(no subject)
Who: Grace and Bret
What: Being dangerously intoxicated
When: Wednesday, March 17th
Where: Around Jhelbor
It had started as an ordinary day. Grace had busied herself around the house with the occasional word to Skyler, periodically checked her journal and sipped at the bottle of vodka by the kitchen table. She had spent an hour cramped in the corner of her apartment painting a mural, a withered oak tree that stopped mid-wall. She had made herself cup of coffee. And eventually she had grown tired of her fastidious work and collapsed into a chair, clutching the liquor in one hand and the coffee in the other.
Shortly after, and somewhere between losing her grip on both the vodka and the coffee, Grace had fallen asleep and proceeded to dream a shocking, repetitive sequence of otherwise repressed memories.
And then started awake, choking on her breath.
Visibly disturbed, and after a moment of dazed recovery, Grace began an attempt at re-repressing her subconscious by throwing back her liquor like it was mineral water. Her heart had started racing and she felt herself beginning to sweat, hands refusing to respond to her commands and, frustrated, she began fiercely rummaging through the drawers, knocking over their contents. She then grasped the neck of an unopened bottle and hurtled herself out the door.
As it were, Grace was currently sprawled against a tree, one arm thrown over her chest and her calves drawn under her thighs. Her face was sweaty and her mouth was dry (despite its constant attention) and her eyes were smudged and rimmed in red.
But she was so far past being able to think lucidly that the thought of impeding alcohol poisoning barely registered. In fact, almost nothing did.
What: Being dangerously intoxicated
When: Wednesday, March 17th
Where: Around Jhelbor
It had started as an ordinary day. Grace had busied herself around the house with the occasional word to Skyler, periodically checked her journal and sipped at the bottle of vodka by the kitchen table. She had spent an hour cramped in the corner of her apartment painting a mural, a withered oak tree that stopped mid-wall. She had made herself cup of coffee. And eventually she had grown tired of her fastidious work and collapsed into a chair, clutching the liquor in one hand and the coffee in the other.
Shortly after, and somewhere between losing her grip on both the vodka and the coffee, Grace had fallen asleep and proceeded to dream a shocking, repetitive sequence of otherwise repressed memories.
And then started awake, choking on her breath.
Visibly disturbed, and after a moment of dazed recovery, Grace began an attempt at re-repressing her subconscious by throwing back her liquor like it was mineral water. Her heart had started racing and she felt herself beginning to sweat, hands refusing to respond to her commands and, frustrated, she began fiercely rummaging through the drawers, knocking over their contents. She then grasped the neck of an unopened bottle and hurtled herself out the door.
As it were, Grace was currently sprawled against a tree, one arm thrown over her chest and her calves drawn under her thighs. Her face was sweaty and her mouth was dry (despite its constant attention) and her eyes were smudged and rimmed in red.
But she was so far past being able to think lucidly that the thought of impeding alcohol poisoning barely registered. In fact, almost nothing did.