46. Prose (Voice/Action) (Sunday evening)
[ooc: Hey guys! Like most tl;dr stuff I post, THIS IS OPTIONAL READING so feel free to completely skip over it, although those with characters in the hotel are also free to say that they saw Heather leaving her hotel room with a really, really dark expression. She will not be deterred or particularly receptive to any attempts to engage in conversation. If you would like to, however, here's some appropriate listening material.]
ERROR: NUMBER NO LONGER IN USE. beeeeeeep.
ERROR: NUMBER NO LONGER IN USE. beeeeeeep.
ERROR: NUMBER NO LONGER IN USE. beeeeeeep.
Heather's thumb hovered over the 'Connect' button, but didn't press it again. She'd already done it about fifteen times, hoping to hear something else, but she'd already known that the message wouldn't change, no matter how many times she called. The truth was that it wasn't even a surprise, no matter how much she wished it could have been, nor how much she simultaneously dreaded and expected it.
With each passing day, she had known it more and more.
Hearing this now was only a confirmation.
The last nail in the coffin.
He was gone.
It had been evening when she'd gotten it in her head that hey, it had been a few days since the last try. Maybe she should try calling Dad up again. It wasn't that she was actually expecting a result-- it had been an entire month since she last heard from him, after all.
I've got a lot of catching up to do, he had said. I can only imagine how much I've missed.
And that had been it.
But when that hideous dial-tone and automated message came buzzing out of the speakers on Heather's PokeGear, it was as though something very heavy had slid down her throat and settled somewhere low in her stomach, lying there like a bowling ball. Or a big rock.
It wasn't too late in the day, but the early winter evening had already crept in, turning the sky outside to that deep ocean blue and bringing lights all over the city to life. Still, Heather's hotel room was dark, lit only by the lights outside, shining from the windows of other tall buildings. She had been reaching for the bedside lamp as she had been dialing the number, and when the message turned on, her hand had stopped, then slowly returned to her lap.
So this was it.
After a month of waiting, he really was gone.
... so you're not mad? was what she had asked him, and she'd never gotten a reply. Maybe now she'd never know.
The decision she'd made to finally stop hesitating, to actually try to appreciate this strange second chance she had, was made too late. Just like everything else decent she'd ever done.
Oh boy, Mason. You sure did blow it this time. You haven't changed at all.
She swallowed, hard, trying to push down the lump in her throat.
Just the same as ever. You never do appreciate what you have. Not till it's too late. Well, now it IS. Are you happy?
She snapped the 'Gear shut with a click and stood up. It was an automatic motion-- and it hardly even felt like she herself was the one doing it. Shoving the 'Gear into her pocket, she grabbed up her recently-discarded coat and yanked it on, buttoning it up with fingers that hardly felt the metal.
As she made her way to the door, there was a sharp whine and a cold wetness in the palm of her hand as a big moist nose was shoved into it. She looked over her shoulder sharply and was met with Cujo's wide-eyed stare and hopeful wagging tail. Walk? Walk? WALK??
"... No, Cujo. Stay," Heather said, her voice feeling thick and sounding even thicker as she shoved his snout back and turned to the door. He made a few wuffling sounds and tried to latch onto her sleeve playfully, like he always did when they were about to go out. A hasty intake of breath rattled the cords in Heather's throat in a surprisingly growl-like fashion and she yanked her arm upwards, hissing at him through gritted teeth. "I said STAY!"
The Growlithe let go with a startled woof and shrank back, bushy tail sinking between his legs.
Heather did not stop to glare further. She clamped her mouth shut and opened the door, slamming it loudly behind her as she went out into the hallway, leaving silence in her wake.
After a couple moments, the orange dog crept forward and pawed a little at the closed door, a high-pitched whine shuddering out of his throat and piercing the dark blue quiet. When his scratching proved fruitless, he curled up on the carpet. All right... he would wait.
~*~
The cold was the kind that hurt.
It nipped sharply at her face, bare hands, and the gaps between her coat's buttons as she left the hotel's lobby and strode through the snow, breath steaming in front of her. She didn't know where she was going. Maybe that was the point. There weren't many people out tonight, leaving the sugar-glazed streets bare. That was fine with her. Familiar faces were not something she wanted to see right now. The bitter air was creeping through the fabric of her jeans, making the material stiff and sinking into her legs as she walked, and her boots skidded and squeaked in the snow, but she ignored it all.
Her crooked path took her down streets and alleys that she didn't even notice-- the wind was already yanking moisture from her eyes and scraping at her cheeks like an incorporeal cheesegrater, reddening them. She could have been walking for fifteen minutes or it could have been an hour-- but by the time she stopped, it felt like no time had passed at all, the journey was such a blur. Her feet, numb-toed and aching from the cold, had brought her to a secluded alley, lined with the occasional trash can and walled in brick.
Snowflakes lit up like neon on the lights above the back-doors (shut, of course), and her breath was coming out in deep, shapely puffs of vapor with each labored exhalation that came out of her open mouth, which she wasn't bothering to close. She probably should have been shivering, but that leaden weight in her stomach was anchoring her whole body down, it seemed. Looking around with watering eyes, she saw no one around that could interrupt or stop by with well-meaning concern. Good.
Letting out a shuddery breath, she leaned against the brick, hearing its rough surface catch on the fabric of her coatsleeve and scuff it in a rich cacophony of breaking thread. The frosty air nipped painfully at her ears-- she'd left her hat behind. Oh well, whatever. Too late to worry about that now. Not that she was worried. There wasn't any room for worry in her head.
You're STUPID, girl, you're so goddamn stupid. That chance was practically GIFT-WRAPPED and you just sat there for months and DARED the universe to take it away again.
How can you even feel sorry for yourself?
You practically spread your arms to the sky and yelled HEY, I'M NOT GONNA DO SHIT WITH WHAT YOU GAVE ME! HAHA, PSYCH! MIGHT AS WELL TAKE IT BACK!
You stupid, stupid kid.
Heather turned her forehead to rest against the wall-- hard enough that she could feel the rough grain of it scraping her scalp.
Sad wasn't what she was right now. Sad was what happened when Grandpa died or your best friend moved away.
Shame.
That was what that leaden weight in her stomach was. The lump in her throat and the growing tightness in her chest, too. Good, old-fashioned, guilt-tinged, hot, sick shame.
Gritting her teeth, Heather pounded a fist helplessly against the wall, her shoulders hunched.
"You stupid, stupid..."
But the sentence died in her throat with a tight squeak, because words just didn't do it this time. Somehow, they made it hurt worse. Wasn't letting any of that pressure out-- just emptying her lungs and somehow making it tighter.
The butt of her fist hit the wall again with a feeble smack as she stood there, every muscle tensing to the point of pain. Had to get it out, somehow. Couldn't show her face back around anywhere unless it had come out-- that was just how she knew it had to go. Go off somewhere by yourself and have a good cry or something and then once it's over, you can go back to battling on through whatever it was and nobody would be any the wiser unless you told them.
But talking wasn't working.
It hurt too much, and it was the kind of hurt that Heather wasn't good at dealing with.
Throat tight, she drew her fist back-- far this time-- and let fly.
Her bare knuckles met the brick with an explosion of hot pain that she could practically SEE painted on the inside of her eyelids.
Her fingers tingled and stung as she pulled away-- and then slammed them into the wall again.
And again.
Now with the other hand.
And again.
Now both at once.
And again.
And again, harder this time.
Something popped in one of them-- and crunched in another-- but she kept going-- each swing more and more vicious until she was muffling a howl with each new blow, eyes shut tight and raspy, sobbish snarls ripping their way out of her throat with the exertion.
Finally, she just couldn't do it anymore.
Sagging against the wall with her clenched fists resting above her head, Heather just crumpled, her chest heaving in and out and her breath floating away into the night.
There were tears streaming down her face now, although the heat was sucked out of them long before they could finish rolling down to her chin.
She didn't dare look at her hands-- she could feel the swollenness of the fingers and the bite of the cold where the skin had broken and turned to a nasty, meaty mess. They probably looked like ground hamburger. She didn't want to see it, even though she knew she'd have to look eventually, so she just kept her head pointed straight down at the floor of the empty alley and panted as though she'd run a dozen miles, gulping in lungfuls of the frigid air even though it made her wheeze.
She couldn't stay here all night, she knew.
She had to go back.
Had to face the reality of the situation.
The leaden weight had lessened, but it had been replaced with a sickening sense of embarrassment, one that crawled through her hotly and made the prospect of lying awake in that bedroom by herself, not sleeping, just mulling over and over on her own pathetic behavior, absolutely unbearable.
Gingerly, she removed one arm from the wall and dipped her swollen, bloody fingers into her pocket to withdraw the PokeGear.
Otacon. She wanted to talk to Otacon-- but no, this wasn't-- she couldn't. She could hear his voice, plain as day, talking to her right before he left-- he'd told her to call him if she needed ANYTHING-- day or night. Well, she needed something all right, but... no. Just... no.
He had also told her, months before, to take advantage of that incredible, blessed chance she'd been given-- a second chance to be with her father. Something he'd have given the world for. Had she followed that advice? No. And that was why she was here right now, standing by herself in some alley with pulverized roadkill hands. She couldn't call him. She couldn't face him. How could she look him in the eye and tell him that her father was gone, and that it was her own damn fault that she hadn't taken advantage of his presence here sooner?
The sobs between breaths grew shuddery-- the cold was starting to creep in now and her shoulders were shaking.
Flipping the 'Gear open, she brushed over the keypad with a pained frown that was rapidly becoming a tearful grimace.
She was halfway through dialing up Snake's 'Gear when she stopped, swallowing hard and squeezing her eyes shut. No... no, he didn't even know. Didn't even know that her father had been here, or even that she HAD a father. And if she went to him, she'd need to explain... need to say why she was upset. Not because he'd ask her, but because... Heather Mason didn't cry for no reason-- not to other people. And she didn't want to explain.
Wasn't even sure she could explain.
Snake wasn't her only friend here in Goldenrod. No, she was lucky, she was fucking lucky-- a lot of her friends were here. Good friends. Ones she trusted-- ones who she probably wouldn't even mind seeing her in a silly weak moment like this.
But they didn't know, either.
Hardly anybody did, because she'd told so few. Kept it a secret. Her embarrassing, shameful little secret.
Otacon was one. He was gone. She wasn't even sure if she'd get to see him again in person any time soon, and how could she expect his sympathy? He would give it, of course-- but somehow that would just make it worse, because she knew that this was one thing she did not deserve it on.
James was another-- but he was in Azalea, and sweet-hearted thing that he was, the thought of blubbering to him over the phone made Heather's stomach curl in shame.
Nobody here. Nobody here who she could go to in person-- have a conversation that WASN'T still, ultimately, physically by herself.
... Except for...
Heather straightened up, drawing in a long, watery sniff and reaching up a throbbing hand to wipe away the now-icy tears that were lingering on her face, leaving trails of cold in their wake, and clumsily punching numbers into the keypad with the thumb on her other.
There was one other person who knew that Harry Mason had appeared in Johto-- one other person who knew about Heather's reluctance to make her identity known to him. A person who had been in the same situation himself-- from the opposite end.
And he happened to be staying a couple floors above Heather's own room at the Goldenrod Hotel.
[Audio-- locked to Phoenix Wright.]
[Her voice is punctuated by gasps-- she's out of breath and wheezing. Her voice is hoarse and there's weird gaps between the words, like she's struggling to put them together.]
I-- ... P- ... Phoenix?
Uhm.
Are you-- ... are you there?
I gotta-- ... can I talk t'you?
It's.
Uhm.
It's important...
[ooc edit: thank you so much for your lovely comments, guys. I can't even begin to describe how much I appreciate ALL of them. I'm screening them to cut down on clutter, though! ILU!]
ERROR: NUMBER NO LONGER IN USE. beeeeeeep.
ERROR: NUMBER NO LONGER IN USE. beeeeeeep.
ERROR: NUMBER NO LONGER IN USE. beeeeeeep.
Heather's thumb hovered over the 'Connect' button, but didn't press it again. She'd already done it about fifteen times, hoping to hear something else, but she'd already known that the message wouldn't change, no matter how many times she called. The truth was that it wasn't even a surprise, no matter how much she wished it could have been, nor how much she simultaneously dreaded and expected it.
With each passing day, she had known it more and more.
Hearing this now was only a confirmation.
The last nail in the coffin.
He was gone.
It had been evening when she'd gotten it in her head that hey, it had been a few days since the last try. Maybe she should try calling Dad up again. It wasn't that she was actually expecting a result-- it had been an entire month since she last heard from him, after all.
I've got a lot of catching up to do, he had said. I can only imagine how much I've missed.
And that had been it.
But when that hideous dial-tone and automated message came buzzing out of the speakers on Heather's PokeGear, it was as though something very heavy had slid down her throat and settled somewhere low in her stomach, lying there like a bowling ball. Or a big rock.
It wasn't too late in the day, but the early winter evening had already crept in, turning the sky outside to that deep ocean blue and bringing lights all over the city to life. Still, Heather's hotel room was dark, lit only by the lights outside, shining from the windows of other tall buildings. She had been reaching for the bedside lamp as she had been dialing the number, and when the message turned on, her hand had stopped, then slowly returned to her lap.
So this was it.
After a month of waiting, he really was gone.
... so you're not mad? was what she had asked him, and she'd never gotten a reply. Maybe now she'd never know.
The decision she'd made to finally stop hesitating, to actually try to appreciate this strange second chance she had, was made too late. Just like everything else decent she'd ever done.
Oh boy, Mason. You sure did blow it this time. You haven't changed at all.
She swallowed, hard, trying to push down the lump in her throat.
Just the same as ever. You never do appreciate what you have. Not till it's too late. Well, now it IS. Are you happy?
She snapped the 'Gear shut with a click and stood up. It was an automatic motion-- and it hardly even felt like she herself was the one doing it. Shoving the 'Gear into her pocket, she grabbed up her recently-discarded coat and yanked it on, buttoning it up with fingers that hardly felt the metal.
As she made her way to the door, there was a sharp whine and a cold wetness in the palm of her hand as a big moist nose was shoved into it. She looked over her shoulder sharply and was met with Cujo's wide-eyed stare and hopeful wagging tail. Walk? Walk? WALK??
"... No, Cujo. Stay," Heather said, her voice feeling thick and sounding even thicker as she shoved his snout back and turned to the door. He made a few wuffling sounds and tried to latch onto her sleeve playfully, like he always did when they were about to go out. A hasty intake of breath rattled the cords in Heather's throat in a surprisingly growl-like fashion and she yanked her arm upwards, hissing at him through gritted teeth. "I said STAY!"
The Growlithe let go with a startled woof and shrank back, bushy tail sinking between his legs.
Heather did not stop to glare further. She clamped her mouth shut and opened the door, slamming it loudly behind her as she went out into the hallway, leaving silence in her wake.
After a couple moments, the orange dog crept forward and pawed a little at the closed door, a high-pitched whine shuddering out of his throat and piercing the dark blue quiet. When his scratching proved fruitless, he curled up on the carpet. All right... he would wait.
~*~
The cold was the kind that hurt.
It nipped sharply at her face, bare hands, and the gaps between her coat's buttons as she left the hotel's lobby and strode through the snow, breath steaming in front of her. She didn't know where she was going. Maybe that was the point. There weren't many people out tonight, leaving the sugar-glazed streets bare. That was fine with her. Familiar faces were not something she wanted to see right now. The bitter air was creeping through the fabric of her jeans, making the material stiff and sinking into her legs as she walked, and her boots skidded and squeaked in the snow, but she ignored it all.
Her crooked path took her down streets and alleys that she didn't even notice-- the wind was already yanking moisture from her eyes and scraping at her cheeks like an incorporeal cheesegrater, reddening them. She could have been walking for fifteen minutes or it could have been an hour-- but by the time she stopped, it felt like no time had passed at all, the journey was such a blur. Her feet, numb-toed and aching from the cold, had brought her to a secluded alley, lined with the occasional trash can and walled in brick.
Snowflakes lit up like neon on the lights above the back-doors (shut, of course), and her breath was coming out in deep, shapely puffs of vapor with each labored exhalation that came out of her open mouth, which she wasn't bothering to close. She probably should have been shivering, but that leaden weight in her stomach was anchoring her whole body down, it seemed. Looking around with watering eyes, she saw no one around that could interrupt or stop by with well-meaning concern. Good.
Letting out a shuddery breath, she leaned against the brick, hearing its rough surface catch on the fabric of her coatsleeve and scuff it in a rich cacophony of breaking thread. The frosty air nipped painfully at her ears-- she'd left her hat behind. Oh well, whatever. Too late to worry about that now. Not that she was worried. There wasn't any room for worry in her head.
You're STUPID, girl, you're so goddamn stupid. That chance was practically GIFT-WRAPPED and you just sat there for months and DARED the universe to take it away again.
How can you even feel sorry for yourself?
You practically spread your arms to the sky and yelled HEY, I'M NOT GONNA DO SHIT WITH WHAT YOU GAVE ME! HAHA, PSYCH! MIGHT AS WELL TAKE IT BACK!
You stupid, stupid kid.
Heather turned her forehead to rest against the wall-- hard enough that she could feel the rough grain of it scraping her scalp.
Sad wasn't what she was right now. Sad was what happened when Grandpa died or your best friend moved away.
Shame.
That was what that leaden weight in her stomach was. The lump in her throat and the growing tightness in her chest, too. Good, old-fashioned, guilt-tinged, hot, sick shame.
Gritting her teeth, Heather pounded a fist helplessly against the wall, her shoulders hunched.
"You stupid, stupid..."
But the sentence died in her throat with a tight squeak, because words just didn't do it this time. Somehow, they made it hurt worse. Wasn't letting any of that pressure out-- just emptying her lungs and somehow making it tighter.
The butt of her fist hit the wall again with a feeble smack as she stood there, every muscle tensing to the point of pain. Had to get it out, somehow. Couldn't show her face back around anywhere unless it had come out-- that was just how she knew it had to go. Go off somewhere by yourself and have a good cry or something and then once it's over, you can go back to battling on through whatever it was and nobody would be any the wiser unless you told them.
But talking wasn't working.
It hurt too much, and it was the kind of hurt that Heather wasn't good at dealing with.
Throat tight, she drew her fist back-- far this time-- and let fly.
Her bare knuckles met the brick with an explosion of hot pain that she could practically SEE painted on the inside of her eyelids.
Her fingers tingled and stung as she pulled away-- and then slammed them into the wall again.
And again.
Now with the other hand.
And again.
Now both at once.
And again.
And again, harder this time.
Something popped in one of them-- and crunched in another-- but she kept going-- each swing more and more vicious until she was muffling a howl with each new blow, eyes shut tight and raspy, sobbish snarls ripping their way out of her throat with the exertion.
Finally, she just couldn't do it anymore.
Sagging against the wall with her clenched fists resting above her head, Heather just crumpled, her chest heaving in and out and her breath floating away into the night.
There were tears streaming down her face now, although the heat was sucked out of them long before they could finish rolling down to her chin.
She didn't dare look at her hands-- she could feel the swollenness of the fingers and the bite of the cold where the skin had broken and turned to a nasty, meaty mess. They probably looked like ground hamburger. She didn't want to see it, even though she knew she'd have to look eventually, so she just kept her head pointed straight down at the floor of the empty alley and panted as though she'd run a dozen miles, gulping in lungfuls of the frigid air even though it made her wheeze.
She couldn't stay here all night, she knew.
She had to go back.
Had to face the reality of the situation.
The leaden weight had lessened, but it had been replaced with a sickening sense of embarrassment, one that crawled through her hotly and made the prospect of lying awake in that bedroom by herself, not sleeping, just mulling over and over on her own pathetic behavior, absolutely unbearable.
Gingerly, she removed one arm from the wall and dipped her swollen, bloody fingers into her pocket to withdraw the PokeGear.
Otacon. She wanted to talk to Otacon-- but no, this wasn't-- she couldn't. She could hear his voice, plain as day, talking to her right before he left-- he'd told her to call him if she needed ANYTHING-- day or night. Well, she needed something all right, but... no. Just... no.
He had also told her, months before, to take advantage of that incredible, blessed chance she'd been given-- a second chance to be with her father. Something he'd have given the world for. Had she followed that advice? No. And that was why she was here right now, standing by herself in some alley with pulverized roadkill hands. She couldn't call him. She couldn't face him. How could she look him in the eye and tell him that her father was gone, and that it was her own damn fault that she hadn't taken advantage of his presence here sooner?
The sobs between breaths grew shuddery-- the cold was starting to creep in now and her shoulders were shaking.
Flipping the 'Gear open, she brushed over the keypad with a pained frown that was rapidly becoming a tearful grimace.
She was halfway through dialing up Snake's 'Gear when she stopped, swallowing hard and squeezing her eyes shut. No... no, he didn't even know. Didn't even know that her father had been here, or even that she HAD a father. And if she went to him, she'd need to explain... need to say why she was upset. Not because he'd ask her, but because... Heather Mason didn't cry for no reason-- not to other people. And she didn't want to explain.
Wasn't even sure she could explain.
Snake wasn't her only friend here in Goldenrod. No, she was lucky, she was fucking lucky-- a lot of her friends were here. Good friends. Ones she trusted-- ones who she probably wouldn't even mind seeing her in a silly weak moment like this.
But they didn't know, either.
Hardly anybody did, because she'd told so few. Kept it a secret. Her embarrassing, shameful little secret.
Otacon was one. He was gone. She wasn't even sure if she'd get to see him again in person any time soon, and how could she expect his sympathy? He would give it, of course-- but somehow that would just make it worse, because she knew that this was one thing she did not deserve it on.
James was another-- but he was in Azalea, and sweet-hearted thing that he was, the thought of blubbering to him over the phone made Heather's stomach curl in shame.
Nobody here. Nobody here who she could go to in person-- have a conversation that WASN'T still, ultimately, physically by herself.
... Except for...
Heather straightened up, drawing in a long, watery sniff and reaching up a throbbing hand to wipe away the now-icy tears that were lingering on her face, leaving trails of cold in their wake, and clumsily punching numbers into the keypad with the thumb on her other.
There was one other person who knew that Harry Mason had appeared in Johto-- one other person who knew about Heather's reluctance to make her identity known to him. A person who had been in the same situation himself-- from the opposite end.
And he happened to be staying a couple floors above Heather's own room at the Goldenrod Hotel.
[Audio-- locked to Phoenix Wright.]
[Her voice is punctuated by gasps-- she's out of breath and wheezing. Her voice is hoarse and there's weird gaps between the words, like she's struggling to put them together.]
I-- ... P- ... Phoenix?
Uhm.
Are you-- ... are you there?
I gotta-- ... can I talk t'you?
It's.
Uhm.
It's important...
[ooc edit: thank you so much for your lovely comments, guys. I can't even begin to describe how much I appreciate ALL of them. I'm screening them to cut down on clutter, though! ILU!]