Crazy on the Roof
((Backdated to the 13th))
Having gotten some highly upsetting news, and having slept off the calming draught Dr. Maturin had given her, Molly was, to put it bluntly, nuts.
Molly wasn’t exactly stable at the best of times. Logically she knew that this shouldn’t be a big deal--people came and went all the time. The very nature of her illness, however, meant that logic very often took the back seat while the Narrator and his associates, Paranoia and Delusion, took the wheel. Ordinarily her instability wasn’t much of a problem, as she was an inherently cheerful person, but there had been times--admittedly less frequent as she had gotten older--when her good will ebbed and left her, well…crazy.
She was currently on the roof, though how she’d got there, and why, were both a mystery to her. The Narrator, normally at least somewhat coherent (if annoying), had degenerated into a kind of growling babble, from which only a few snarled words were discernible. He had company, too; two others, both as vicious as he, surrounding her in a kind of shrieking maelstrom.
Sometimes she cried, when they did this, but not this time. She’d cried and screamed enough before, and knew that it made no difference--she was stuck with it, with them, until they decided to release her. When she hit this point even her medication didn’t work--and she always did hit this point, sooner or later, at least once or twice a year.
And so she was on the roof, stumbling occasionally, aware of very little outside her voices. She always moved, when they were like this, as though by moving she could escape them. She’d made it to Gryffindor tower without realizing where she was going, sneakers crunching over the dry snow and ice, unaware of anything until her footing slipped.
That brought her back to reality with a vengeance, as she crashed hard on the slanted roof and started the inevitable slide downward.
“Shit!” she hissed, the first coherent word she’d spoken in hours. She clawed at the shingles, fingers digging hard into a divot. It held for a moment, but wasn’t strong enough to support her weight for long--it snapped with a crack like a gunshot, and down she went again.
“SHIIIIT--”
CRUNCH. SPLASH
Silence for a moment, and then, very quietly, “…Ow.”
Eventually the ripples died away, and so did Molly’s consciousness. Which, really, was a good thing.
((Anyone who feels like finding an unconscious schizo Warrior Babe, have fun XD))
Having gotten some highly upsetting news, and having slept off the calming draught Dr. Maturin had given her, Molly was, to put it bluntly, nuts.
Molly wasn’t exactly stable at the best of times. Logically she knew that this shouldn’t be a big deal--people came and went all the time. The very nature of her illness, however, meant that logic very often took the back seat while the Narrator and his associates, Paranoia and Delusion, took the wheel. Ordinarily her instability wasn’t much of a problem, as she was an inherently cheerful person, but there had been times--admittedly less frequent as she had gotten older--when her good will ebbed and left her, well…crazy.
She was currently on the roof, though how she’d got there, and why, were both a mystery to her. The Narrator, normally at least somewhat coherent (if annoying), had degenerated into a kind of growling babble, from which only a few snarled words were discernible. He had company, too; two others, both as vicious as he, surrounding her in a kind of shrieking maelstrom.
Sometimes she cried, when they did this, but not this time. She’d cried and screamed enough before, and knew that it made no difference--she was stuck with it, with them, until they decided to release her. When she hit this point even her medication didn’t work--and she always did hit this point, sooner or later, at least once or twice a year.
And so she was on the roof, stumbling occasionally, aware of very little outside her voices. She always moved, when they were like this, as though by moving she could escape them. She’d made it to Gryffindor tower without realizing where she was going, sneakers crunching over the dry snow and ice, unaware of anything until her footing slipped.
That brought her back to reality with a vengeance, as she crashed hard on the slanted roof and started the inevitable slide downward.
“Shit!” she hissed, the first coherent word she’d spoken in hours. She clawed at the shingles, fingers digging hard into a divot. It held for a moment, but wasn’t strong enough to support her weight for long--it snapped with a crack like a gunshot, and down she went again.
“SHIIIIT--”
CRUNCH. SPLASH
Silence for a moment, and then, very quietly, “…Ow.”
Eventually the ripples died away, and so did Molly’s consciousness. Which, really, was a good thing.
((Anyone who feels like finding an unconscious schizo Warrior Babe, have fun XD))