Post by carcinoGeneticist on Oct 14, 2009 17:21:52 GMT -5
More prompts! Hello, characters who aren't related to Seth!
See
Characters: Asha
Words: 493
Her fingers went across the smooth surface of the mirror.
With her eyes closed so tightly that not even the slightest hint of light could creep under her lids, she could feel that the surface was more slick than usual. The condensation from her shower having left its mark on the glass, wet and warm and squeaky under her fingers. She moved her hand over the mirror, lingering in the place where she assumed her reflection would be, traced the places she couldn't see. She imagined it all with her fingers, the claws making lines in the fog of steam that obscurred the shining glass. From the arch of her brows to the tumble of her hair, framing her face and helping to hide the chubbiness of her cheeks, the youthful smile she was sure she'd wear.
When she'd finished with the mirror, she moved through the bathroom, never once opening her eyes to make sure she didn't trip. She went about a daily routine, brushing her teeth with the strongly minty paste, careful to rinse out every trace of it when she was done. Next, she needed to comb her mane and coat, using the brush with long bristles for her hair and one with short, soft bristles across the rest of her fur. She used her fingers and a pick to work out the tangles in the long hair of her tail, pulling at knots until they came undone and lay flat once more. She did it all by feel alone. She didn't need eyes to know when she looked presentable.
She listened to make sure that she'd tightened all the faucets completely, waiting until the final drips subsided and the remaining water drained from the pipes. She could smell the sweet perfume of the soap she liked to use, filling the air with its floral boquet. She could taste the steam in the air around her, thick in her mouth and nose.
She didn't need eyes for that. The world was alive with other sensations, other experiences. So she kept them closed throughout the experience, and when she could feel only the slightest dampness in her coat, she moved back to the mirror. She clutched her towel against her chest, her fingers nearly brushing against her chin.
This was a part of the routine, too.
After she'd met Death, only one lid opened anymore. Beyond that, nothing had changed. Only one pale eye stared out at the mirror, unfocused and clouded over, watching but not seeing her own reflection. It didn't matter that there was no difference between eyes open and closed to Asha. There was and always had been the briefest of moments when she was able to imagine, vividly, what she would see as soon as she opened her eyes. It was that hope, that deep desire for normality, that shaped her routine.
Every day, she dreamed that eventually, she would open her eyes and see what she'd never before known: Her own face.
Heaven
Characters: Kristoff, mention of Meecha
Words: 460
The chemical smell of the drug, the flicker of heat from the flame, the bite of the needle when it slid into his vein, it was all equally intoxicating. But nothing compared to the feeling of the hot liquid spreading through his veins, lighting every one of his cells on fire and bringing him up, far above the shadows of the streets and away from the endless drudgery of his life. It was salvation, it was delight, it was yes, oh yes, it was euphoria, rapture, release...
Oh, it was perfect.
It was the anticipation for the climb that drove him on, forcing him to keep his life together for long enough to at least buy one more dose, one more gram of the fine white powder. Sugar, some called it. Dust, tar, junk. It didn't matter what they called it, a thousand words assigned by people who didn't feel it like he did, didn't know the truth of it.
He called it heaven.
He told anyone who would listen that he wasn't an addict (lie) and that he only did it every once in a while, just to remember what it felt like to fly (truth). He didn't want to be another junkie on the street, selling body parts to Corvies and fucking Lowlanders to get the money together for just one more hit. It was always "one more" to those types, but Kristoff knew the truth. One more hit that fell on deaf ears - the tolerance to the drug was too high, those poor bastards would never fly again.
No, he would explain, it was only a sometimes drug for Kristoff. It was his own fear of needles keeping him from using more often like so many before him, only the fear of immunity that allowed him to deal but not use. The substance passed through his paws almost every day - it brought in money for the more important things in the man's life, he said. It paid for beautiful gifts for his Meecha and even for himself when he lost control. It was the times after he'd lost control that he sought out the drug, looking for some way to erase the feeling of waking up in bed beside some ugly man or woman, his fur smeared with makeup, his only belongings a curled wig and a tattered dress. No, even the lows he felt from the heroin were mild compared to that. It was a pain he could deal with, something he knew he could find relief from.
Compared with so many of the other aspects of Kristoff's life - denial, crossdressing, and rejection - it really was an easier escape to find his way back from.
So he'd crawl up from that pit again and again, time after time.
See
Characters: Asha
Words: 493
Her fingers went across the smooth surface of the mirror.
With her eyes closed so tightly that not even the slightest hint of light could creep under her lids, she could feel that the surface was more slick than usual. The condensation from her shower having left its mark on the glass, wet and warm and squeaky under her fingers. She moved her hand over the mirror, lingering in the place where she assumed her reflection would be, traced the places she couldn't see. She imagined it all with her fingers, the claws making lines in the fog of steam that obscurred the shining glass. From the arch of her brows to the tumble of her hair, framing her face and helping to hide the chubbiness of her cheeks, the youthful smile she was sure she'd wear.
When she'd finished with the mirror, she moved through the bathroom, never once opening her eyes to make sure she didn't trip. She went about a daily routine, brushing her teeth with the strongly minty paste, careful to rinse out every trace of it when she was done. Next, she needed to comb her mane and coat, using the brush with long bristles for her hair and one with short, soft bristles across the rest of her fur. She used her fingers and a pick to work out the tangles in the long hair of her tail, pulling at knots until they came undone and lay flat once more. She did it all by feel alone. She didn't need eyes to know when she looked presentable.
She listened to make sure that she'd tightened all the faucets completely, waiting until the final drips subsided and the remaining water drained from the pipes. She could smell the sweet perfume of the soap she liked to use, filling the air with its floral boquet. She could taste the steam in the air around her, thick in her mouth and nose.
She didn't need eyes for that. The world was alive with other sensations, other experiences. So she kept them closed throughout the experience, and when she could feel only the slightest dampness in her coat, she moved back to the mirror. She clutched her towel against her chest, her fingers nearly brushing against her chin.
This was a part of the routine, too.
After she'd met Death, only one lid opened anymore. Beyond that, nothing had changed. Only one pale eye stared out at the mirror, unfocused and clouded over, watching but not seeing her own reflection. It didn't matter that there was no difference between eyes open and closed to Asha. There was and always had been the briefest of moments when she was able to imagine, vividly, what she would see as soon as she opened her eyes. It was that hope, that deep desire for normality, that shaped her routine.
Every day, she dreamed that eventually, she would open her eyes and see what she'd never before known: Her own face.
Heaven
Characters: Kristoff, mention of Meecha
Words: 460
The chemical smell of the drug, the flicker of heat from the flame, the bite of the needle when it slid into his vein, it was all equally intoxicating. But nothing compared to the feeling of the hot liquid spreading through his veins, lighting every one of his cells on fire and bringing him up, far above the shadows of the streets and away from the endless drudgery of his life. It was salvation, it was delight, it was yes, oh yes, it was euphoria, rapture, release...
Oh, it was perfect.
It was the anticipation for the climb that drove him on, forcing him to keep his life together for long enough to at least buy one more dose, one more gram of the fine white powder. Sugar, some called it. Dust, tar, junk. It didn't matter what they called it, a thousand words assigned by people who didn't feel it like he did, didn't know the truth of it.
He called it heaven.
He told anyone who would listen that he wasn't an addict (lie) and that he only did it every once in a while, just to remember what it felt like to fly (truth). He didn't want to be another junkie on the street, selling body parts to Corvies and fucking Lowlanders to get the money together for just one more hit. It was always "one more" to those types, but Kristoff knew the truth. One more hit that fell on deaf ears - the tolerance to the drug was too high, those poor bastards would never fly again.
No, he would explain, it was only a sometimes drug for Kristoff. It was his own fear of needles keeping him from using more often like so many before him, only the fear of immunity that allowed him to deal but not use. The substance passed through his paws almost every day - it brought in money for the more important things in the man's life, he said. It paid for beautiful gifts for his Meecha and even for himself when he lost control. It was the times after he'd lost control that he sought out the drug, looking for some way to erase the feeling of waking up in bed beside some ugly man or woman, his fur smeared with makeup, his only belongings a curled wig and a tattered dress. No, even the lows he felt from the heroin were mild compared to that. It was a pain he could deal with, something he knew he could find relief from.
Compared with so many of the other aspects of Kristoff's life - denial, crossdressing, and rejection - it really was an easier escape to find his way back from.
So he'd crawl up from that pit again and again, time after time.
