OOM: I know death hath ten thousand several doors
She draws a long bath first of all, sliding into it gratefully underneath the billowing steam and shower curtains, and stays there for at least an hour. The heat--soothing, warm, drowsy--seeps into her bones and she drifts off into a hazy nothingness, eyes closed and limbs heavy with sleep.
When she wakes up, the water's cold and she splashes as she climbs out, fumbling for a towel. She drips water everywhere as she pads out into the living room, wrapping herself up and headed for her bedroom.
The ache in her body's gone, the tension, the strain. She's feeling calm and peaceful as she finds her clothes, and she even manages a soft tune under her breath as she dries her hair. The room is quiet, the night is serene, time is slow and lingering. She can relax--smile freely, laugh--for a while.
She finds the flower Magius gave her sitting on her dresser and puts it in her hair, finds a CD under the bed and slips it into the player, gets a tall, stiff drink in the kitchen. There's a book sitting on the couch that's only half-finished. It looks like a good night.
She's halfway through the fifth chapter when she smells smoke.
Her first thought is: the bar's on fire? She even stands up, the book dropping to the floor, and crosses the room to lay her cheek flat against the wooden door, feel for the handle. They're both cold to the touch.
Then she smells the sulfur. Brimstone.
Ice trickles down her spine in a slow, frozen horror and she shudders, quickly stumbling backwards. Her hands are shaking as she holds them up to her face, her eyes black and huge with panic. She's shivering violently all over.
It's time. There is no more time. The door is waiting.
Tears streak down a bloodless white face as she looks around. Faces, voices, sensations whirl through her mind, reeling, spinning, and her lips grow numb; she's dizzy, light-headed from terror and pain. And her torn, grieving heart hurts so much it feels like it's been ripped apart inside her chest, and she can't manage a single step forward.
The door is waiting.
Nina Myers sinks to the floor, cries, trembles. Her hands grope blindly, seeking, grasping at nothing. She buries her face and rocks back and forth, sobbing.
The door is open.
And from somewhere inside her broken self, somewhere among the remnants, there comes something no-one could name or imagine.
She braces her hands against the ground until they're steady. She crouches, leans, rises slowly and shakily, stiffly, to her feet. Her tears are gone, her white face is stony.
With an even, measured pace, she moves forward and steps into Hell.
And the door closes.
All that's left is a handful of petals, silver-white, crystalline, scattered on the floor.
[ooc: Millitimed to this evening.]