' as makin' you scream out in agony at the top of your lungs as you tap the fuck out right in the middle of that ring. Y'see, what you're missin' about the whole findin' yourself thing is that you need to own your shit to find where you are and to actually be somethin'. But you don't have the balls to do that, do you? But hey, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe you'll see this and it'll be the kick in the ass that you've needed to get your shit together after you've sobbed over some Asking Alexandria lyrics and gotten another tattoo that's so totally deep.
I'm gonna give you ass somethin' to really cry about.
Remember to learn to love the bomb, kids~! ♥
"That's bad for your neck, y'know."The feeling of fingers moving through the brightly-dyed mass of her hair filters through the Atomic Redhead's awareness as her mind surfaces from the deeps of unconsciousness, that feminine voice following suit. It eases its way down the Escher-esque pathways of her mind, past the barriers that usually only rise peacefully to her husband's voice--and even then, Richard is usually very careful about how he wakes his wife. There's no such caution here, though, not as those slender fingertips find their way to make direct contact with her scalp for a light, almost affectionate scritch. Something warm and gentle spreads through the redhead's mind, her eyes beginning to flicker open before she's able to place the source of that voice and that surprisingly pleasant touch... and it takes a moment past that initial association of 'Pretty Like A Car Crash' to put a name to it all.
Shane.
"Ain't no worse than tryin' to use a hotel room pillow." Her voice is muffled by the sheets she eventually faceplanted onto while she was at the Nameless One's side--and while she does realize that she ought to turn her head to avoid that, she doesn't bother repeating herself. She knows that the other woman heard her well enough. Bleary eyes regard Shane Sanders with what can only be described as a playful sort of respect... or, at least, that's what the bombshell would find if she looked past the fog of waking up.
"How long you been standin' there?""Long enough t'see why so many people call you cute." Shane withdraws her hand before she moves to where she can see Rachel's face, leaning down and tilting her head sideways in an attempt to meet the other's gaze--and when she does? A faint smirk toys at the corners of her lips that's long since become world famous in just about every fashion magazine that the redhead has ever known of.
"That and take a coupla' pictures to show Donnie. Or maybe I'll keep'em as blackmail material. Either or.""Oh fuck off, Photowhore." There's an edge of laughter in Rachel's reply, one that slowly turns into a low groan as she slips her hands free of the patient's own to plant them on the edge of the mattress. She can feel every snap, crackle, and pop in her neck and upper back when she stretches herself up into an arch, straightening up a few seconds later with a sigh of relief.
"But seriously, what time is it?""S'around quarter after four. The nurse'll be in to check on him soon." The dark-haired beauty's voice trails behind her as she heads over to the crumpled heap of black fabric in the corner. Shaking it out to reveal the faded Megadeath logo upon it, there's the briefest quirk of a brow before she drapes it over the kitsune's shoulders. It's the equivalent of a last call after a night's boozing, and they both know it.
"I saw your name wasn't anywhere on any visitor's list, so I thought I'd give you a heads-up.""Mmkay." Shoving her arms into the sleeves of that sweatshirt she must have stolen from her husband--something that a deep breath of the cologne still lingering on the well-worn fabric confirms--those trademark brilliant locks are quickly hidden beneath that hood. A shift of posture and of her shoulders and all of a sudden, she's somehow seeming lesser than she is... forgettable.
Dim, as Stephen King'd say.
"Thanks for the heads-up.""You know it." Shane nods, her gaze returning to the one she calls Donnie... though it doesn't take long for her gaze to drift down to the little patchwork felt creation that's been shoved under his hand. She doesn't try to remove it, instead choosing to lean down to take a closer look at the handmade plushie of what appears to be an undead Abraham Lincoln with his stovepipe hat askew and only one eye. A shake of her head belies the amusement that fills her tone.
"...one of these days, you two need to explain what the Hell the whole undead thing's about."Silence reigns for a moment as Rachel absorbs Shane's words, most of them flitting through like the rest save for a pair of them;
you two. Even if the other woman's always been passably friendly to her, the Atomic Redhead hasn't ever truly felt... well, felt like her presence was entirely welcome. She remembers the jealousy issues of the past, how she couldn't even talk to the man known as V without indirectly raising Shane's hackles--so for the obvious and clear statement of wanting her to be around is one that catches her off-guard at first. It's enough to snap her to reality and keep her there, as a matter of fact.
"One of these days, sure." A faint, but sincere smile.
