For hamimifk
Recipient: hamimifk
Author: countingmagpies
Character: Heather (gen)
My first time writing Heather, she's tricky, but fun!
~~~~~
Physical symptoms may include:
- Tingling in the hands and feet
- Sweating
- Cramps and Nausea
- Headaches
- Symptoms of a cold (coughing, sniffling) as the lungs begin to clear
None of which helps Heather, now, shaking and sweating, colder than she's ever been and fuck, craving just one last smoke. She can hear Harry her father Harry bustling around in the kitchen, and she thinks, almost bitter, that his cheerfulness isn't at all faked, that he is so happy that she's quitting now he doesn't care that she started. She wishes, not for the first time, that she had a normal father, a worse father, a father who would yell and rage and make her feel bad so that she wouldn't have to do it herself.
But she doesn't, and so Harry brings out tea - his Earl Grey with lemon, hers green and sweetened with enough honey to make even the bees gag - and tissues. The site of them is enough to set her hacking, her body spasming with the force of her coughs, her arm instinctively coming up to cover her mouth. When she finally pulls her arm away, she can see an ugly black stain on her forearm, and she would be shocked if she hadn't been expecting exactly that. It doesn't matter. In fact, Heather is almost irritated, glares at the ichor for a moment before letting her arm fall limply to her side.
Heather closes her eyes, lets her head fall backwards. She can breathe a little easier like that, uncomfortable though the position is.
The delicate touch of a tissue to her forearm startles her, makes her body jerk forwards and her eyes fly open, makes her heart start pounding. But it's just Harry, wiping away the remains of Heathers blackened lungs with a look of utmost concentration on his face. In any other situation, it would be enough to set Heather giggling, but now, weighted down as she is by the lack of nicotine in her system, all she can manage is a weak smile, and a yawn.
Pulling herself a little closer to Harry, she snuggles down into his embrace, all thoughts of tea long forgotten, and sleeps. Hopefully tomorrow would be a better day.
~~~~~
It isn't. Her cravings are worse, her shaking intensified. No matter how much tea she drinks, she sweats it all out. She's cramping worse than when she's on her period. She has a headache that just won't go away. In short, Heather Mason is miserable. And her misery is only enhanced by the sound of Harry Mason typing away cheerfully on his laptop, apparently unaware of just how much Heather wants to throttle him.
He brings his laptop into her room, to keep her company as she falls in and out of restless dreams. He's just begun a new book, a horror novel, working-title Tirn Aill, which, he explains to her, means Other World. He describes it for her, a world of rust and grates, of messages left in blood. A world of demonic cults and hellish monsters, where you could enter a building and leave to find that the entire town world has rearranged itself. He speaks of a world where little girls disappear from even the most secure locations, a world where even the unaffected cannot be trusted.
"Wow," she manages to croak out. "Harry, where'd you get an idea like that? It's great."
Harry smiles, bashful as always, though there is something distinctly brittle in his voice when he says, "I dreamed it."
~~~~~
It's two weeks before Heather can summon up the energy to leave the apartment for much-needed groceries, her conversation with Harry forgotten amongst withdrawal-induced fever-dreams. Harry himself has moved back into his own room, his novel in the Recluse Stage. He used to come out for only two things: to use the bathroom, and to have a smoke, but in order to help Heather out {though she will insist that she doesn't need him to deny himself for her sake} he has stopped taking smoking breaks. She has sluggishly made him his meals, but now, when they've been out of groceries for the past two days, she finally has to brave the outside.
Harry gives her plenty of money when she asks, for groceries and "whatever else you need", and before she leaves, he holds his hand up for a high-five.
"I reached fifty-thousand words last night." He smiles tiredly. "This book's coming fast."
Heather grins, feels silly, and high-fives him, privately glad that none of her friends can see her now.
~~~~~
On her way back from the grocery store, her arms laden down with groceries, and her mind on the new anti-acne medication she bought, she catches sight of a few of her friends, and their boyfriends, waving her over. They're leaning against the wall on the corner, talking and laughing. And smoking.
Suddenly, Heather's good, silly mood is gone, and all she wants to do is run far away. She doesn't, instead smiles back and walks unhurriedly over to where they're standing.
Once she's close enough, Amy calls out for her, "Heather! Haven't seen you in a while! Your dad been keepin' you busy cookin' for him? Smoke?" She holds out the pack.
Heather ignores the slight, focuses in on the question, "No thanks. I quit a couple of weeks ago."
Amy, and everyone else, bursts out laughing, "No shit?! What'll we do with you, sweetie, you're getting too good for us! Oh well, that's fine, more for me, huh?"
Heathers laughs along, relieved. That's what she always liked about Amy, was that she never judged Heather, no matter how harshly she judged most everyone else. In that moment, Heather really isn't sure what she was worried about. She should have known, she thinks, that her friends would support her, that Harry would support her. She feels better about her decision than ever before.
~~~~~
"Harry, I've got the groceries!" Heather clatters noisily into the apartment to find Harry laying listlessly on the couch, his arm hanging over the side, his legs sticking out far past what the small loveseat could support. He turns his head to see her, smiles weakly up at her.
"I finished. Eighty-one thousand, four hundred and sixty-seven words. All I need to do is go back and edit, and it'll be fit to send out."
To say Heather is shocked is an understatement.
"What? Harry, you've only being writing for two weeks! How could you finish that fast?"
Harry turns his head away. "I don't know. It was like I was possessed. The words just flowed onto the screen. It was like the whole book was in my head, waiting to be written. I think it might be my Magnum Opus."
Heather smiles. "That's great Harry. I know people will love it, you're a great author. And," she adds, as an afterthought, "I guess since you finished another book, we'll get to have the traditional celebration meal. How do you feel about macaroni?"
Harry laughs at that one, and Heather feels warmer than she thinks she's ever felt.
Author: countingmagpies
Character: Heather (gen)
My first time writing Heather, she's tricky, but fun!
~~~~~
Physical symptoms may include:
- Tingling in the hands and feet
- Sweating
- Cramps and Nausea
- Headaches
- Symptoms of a cold (coughing, sniffling) as the lungs begin to clear
None of which helps Heather, now, shaking and sweating, colder than she's ever been and fuck, craving just one last smoke. She can hear Harry her father Harry bustling around in the kitchen, and she thinks, almost bitter, that his cheerfulness isn't at all faked, that he is so happy that she's quitting now he doesn't care that she started. She wishes, not for the first time, that she had a normal father, a worse father, a father who would yell and rage and make her feel bad so that she wouldn't have to do it herself.
But she doesn't, and so Harry brings out tea - his Earl Grey with lemon, hers green and sweetened with enough honey to make even the bees gag - and tissues. The site of them is enough to set her hacking, her body spasming with the force of her coughs, her arm instinctively coming up to cover her mouth. When she finally pulls her arm away, she can see an ugly black stain on her forearm, and she would be shocked if she hadn't been expecting exactly that. It doesn't matter. In fact, Heather is almost irritated, glares at the ichor for a moment before letting her arm fall limply to her side.
Heather closes her eyes, lets her head fall backwards. She can breathe a little easier like that, uncomfortable though the position is.
The delicate touch of a tissue to her forearm startles her, makes her body jerk forwards and her eyes fly open, makes her heart start pounding. But it's just Harry, wiping away the remains of Heathers blackened lungs with a look of utmost concentration on his face. In any other situation, it would be enough to set Heather giggling, but now, weighted down as she is by the lack of nicotine in her system, all she can manage is a weak smile, and a yawn.
Pulling herself a little closer to Harry, she snuggles down into his embrace, all thoughts of tea long forgotten, and sleeps. Hopefully tomorrow would be a better day.
~~~~~
It isn't. Her cravings are worse, her shaking intensified. No matter how much tea she drinks, she sweats it all out. She's cramping worse than when she's on her period. She has a headache that just won't go away. In short, Heather Mason is miserable. And her misery is only enhanced by the sound of Harry Mason typing away cheerfully on his laptop, apparently unaware of just how much Heather wants to throttle him.
He brings his laptop into her room, to keep her company as she falls in and out of restless dreams. He's just begun a new book, a horror novel, working-title Tirn Aill, which, he explains to her, means Other World. He describes it for her, a world of rust and grates, of messages left in blood. A world of demonic cults and hellish monsters, where you could enter a building and leave to find that the entire town world has rearranged itself. He speaks of a world where little girls disappear from even the most secure locations, a world where even the unaffected cannot be trusted.
"Wow," she manages to croak out. "Harry, where'd you get an idea like that? It's great."
Harry smiles, bashful as always, though there is something distinctly brittle in his voice when he says, "I dreamed it."
~~~~~
It's two weeks before Heather can summon up the energy to leave the apartment for much-needed groceries, her conversation with Harry forgotten amongst withdrawal-induced fever-dreams. Harry himself has moved back into his own room, his novel in the Recluse Stage. He used to come out for only two things: to use the bathroom, and to have a smoke, but in order to help Heather out {though she will insist that she doesn't need him to deny himself for her sake} he has stopped taking smoking breaks. She has sluggishly made him his meals, but now, when they've been out of groceries for the past two days, she finally has to brave the outside.
Harry gives her plenty of money when she asks, for groceries and "whatever else you need", and before she leaves, he holds his hand up for a high-five.
"I reached fifty-thousand words last night." He smiles tiredly. "This book's coming fast."
Heather grins, feels silly, and high-fives him, privately glad that none of her friends can see her now.
~~~~~
On her way back from the grocery store, her arms laden down with groceries, and her mind on the new anti-acne medication she bought, she catches sight of a few of her friends, and their boyfriends, waving her over. They're leaning against the wall on the corner, talking and laughing. And smoking.
Suddenly, Heather's good, silly mood is gone, and all she wants to do is run far away. She doesn't, instead smiles back and walks unhurriedly over to where they're standing.
Once she's close enough, Amy calls out for her, "Heather! Haven't seen you in a while! Your dad been keepin' you busy cookin' for him? Smoke?" She holds out the pack.
Heather ignores the slight, focuses in on the question, "No thanks. I quit a couple of weeks ago."
Amy, and everyone else, bursts out laughing, "No shit?! What'll we do with you, sweetie, you're getting too good for us! Oh well, that's fine, more for me, huh?"
Heathers laughs along, relieved. That's what she always liked about Amy, was that she never judged Heather, no matter how harshly she judged most everyone else. In that moment, Heather really isn't sure what she was worried about. She should have known, she thinks, that her friends would support her, that Harry would support her. She feels better about her decision than ever before.
~~~~~
"Harry, I've got the groceries!" Heather clatters noisily into the apartment to find Harry laying listlessly on the couch, his arm hanging over the side, his legs sticking out far past what the small loveseat could support. He turns his head to see her, smiles weakly up at her.
"I finished. Eighty-one thousand, four hundred and sixty-seven words. All I need to do is go back and edit, and it'll be fit to send out."
To say Heather is shocked is an understatement.
"What? Harry, you've only being writing for two weeks! How could you finish that fast?"
Harry turns his head away. "I don't know. It was like I was possessed. The words just flowed onto the screen. It was like the whole book was in my head, waiting to be written. I think it might be my Magnum Opus."
Heather smiles. "That's great Harry. I know people will love it, you're a great author. And," she adds, as an afterthought, "I guess since you finished another book, we'll get to have the traditional celebration meal. How do you feel about macaroni?"
Harry laughs at that one, and Heather feels warmer than she thinks she's ever felt.