Dear mun

Jan. 4th, 2010 09:08 pm
chilichoc: (and i never miss)
*It's this room again, and Mel is writing in the journal set out on the desk, scowling, ripping the paper when she scores the underlines.*

You. Bitch who types for me.

You're going to do what?

Do you really think it's an idle threat when I say someday we'll find out together just how long-range my Glock is?

[for [livejournal.com profile] curtainwizard]
chilichoc: (taste of dried-up hopes in my mouth)
*The fact that she could smell the rain before she opened the door should've tipped her off that this wasn't really the room with the Wammy's House grounds, but she's already taken the first step in.*

No, no, fuck no.

*She's done this before, more times than she's admitted to anyone, mostly in that awful more-than-a-week when Mail was missing.

She's in the truck; she knows the Nagano street sign by heart. She can't keep herself from feeling desperately lost and alone, can't keep her eyes from flicking to the television screen in the cab, where the car is just a red blur, and she can't make sense of the broadcaster's voice. She could count it down, almost, from the time the wheels leave the pavement. Ten, nine, eight. It's not real, Mihaela, it's just a room. Seven, six, five. You still have your ring, nothing can really break the spell. Four, three, two. The vise about to clamp down on her heart, and the part of her that's in the moment wants it. One. One hand on her rosary, one curled tight around the ring; everything goes black, and she doesn't feel her head hit the steering wheel.*

[[private to [livejournal.com profile] curtainwizard]]

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Mel

June 2010

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