Post by Atomic on Aug 22, 2016 8:40:50 GMT
There's only so much that cleaning supplies can do to stave off the effects of time. Using cheap materials to build it sure as shit don't help matters.
A sigh rattles free of Rachel's ribcage as she strides down the aisle of the Cochranton Market Place, the closest thing that her hometown has to a proper grocery store. Grease-stained hands loosely hold the plastic bar of the shopping cart she's pushing along at a slow, almost lethargic pace as she goes through the motions of at least trying to buy the healthier stuff that she should, by all rights, be eating instead of the over-processed shit she favors. Even though the aisle she's walking down is loaded to the brim with cheap sugary goodness, the bright and distracting colors of the packaging do nothing to distract from the dingy beige of the shelves themselves, the absence of pattern on the cheap linoleum that used to be festooned with spots and flecks in a random pattern... even the housings for the harsh fluorescents that occasionally buzz and flicker overhead are chipped and worn, barely above code. It's outright depressing, she has to admit--doubly so, considering how Meadville's far-nicer options aren't more than half an hour away at the absolute most--but she's got to patronize what's local and pay the upcharges. Even if most of the other townsfolk give her a wide berth despite how she's dressed comparatively normal in old denim cut-offs and an old Ford Mustang t-shirt she stole from Richard's clean laundry, even if they perpetuate the reputation of the only surviving Ellsworth being a mean-spirited drunk just like her old man rotting away in Hell when she won't touch the shit that turned him rabid... she has to support where she comes from and put money into the economy. It's just what a small town girl does.
At least they've got Captain Crunch this time.
Turning her head, she reaches out for that red box-- the light overhead flickers, goes dark for a moment with a buzz.
Something moves just out of the corner of her eye when they come back on, something she can't see enough of to identify. She knows full well that she shouldn't look, that she should let the moment pass and the riotous mass of colors surrounding her as those packages seemingly smush together into a candy-coated nightmare. It will pass, she knows it will pass... but she can't help it.
Of course she looks.
She looks so fast, she should of ended up wearing one of those neck braces for whiplash.
For a split second, a frail wisp of a woman is visible as she goes around the corner, canvas shoes all but shuffling instead of properly walking. Even if her hair is cornsilk blond without so much as a hint of gray, she moves as if she's three times her age--and through the thin white fabric of her dress? Rachel can see bruises blooming, hideous splotches of purples and browns that she knows all too well since she's worn them herself before, back before she could spell her own name. She can feel the brilliant red, the phoenixisms and kitsune-touched claims bleeding away with the years as her shoes seemingly vanish to feel the roughshod wood floors that she'd taken great delight in tearing out once she found...
She found...
She--
She's getting smacked across the ass by her husband who has just returned from his own adventure in the store. Equally greased up and bearing similar white-trash garb, the one-time wrestler has finished looking for his own chosen snacks. Finding Ben and Jerry's on sale? He couldn't help himself, winding up with a hand-basket he has filled to the brim. Chubby Hubby, Cherry Garcia and a variety of others filled the basket...and a thing or three or Oreos. He figures it'll make for a good pre-ravenous banging meal, if nothing else. Of course, the idea of ravenous banging makes her ass an attractive target when he finds her after that foray into the depths of the store. "Oi, hotness. Got some ice crea--"
The physical contact is enough to make the Atomic Redhead jump, his words not quite penetrating the gap between reality and her mind's current state. Whirling around sharply on her heel, those usually-laughing green eyes are as blank as a new chalkboard--and her hand is moving toward the small of her back. Dimly, she is aware of how he recoils. How can she not be? She knows that he knows that his wife isn't the most stable...and neither is he, but for far different reasons. He knows that look in her eye, but more importantly? He knows what she's reaching for--the wickedly sharp hunting knife she keeps just beneath the hem of her shirt, a holdover from her days when her ex was still alive and doggedly trying to destroy her free will. Dropping the basket, his hands go toward the sides of her head as he steps in, gently guiding her gaze toward his face and making damn sure that he's too close for her to effectively do anything with that weapon.
"Hey, hey. Rach. Raaach, honey. Come on, ground control to Major Tom. Real world calling." The pin-points of the pupils of his eyes pierce the haze, reality slowly seeping in and expanding upon features she's known for most of her life--and loved, in one way or another, for the vast majority of it. It's not the Richard of now, though, that she sees. There are no scars from that fateful collision of Camaro and mature oak tree that sent him spinning out of her life for the better part of a decade, none of the incidental little imperfections of time and a brief stint in the business she has recently returned to... it's the same Richard that once stained his mother's kitchen sink helping her dye her hair red for the very first time, down to the reddish-orange spot on the end of his nose. A weak smile tugs her lips, rueful as her tone as she reaches up and runs her thumb lightly along where that stain lives.
"...we need to get that off of your nose." That relieved expression, that smile of his own further drags her back into the here and now, slow and laborious on her end--but she doesn't notice. She also doesn't notice the faint furrow of his brow, or the way his gaze flickers away from hers for just a second... not any longer than that, though, not with her current state. Instead, he surrounds her with a sigh, his arms slipping down to pull her close against his chest before he rubs her back and nuzzles his nose into her hair.
...a nose that is bereft of any kind of dirt, dye or grease or otherwise.
Not that he's going to tell her that.
Not when the edges of reality haven't quite set yet.
A sigh rattles free of Rachel's ribcage as she strides down the aisle of the Cochranton Market Place, the closest thing that her hometown has to a proper grocery store. Grease-stained hands loosely hold the plastic bar of the shopping cart she's pushing along at a slow, almost lethargic pace as she goes through the motions of at least trying to buy the healthier stuff that she should, by all rights, be eating instead of the over-processed shit she favors. Even though the aisle she's walking down is loaded to the brim with cheap sugary goodness, the bright and distracting colors of the packaging do nothing to distract from the dingy beige of the shelves themselves, the absence of pattern on the cheap linoleum that used to be festooned with spots and flecks in a random pattern... even the housings for the harsh fluorescents that occasionally buzz and flicker overhead are chipped and worn, barely above code. It's outright depressing, she has to admit--doubly so, considering how Meadville's far-nicer options aren't more than half an hour away at the absolute most--but she's got to patronize what's local and pay the upcharges. Even if most of the other townsfolk give her a wide berth despite how she's dressed comparatively normal in old denim cut-offs and an old Ford Mustang t-shirt she stole from Richard's clean laundry, even if they perpetuate the reputation of the only surviving Ellsworth being a mean-spirited drunk just like her old man rotting away in Hell when she won't touch the shit that turned him rabid... she has to support where she comes from and put money into the economy. It's just what a small town girl does.
At least they've got Captain Crunch this time.
Turning her head, she reaches out for that red box-- the light overhead flickers, goes dark for a moment with a buzz.
Something moves just out of the corner of her eye when they come back on, something she can't see enough of to identify. She knows full well that she shouldn't look, that she should let the moment pass and the riotous mass of colors surrounding her as those packages seemingly smush together into a candy-coated nightmare. It will pass, she knows it will pass... but she can't help it.
Of course she looks.
She looks so fast, she should of ended up wearing one of those neck braces for whiplash.
S̮̩͕͐̂ͨ̕ͅọ̵̞͍͙͓̫̪̦̯ͫͬ͡͠m̷̤̳̹̻̤͉ͤ̾͑͐e̡̟͉͎̣͓͓͖̐̇̓̑ͫ̎̚ ̡̩̼͕ͮ̓͊̏́̓s̞̞̄̋̇̄͛̎̀́͞a̅̏̈́͂҉̜̫̮̀ŷ͈̾͛̅͢͡ ̴͋̾ͭ͗҉̗l͔̿̂͌́̒͘͜͝o̷̫͗́̉̓͆ͪͣͥv̤͕̺͑ͥ͊̔͒̾ͪ̏ͅe̙͙̯̣͓̝͇ͣ̈́̾̿̇͋̔ͭ͜ ̴̣͎͔͋̏͗i̧̝̘̻͎͓̭͓̒̃̕͡s̜̪̪͓̻͚̥̈̊̐ͨ̏̍ͅ ̶̨̖̳̝̣̙̟̓̈̈́̋͗l̗̟̤̄i͔͖͉̰̦̳͈̲͛ͤ̃̑ͣ̒̃k̴̵̠̠̥̰̽e̡̱ͯ̅̎̍̍́ ̪̺̮͍̩̪̥ͩͭͮ̔̎̅̎͂͘͞͞a͂̈́͌͏̘̺͎̫̙̟͈̩̙ ̴̭̦̹̬̟͍̊̑͛ͭͮ̓̎ͧ́́r̨̲̖ͣ̊i̖̠̼̻ͫͭ̽ͦͭͣ̂ͬ̕v̸̵̗̖̰͚̝̺͊̋̍̎̚ͅe͚͖͉̻̗͋̀͠ṟ̷̦̦̩ͭ̿̾̌̀͂͑ͮ̕͠.̣̤̦̠̹̈̕.͔͕̬̫͆ͫ̈́̈̃̉̊.̔ͪ̓̾ͥ҉̥
For a split second, a frail wisp of a woman is visible as she goes around the corner, canvas shoes all but shuffling instead of properly walking. Even if her hair is cornsilk blond without so much as a hint of gray, she moves as if she's three times her age--and through the thin white fabric of her dress? Rachel can see bruises blooming, hideous splotches of purples and browns that she knows all too well since she's worn them herself before, back before she could spell her own name. She can feel the brilliant red, the phoenixisms and kitsune-touched claims bleeding away with the years as her shoes seemingly vanish to feel the roughshod wood floors that she'd taken great delight in tearing out once she found...
She found...
She--
She's getting smacked across the ass by her husband who has just returned from his own adventure in the store. Equally greased up and bearing similar white-trash garb, the one-time wrestler has finished looking for his own chosen snacks. Finding Ben and Jerry's on sale? He couldn't help himself, winding up with a hand-basket he has filled to the brim. Chubby Hubby, Cherry Garcia and a variety of others filled the basket...and a thing or three or Oreos. He figures it'll make for a good pre-ravenous banging meal, if nothing else. Of course, the idea of ravenous banging makes her ass an attractive target when he finds her after that foray into the depths of the store. "Oi, hotness. Got some ice crea--"
The physical contact is enough to make the Atomic Redhead jump, his words not quite penetrating the gap between reality and her mind's current state. Whirling around sharply on her heel, those usually-laughing green eyes are as blank as a new chalkboard--and her hand is moving toward the small of her back. Dimly, she is aware of how he recoils. How can she not be? She knows that he knows that his wife isn't the most stable...and neither is he, but for far different reasons. He knows that look in her eye, but more importantly? He knows what she's reaching for--the wickedly sharp hunting knife she keeps just beneath the hem of her shirt, a holdover from her days when her ex was still alive and doggedly trying to destroy her free will. Dropping the basket, his hands go toward the sides of her head as he steps in, gently guiding her gaze toward his face and making damn sure that he's too close for her to effectively do anything with that weapon.
"Hey, hey. Rach. Raaach, honey. Come on, ground control to Major Tom. Real world calling." The pin-points of the pupils of his eyes pierce the haze, reality slowly seeping in and expanding upon features she's known for most of her life--and loved, in one way or another, for the vast majority of it. It's not the Richard of now, though, that she sees. There are no scars from that fateful collision of Camaro and mature oak tree that sent him spinning out of her life for the better part of a decade, none of the incidental little imperfections of time and a brief stint in the business she has recently returned to... it's the same Richard that once stained his mother's kitchen sink helping her dye her hair red for the very first time, down to the reddish-orange spot on the end of his nose. A weak smile tugs her lips, rueful as her tone as she reaches up and runs her thumb lightly along where that stain lives.
"...we need to get that off of your nose." That relieved expression, that smile of his own further drags her back into the here and now, slow and laborious on her end--but she doesn't notice. She also doesn't notice the faint furrow of his brow, or the way his gaze flickers away from hers for just a second... not any longer than that, though, not with her current state. Instead, he surrounds her with a sigh, his arms slipping down to pull her close against his chest before he rubs her back and nuzzles his nose into her hair.
...a nose that is bereft of any kind of dirt, dye or grease or otherwise.
Not that he's going to tell her that.
Not when the edges of reality haven't quite set yet.