(no subject)
She’s doing okay, right up to the moment that she’s not anymore.
Distractions on the island are many, especially with winter’s new change in terrain. If it’s not her daughter demanding every moment of her time, it’s training the ITF in new conditions, or studying new programs to try out at AA. Yesterday it was Kara’s latest bid to find something better than a corset.
Today it’s a visit to the Galactica Colonial Memorial.
It’s only the second time she’s been since it transformed. Gone are the bamboo walls, the dapples of sunlight glancing off the many photos and scrawled notes. In their place is a small stone building all alone, detached from the row houses that surround it and bearing a small sign out front: Memorial to the Lives Lost in the Twelve Colonies. Inside, every photo is framed in heavy wood, protected by glass, the names of the deceased in gold placards beneath each.
It’s nicer now, stately in a way there was no time to muster on the Galactica, nor had Kara skill to on the island.
She should be grateful.
Dusting off the seven hundredth frame, Kara wants to cry instead.
It’s not even the memorial. It should be. These lost souls are the only thing left from home on the island, and they deserve her grief. They have it, they always have, but they’re not the reason Kara wants to sit down and sob today.
“Godsdammit, Cas.”
Letting the duster fall, Kara puts her back to the furthest corner of the room and sits, releasing a sigh that takes most of her fight with it. She’ll just rest a while. She’ll sleep, and it will be better.
An hour later, she wakes to a flare of agony in her arm, a pain that bursts brilliant and red behind her eyes until its extinguished all at once, leaving only deep ache in its wake.
It’s familiar. She has three tattoos already, she knows this sting. And thanks to a reel she watched years ago, she knows what mark she’ll find beneath the protective curl of her palm.
Kara strips off her shirt anyway, long woolen layers peeled down her arm to reveal a black wing spanning outward from a large circle, the constellation at its base almost delicate, and beside it, a tiny symbol of Caprica.
“Oh,” Kara whispers. She hadn’t noticed that before. “Gods, Sammy.”
She’s on her feet and moving. She’d buried her last bottles of Ambrosia beneath the Memorial Hut long ago; she has no doubt about what now occupies the little cabinet in the middle of the room. Yanking the door open, Kara rolls a bottle of bright green alcohol across her palm.
She doesn’t know whether she wants to hurl it at the wall or drink it dry.
[not sending out an accompanying email, so if your pup knows Kara and is moved to tag this, please feel welcome to. Note that if you look through all the pictures on the wall, one of them is Kara’s. Picture of her new tattoo (item) found here.]
Distractions on the island are many, especially with winter’s new change in terrain. If it’s not her daughter demanding every moment of her time, it’s training the ITF in new conditions, or studying new programs to try out at AA. Yesterday it was Kara’s latest bid to find something better than a corset.
Today it’s a visit to the Galactica Colonial Memorial.
It’s only the second time she’s been since it transformed. Gone are the bamboo walls, the dapples of sunlight glancing off the many photos and scrawled notes. In their place is a small stone building all alone, detached from the row houses that surround it and bearing a small sign out front: Memorial to the Lives Lost in the Twelve Colonies. Inside, every photo is framed in heavy wood, protected by glass, the names of the deceased in gold placards beneath each.
It’s nicer now, stately in a way there was no time to muster on the Galactica, nor had Kara skill to on the island.
She should be grateful.
Dusting off the seven hundredth frame, Kara wants to cry instead.
It’s not even the memorial. It should be. These lost souls are the only thing left from home on the island, and they deserve her grief. They have it, they always have, but they’re not the reason Kara wants to sit down and sob today.
“Godsdammit, Cas.”
Letting the duster fall, Kara puts her back to the furthest corner of the room and sits, releasing a sigh that takes most of her fight with it. She’ll just rest a while. She’ll sleep, and it will be better.
An hour later, she wakes to a flare of agony in her arm, a pain that bursts brilliant and red behind her eyes until its extinguished all at once, leaving only deep ache in its wake.
It’s familiar. She has three tattoos already, she knows this sting. And thanks to a reel she watched years ago, she knows what mark she’ll find beneath the protective curl of her palm.
Kara strips off her shirt anyway, long woolen layers peeled down her arm to reveal a black wing spanning outward from a large circle, the constellation at its base almost delicate, and beside it, a tiny symbol of Caprica.
“Oh,” Kara whispers. She hadn’t noticed that before. “Gods, Sammy.”
She’s on her feet and moving. She’d buried her last bottles of Ambrosia beneath the Memorial Hut long ago; she has no doubt about what now occupies the little cabinet in the middle of the room. Yanking the door open, Kara rolls a bottle of bright green alcohol across her palm.
She doesn’t know whether she wants to hurl it at the wall or drink it dry.
[not sending out an accompanying email, so if your pup knows Kara and is moved to tag this, please feel welcome to. Note that if you look through all the pictures on the wall, one of them is Kara’s. Picture of her new tattoo (item) found here.]
