Closed;
[ Characters ] Mireille Duroc (unreadability) and Jean Louis Duroc (population_ctrl).
[ Location ] Their house in Childreams.
[ Date/Time ] 18.04, morning.
[ Warning ] Mentions of gore and violence.
[ Content ] What is this, really, if not the morning after?
The water is still dripping from his hair as he walks out of the bathroom, semi-transparent splotches of wetness blotting the back of his white shirt. His skin feels the same as always after a cold shower - fresher, cooler and just generally more alive.
Today, however, these pleasant sensations are farther away than usual. It is as if his mind is still numb, from sleeplessness as well as... well. Going in circles around the same, repetitive topic for hours on end. He leaves it at that for now. The shower pulled him at least partly out of his thoughts and he won't be so quick to step right back in.
Washing her out of his system, off his skin, into the ground.
But not out of his mind, as he realises seconds later when his feet carry him straight into the bedroom simply by instinct. He finds himself pausing in the doorway, looking at her. Lying on the bed, the way she's been ever since he put her there last night, in a pool of stiff, messy fabrics.
She's breathing, he thinks as he walks closer, steps quiet without being careful. He can't quite decide if he feels disappointed or relieved.
[ Location ] Their house in Childreams.
[ Date/Time ] 18.04, morning.
[ Warning ] Mentions of gore and violence.
[ Content ] What is this, really, if not the morning after?
The water is still dripping from his hair as he walks out of the bathroom, semi-transparent splotches of wetness blotting the back of his white shirt. His skin feels the same as always after a cold shower - fresher, cooler and just generally more alive.
Today, however, these pleasant sensations are farther away than usual. It is as if his mind is still numb, from sleeplessness as well as... well. Going in circles around the same, repetitive topic for hours on end. He leaves it at that for now. The shower pulled him at least partly out of his thoughts and he won't be so quick to step right back in.
Washing her out of his system, off his skin, into the ground.
But not out of his mind, as he realises seconds later when his feet carry him straight into the bedroom simply by instinct. He finds himself pausing in the doorway, looking at her. Lying on the bed, the way she's been ever since he put her there last night, in a pool of stiff, messy fabrics.
She's breathing, he thinks as he walks closer, steps quiet without being careful. He can't quite decide if he feels disappointed or relieved.