Fic: A Tourist in the Waking World (Annie)
Title: A Tourist in the Waking World
Rating: PG
Summary: The first time she tries to change her clothes is during her wake.
Disclaimer: I do not own Being Huamn. At all. I wish but alas...
Author's Note: So, this is my first fic in this fandom. I hope I got it even a little bit right.
The first time she tries to change her clothes is during her wake. Everyone - her friends, her family, Owen - are downstairs and no one can see her and she feels like tearing her hair out. She's cried and she's screamed until her throat is sore and still nothing. No one even looks up. They don't see her. It's as if she isn't there at all. But she is. She's surrounded by everyone she has ever loved and she's all alone.
She decides that what she needs is to get out of these clothes, these stupid clothes she died in. She searches through the half-emptied boxes upstairs and pulls out the first thing she finds: a dress she had intended to wear on her honeymoon. She takes a deep breath and pushes through the pain, adds it to the ever-growing pile. She pulls off her clothes as quickly as she can and slides into the dress. She runs her hands over it and breathes in, then out. She feels better, a bit more stable and less like she is quickly spiraling away. She turns to look at herself in the mirror and it's wrong. All wrong. The dress is gone and she's back in the same gray outfit. Her clothes are back; the pain is back.
She lets out a scream of frustration and dispair, but no one hears that either.
*
"I can't change my clothes," she tells Mitchell. He looks over at her. His mind had been off some place else. He can get that way from time to time, as if the blank space inbetween him and his problems holds some answers. Annie has stared into it too. There's nothing there, because there are no answers. There's only this and more of it.
"Why, do you think?" he asks.
She toys with the edge of her sweater, tugging at a cluster of fraying strings at the edge. She sighs. "It's like...I'm stuck here, in this inbetween place and I'm not going anywhere. Not from this house, these clothes." She shakes her head, because maybe that's not even it. The truth is, she doesn't know. She doesn't know why she's stuck, what she's supposed to do, if she's ever going to move on. She's just guessing. "I'm gonna spend eternity looking like I'm doing the laundry."
"Maybe it'll change," Mitchell suggests. He goes through drags like this. Sometimes he's upbeat, personable, making friends with the neighbors and believing in something, in the life outside the walls of their house. Other times, he seems to have a dark cloud hanging over his head. He doesn't talk and she feels like she barely sees him. He hides himself away. Sometimes she finds it hard to keep up.
"Which part?" she asks. Mitchell doesn't answer, and she sighs again.
See? There are no answers. Only more of this.
*
She's glad Gilbert is here. She doesn't know if she would be able to handle this alone. She feels empty, staring at nothing in the dark and the quiet. She isn't looking for anything, she's just...staring. She fears what she will do or feel if she moves. It comes and goes in waves. First she feels nothing, then everything - all of the saddness and anger and embarrassment and shock. It's so overwhelming. She's glad Gilbert is here.
He says he's sorry, and she's sorry too. Sorry she had ignored all of Owen's ugliness, his moods, all of the times she had feard him and what he might do. She had idealized him, like a stupid little girl, and it embarrasses her. She had never thought of herself as that kind of girl. She had blocked him, the real Owen, out in her memory and replaced him with everything that she had wanted him to be. She is so sorry.
Gilbert's door appears, though. He finds his peace through her, after all these years alone, and moves on. But she stays. She's still here, stuck in this mess - this mess that's suddenly so much larger than it was before. Mitchell and George try to help, talk to her, offer their sympathy, but she asks to be alone. She is alone, after all.
She goes up to her room, sits in her chair, and tries to keep it together. She can't manage it. Her breathing only gets more and more heavy, and her head is pounding. She clasps it and orders herself to breathe, but it doesn't do any good. It goes on, it always goes on. She wraps her arms around herself, pulling at her sweater, and then her anger boils over.
Once again, she turns her rage on her clothes. She forgets all that she knows and starts ripping her sweater, tearing it into shreds, some of which hang there and others that get thrown to the ground. She pulls off her boots violently and throws then against the wall. She slides out of her chair, attacking her outfit, these clothes that she had died in, been murdered in. She can't get to Owen, can't pay him back for all that he's done to her, but she can shred these clothes to pieces, rip them apart and off of her.
She breathes raggedly, punctuated now and again by half-formed, exhausted sobs. She wraps the shards of what had once been her sweated around her fingers and tugs at them, taking several deep breaths. She wishes she felt better this time, even for a second, but she doesn't. She feels the same. Sitting in the wreckage of her life, having ripped something apart with her bare hands like she wants to rip apart Owen, she is exactly the same girl thrown down the stairs by her spiteful fiancee.
Shaking her head and willing back tears, she looks down at herself. All of the pieces she had ripped off of her arms were back in place, as if they had never been torn away. Her boots are back on her feet, and that's it. It is as if her fitful act of defiant rage had never happened. All for nothing, back to square one.
She's doomed to linger here forever, in this inbetween place, wearing the clothes that she was murdered in. Her chest tightens and she can't hold it back any longer. She falls into a ball on the floor and cries.
Rating: PG
Summary: The first time she tries to change her clothes is during her wake.
Disclaimer: I do not own Being Huamn. At all. I wish but alas...
Author's Note: So, this is my first fic in this fandom. I hope I got it even a little bit right.
The first time she tries to change her clothes is during her wake. Everyone - her friends, her family, Owen - are downstairs and no one can see her and she feels like tearing her hair out. She's cried and she's screamed until her throat is sore and still nothing. No one even looks up. They don't see her. It's as if she isn't there at all. But she is. She's surrounded by everyone she has ever loved and she's all alone.
She decides that what she needs is to get out of these clothes, these stupid clothes she died in. She searches through the half-emptied boxes upstairs and pulls out the first thing she finds: a dress she had intended to wear on her honeymoon. She takes a deep breath and pushes through the pain, adds it to the ever-growing pile. She pulls off her clothes as quickly as she can and slides into the dress. She runs her hands over it and breathes in, then out. She feels better, a bit more stable and less like she is quickly spiraling away. She turns to look at herself in the mirror and it's wrong. All wrong. The dress is gone and she's back in the same gray outfit. Her clothes are back; the pain is back.
She lets out a scream of frustration and dispair, but no one hears that either.
*
"I can't change my clothes," she tells Mitchell. He looks over at her. His mind had been off some place else. He can get that way from time to time, as if the blank space inbetween him and his problems holds some answers. Annie has stared into it too. There's nothing there, because there are no answers. There's only this and more of it.
"Why, do you think?" he asks.
She toys with the edge of her sweater, tugging at a cluster of fraying strings at the edge. She sighs. "It's like...I'm stuck here, in this inbetween place and I'm not going anywhere. Not from this house, these clothes." She shakes her head, because maybe that's not even it. The truth is, she doesn't know. She doesn't know why she's stuck, what she's supposed to do, if she's ever going to move on. She's just guessing. "I'm gonna spend eternity looking like I'm doing the laundry."
"Maybe it'll change," Mitchell suggests. He goes through drags like this. Sometimes he's upbeat, personable, making friends with the neighbors and believing in something, in the life outside the walls of their house. Other times, he seems to have a dark cloud hanging over his head. He doesn't talk and she feels like she barely sees him. He hides himself away. Sometimes she finds it hard to keep up.
"Which part?" she asks. Mitchell doesn't answer, and she sighs again.
See? There are no answers. Only more of this.
*
She's glad Gilbert is here. She doesn't know if she would be able to handle this alone. She feels empty, staring at nothing in the dark and the quiet. She isn't looking for anything, she's just...staring. She fears what she will do or feel if she moves. It comes and goes in waves. First she feels nothing, then everything - all of the saddness and anger and embarrassment and shock. It's so overwhelming. She's glad Gilbert is here.
He says he's sorry, and she's sorry too. Sorry she had ignored all of Owen's ugliness, his moods, all of the times she had feard him and what he might do. She had idealized him, like a stupid little girl, and it embarrasses her. She had never thought of herself as that kind of girl. She had blocked him, the real Owen, out in her memory and replaced him with everything that she had wanted him to be. She is so sorry.
Gilbert's door appears, though. He finds his peace through her, after all these years alone, and moves on. But she stays. She's still here, stuck in this mess - this mess that's suddenly so much larger than it was before. Mitchell and George try to help, talk to her, offer their sympathy, but she asks to be alone. She is alone, after all.
She goes up to her room, sits in her chair, and tries to keep it together. She can't manage it. Her breathing only gets more and more heavy, and her head is pounding. She clasps it and orders herself to breathe, but it doesn't do any good. It goes on, it always goes on. She wraps her arms around herself, pulling at her sweater, and then her anger boils over.
Once again, she turns her rage on her clothes. She forgets all that she knows and starts ripping her sweater, tearing it into shreds, some of which hang there and others that get thrown to the ground. She pulls off her boots violently and throws then against the wall. She slides out of her chair, attacking her outfit, these clothes that she had died in, been murdered in. She can't get to Owen, can't pay him back for all that he's done to her, but she can shred these clothes to pieces, rip them apart and off of her.
She breathes raggedly, punctuated now and again by half-formed, exhausted sobs. She wraps the shards of what had once been her sweated around her fingers and tugs at them, taking several deep breaths. She wishes she felt better this time, even for a second, but she doesn't. She feels the same. Sitting in the wreckage of her life, having ripped something apart with her bare hands like she wants to rip apart Owen, she is exactly the same girl thrown down the stairs by her spiteful fiancee.
Shaking her head and willing back tears, she looks down at herself. All of the pieces she had ripped off of her arms were back in place, as if they had never been torn away. Her boots are back on her feet, and that's it. It is as if her fitful act of defiant rage had never happened. All for nothing, back to square one.
She's doomed to linger here forever, in this inbetween place, wearing the clothes that she was murdered in. Her chest tightens and she can't hold it back any longer. She falls into a ball on the floor and cries.