Post by Ventus on Oct 18, 2011 19:10:10 GMT -5
Written 10 / 4 / 10, for no good reason.
A drabble observing Serah's state of mind while... very not sober.
I should point out that this is not from personal experience, only second-hand accounts and creative license.
M for implied drug and alcohol use.
---
Syrup Bake.
---
She is somewhere between high, drunk, and in a drug-slump and the only thing she can think about is how pissed her sister is going to be when she crawls in the front door or bedroom window, whichever one they decide to put her through tonight. All around her are people that she knew (knows, even) – acquaintances from school and friends of friends alike, either blubbering like loons or laughing their asses off at each other.
And she wants to be miserable, but she doesn’t find it in her capacity right now. She can’t find the strength to be anything other than high-slumped, laid back in a lawn chair like she’s sun-tanning in the stars that are really cities on the opposite side. She’s never actually seen the stars, but imagining that she’s surfing the constellations is enough for her right now because imagination is her reality. Or at least, she can’t differentiate between the two. Same difference. The wall between the two is a fuzzy mattress and she’s straddling it with a blanket and a pillow and she’s almost positive this mattress isn’t really her bed, because it’s scratchy and very plastic and angles the wrong way.
She’s pretty sure she shouldn’t be here, but she doesn’t know where here is or where she should be instead, or where someone whose name has something to do with syrup and a long way away should be at this time of whatever it is.
Now she’s craving pancakes. She wants to ask someone to take her someplace a long way away where she belongs so they can eat lots of pancakes, but somewhere between the fuzzed-up mess that her head feels like and the blob in her mouth the words get confused and now she’s in the ranks of babblers.
The really tall, blond guy she feels safe around starts laughing at her. Just thinking about him makes her cold, and she wants to snuggle in his bulk. Or eat some pancakes with hot chocolate.
Her sister makes the best hot chocolate. Maybe she can quick surf home and ask her to make some up, and they can sit together and watch cheesy Christmas specials while white powder clogs up their windowsills.
This isn’t very fun. All she’s thinking about are the things she could be doing, while she does... what? What is she doing?
She’s up on her feet and vertigo hits before she processes what just happened, and between her eyes, body, and mind the only sense she can make out is a need to pee. And a craving for pancakes.
The guy who looks like a peacock is looking at her. Being in the spotlight isn’t comfortable for her right now. All she wants to do is sleep, or see straight – either or would be helpful at this second frankly, it doesn’t even matter which. She tries to step forward and almost falls backwards or forwards, or maybe upwards or left perhaps possibly.
Peacock Guy is mumbling something at her, pleading with her, punctuating his doe-eyed blabberances with “Sere” or some such. Right now she’s not caring; all she’s caring about is making it off the back porch into the inside so she can pee. The fog on her mind isn’t lifting yet, or maybe it is. Maybe it did ten minutes ago. She’s passed from the high to the drug slump, and phantom pains are skirting their way up her arms and legs and back down again.
She’s shivery cold, in a sleeveless button-up and a see-through cardigan and skirt. And leggings. Peacock Guy had more clothes on than her, even.
Envying Big Guy’s coat, she stumbles her way over the stoneway to lean heavily on the metal frame of the porch door. It’s even colder than she is by some divine humor, and fumbling with the latch she just barely manages to pry it open enough to slip inside of the warm-air embrace.
Water first. She needs a drink – or maybe a douse, her hands move without her consent and she gets a blast of faucet water straight in the face. Her hair’s dripping into the sink and her dry mouth is gone, the background stereo fading well and truly into the background and she thinks she’s awake.
Gazing out into the back porch garden, squeezing vainly at her dripping hair, she’s hit by how absolutely stoned they all are and questions whether she’d really just done what she did.
Lightning will kill her.
But first she needs to pee.
[/size]A drabble observing Serah's state of mind while... very not sober.
M for implied drug and alcohol use.
---
Syrup Bake.
---
She is somewhere between high, drunk, and in a drug-slump and the only thing she can think about is how pissed her sister is going to be when she crawls in the front door or bedroom window, whichever one they decide to put her through tonight. All around her are people that she knew (knows, even) – acquaintances from school and friends of friends alike, either blubbering like loons or laughing their asses off at each other.
And she wants to be miserable, but she doesn’t find it in her capacity right now. She can’t find the strength to be anything other than high-slumped, laid back in a lawn chair like she’s sun-tanning in the stars that are really cities on the opposite side. She’s never actually seen the stars, but imagining that she’s surfing the constellations is enough for her right now because imagination is her reality. Or at least, she can’t differentiate between the two. Same difference. The wall between the two is a fuzzy mattress and she’s straddling it with a blanket and a pillow and she’s almost positive this mattress isn’t really her bed, because it’s scratchy and very plastic and angles the wrong way.
She’s pretty sure she shouldn’t be here, but she doesn’t know where here is or where she should be instead, or where someone whose name has something to do with syrup and a long way away should be at this time of whatever it is.
Now she’s craving pancakes. She wants to ask someone to take her someplace a long way away where she belongs so they can eat lots of pancakes, but somewhere between the fuzzed-up mess that her head feels like and the blob in her mouth the words get confused and now she’s in the ranks of babblers.
The really tall, blond guy she feels safe around starts laughing at her. Just thinking about him makes her cold, and she wants to snuggle in his bulk. Or eat some pancakes with hot chocolate.
Her sister makes the best hot chocolate. Maybe she can quick surf home and ask her to make some up, and they can sit together and watch cheesy Christmas specials while white powder clogs up their windowsills.
This isn’t very fun. All she’s thinking about are the things she could be doing, while she does... what? What is she doing?
She’s up on her feet and vertigo hits before she processes what just happened, and between her eyes, body, and mind the only sense she can make out is a need to pee. And a craving for pancakes.
The guy who looks like a peacock is looking at her. Being in the spotlight isn’t comfortable for her right now. All she wants to do is sleep, or see straight – either or would be helpful at this second frankly, it doesn’t even matter which. She tries to step forward and almost falls backwards or forwards, or maybe upwards or left perhaps possibly.
Peacock Guy is mumbling something at her, pleading with her, punctuating his doe-eyed blabberances with “Sere” or some such. Right now she’s not caring; all she’s caring about is making it off the back porch into the inside so she can pee. The fog on her mind isn’t lifting yet, or maybe it is. Maybe it did ten minutes ago. She’s passed from the high to the drug slump, and phantom pains are skirting their way up her arms and legs and back down again.
She’s shivery cold, in a sleeveless button-up and a see-through cardigan and skirt. And leggings. Peacock Guy had more clothes on than her, even.
Envying Big Guy’s coat, she stumbles her way over the stoneway to lean heavily on the metal frame of the porch door. It’s even colder than she is by some divine humor, and fumbling with the latch she just barely manages to pry it open enough to slip inside of the warm-air embrace.
Water first. She needs a drink – or maybe a douse, her hands move without her consent and she gets a blast of faucet water straight in the face. Her hair’s dripping into the sink and her dry mouth is gone, the background stereo fading well and truly into the background and she thinks she’s awake.
Gazing out into the back porch garden, squeezing vainly at her dripping hair, she’s hit by how absolutely stoned they all are and questions whether she’d really just done what she did.
Lightning will kill her.
But first she needs to pee.
