Veronica Sawyer 💣 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
teen_angst_bullshit) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sixthiterationlogs2017-02-24 02:22 pm
teen_angst_bullshit) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2017-02-24 02:22 pm
What goes on in that place in the dark? [OTA]
WHO: Veronica Sawyer
WHERE: Town Hall
WHEN: 24 February, evening
OPEN TO: ALL
WARNINGS: Mild self-harm, mention of death
STATUS: Closed to new threads
Staring down at what she's written, Veronica fights the urge to tear out the entire page. You don't even have to read the content to see the abrupt slide from rational to ridiculous: The tidy block letters she'd adopted to save paper had been abandoned for her own massive scrawl weeks ago, looped across precious pages with all the eye-rolling angst of a truly mournful teenager.
The main room of the town hall is large, and every movement she makes seems to echo. It's cold -- Nobody lights the furnaces in the buildings that aren't being used -- and she'll have to leave for somewhere warmer soon, but the thought of the inn with its brightness and bustle of people is still too overwhelming to consider.
The sweater she has on over her clothes is black, large enough to nearly be a dress and perpetually slipped off one shoulder. She sets her journal aside and pushes up one saggy sleeve to reveal a strip of linen bandage wrapped loosely from elbow to wrist. Gently, she unwinds it and considers the livid, fractured pattern beneath. It seethes against her skin, tender and accusatory, and without thinking she presses hard against a shiny red line with her finger, pain flaring up bright and hot until she cries out and drops her hand with soft hiccough of sound.
WHERE: Town Hall
WHEN: 24 February, evening
OPEN TO: ALL
WARNINGS: Mild self-harm, mention of death
STATUS: Closed to new threads
Dear Diary,
Well, I'm still alive, although I don't know if that was intentional.
Yesterday when I was cutting through the park, I was struck by lightning. Not directly; that's why I'm still here. If you think you know what that feels like, trust me that you don't. I wish I didn't.
I should probably be a big bundle of gratefulness that I survived, but I can't get around why.
It felt personal when Ren died, like he might have been on the right (wrong) track. He was always pushing so hard, all the damned time. Even when I told him to relax.
I don't know if this was a warning. Could it really be coincidence? Lots of people were struck recently, but only one died. Only one got a message etched on his roof. Did I just get the celestial equivalent of a smack with a rolled up newspaper?
Staring down at what she's written, Veronica fights the urge to tear out the entire page. You don't even have to read the content to see the abrupt slide from rational to ridiculous: The tidy block letters she'd adopted to save paper had been abandoned for her own massive scrawl weeks ago, looped across precious pages with all the eye-rolling angst of a truly mournful teenager.
The main room of the town hall is large, and every movement she makes seems to echo. It's cold -- Nobody lights the furnaces in the buildings that aren't being used -- and she'll have to leave for somewhere warmer soon, but the thought of the inn with its brightness and bustle of people is still too overwhelming to consider.
The sweater she has on over her clothes is black, large enough to nearly be a dress and perpetually slipped off one shoulder. She sets her journal aside and pushes up one saggy sleeve to reveal a strip of linen bandage wrapped loosely from elbow to wrist. Gently, she unwinds it and considers the livid, fractured pattern beneath. It seethes against her skin, tender and accusatory, and without thinking she presses hard against a shiny red line with her finger, pain flaring up bright and hot until she cries out and drops her hand with soft hiccough of sound.
no subject