Brynn's awakening pt1
Wee bit sick yesterday so didn't get to put this up, but here something will a little something more to follow.
Brynn awoke to the fairly unpleasant smell of a litter box that wanted changing. She mentally added that to her to-do list, then contemplated the fact that Cherise, her chubby persian, had been put down when she was twelve years old, and she'd never acquired another cat since. Come to think of it, this mattress was altogether too squishy and the sheet she was wrapped in was about 200 thread count below her minimum. She entered all this into her mental registers as evidence that this might not in fact be her room. She compared it with the counter evidence - namely she couldn't even guess at who else's room she might be sleeping in, the fact that she was stark naked - something that happened exclusively in the confines of her room behind a triple set of barred doors, and the fact that her heart rate hadn't elevated to dangerous levels, as she assumed it would. The entire time she had been awake thus far, she'd been aware of a pressing subconscious dictate to not open her eyes, but in light of the indecision of her inner jury as to whether or not she ought to be having a grade a panic attack, she decided that it was necessary to ignore this presentiment and confront the situation head on.
Christ, what a mistake that was. The second light penetrated her eye lids and flooded her pupil, brilliant pain frothed through her head, causing her to squeeze her eyes shut again, but alas it was too late. The damage was done. An obese rhinoceros was now having a grand mal seizure on a kettle drum the size of Yankee Stadium inside her head. Her tiny peek at the world had revealed hideously ochre walls and posters for bands that she'd never heard of before, confirming her worst fears. She was not, in fact, naked in the privacy of her own room, but in fact was completely unclothed in a perfect stranger's room. A stranger with astonishingly poor taste.
The oppressive tyrant of a headache willed her into the fetal position, but the scrappy rebellious panic attack rallied it's resources and launched a surprise counterattack, seizing control of the central nervous system and forcing the eyes wide open; her body up into a sitting position.
This very well might be hell.
Her entire frame felt as though it were being stretched in every direction while simultaneously being flatironed, and the rhinoceros on her interior kettle drum gave birth to octoplets, all healthy bouncing baby rhinoceri. The room was disgusting; cluttered and dirty and decorated entirely without aesthetic sensibilities. Daylight seared in through the window at a sharp angle, illuminating solid beams of dustmotes. Brynn cast desperately about fro some sign of her clothing, but saw nothing but dirty men's clothing and dirty men's dishes and dirty men's magazines. Fear and rage and pain and indignity all honked viciously at one another, none entirely certain which had the right of way. It wasn't just that she'd never been in this situation before - she honestly hadn't even contemplated the possibility of a situation quite like this and she wholly lacked the frame work to assess it.
From high on it's throne, her headache demanded that she flop back and deal with this later, but the allied panic attack rebellion had already activated the fight or flight protocols and lacking anyone or anything useful to slap, Brynn twisted out of bed, wrapping the coarse sheet around her as best she could. Something crunched slightly under her left foot, she gritted her teeth and bore on. Something squished under her right foot, which was slightly too much to bear in her present state. She allowed a guttural warrioress cry escape from her lips, and charged the door. Her half-formed plan was to kill anyone in the adjoining room the storm out into the world barefoot and clad in a sheet and stomp her way back to her apartment, to normalcy. She heaved the door open, small white wisps strobing in her eyes, the sight that greeted her stopped her rather coolly in her tracks. A small bespectacled boy sat on the floor in the next room, playing a video game, his mouth slightly agape. His mouth opened wider at the sight of Brynn, then he rubbed his nose on his wrist, turned over his shoulder and said “Da?” in a tone that subtlely suggested that the speaker's life might very well be in danger but he couldn't really be sure, and if it wasn't it would be awfully rude to voice that particular concern.
A somewhat rotund and balding man in a vest poked his head round the corner. He grinned a car salesman's grin, and said in powerfully british accent, “Well look who's up and about, then! Your knickers will be dry in mo', do y'fancy a bit of tea and toast until then?”
The panic attack coalition had utterly lost momentum, and the tyrant reasserted it's fascist rule. Brynn made it about as far as “Whu-?” before the world lost color and she fell ten thousand feet to blessed unconsciousness on the floor.
Brynn awoke to the fairly unpleasant smell of a litter box that wanted changing. She mentally added that to her to-do list, then contemplated the fact that Cherise, her chubby persian, had been put down when she was twelve years old, and she'd never acquired another cat since. Come to think of it, this mattress was altogether too squishy and the sheet she was wrapped in was about 200 thread count below her minimum. She entered all this into her mental registers as evidence that this might not in fact be her room. She compared it with the counter evidence - namely she couldn't even guess at who else's room she might be sleeping in, the fact that she was stark naked - something that happened exclusively in the confines of her room behind a triple set of barred doors, and the fact that her heart rate hadn't elevated to dangerous levels, as she assumed it would. The entire time she had been awake thus far, she'd been aware of a pressing subconscious dictate to not open her eyes, but in light of the indecision of her inner jury as to whether or not she ought to be having a grade a panic attack, she decided that it was necessary to ignore this presentiment and confront the situation head on.
Christ, what a mistake that was. The second light penetrated her eye lids and flooded her pupil, brilliant pain frothed through her head, causing her to squeeze her eyes shut again, but alas it was too late. The damage was done. An obese rhinoceros was now having a grand mal seizure on a kettle drum the size of Yankee Stadium inside her head. Her tiny peek at the world had revealed hideously ochre walls and posters for bands that she'd never heard of before, confirming her worst fears. She was not, in fact, naked in the privacy of her own room, but in fact was completely unclothed in a perfect stranger's room. A stranger with astonishingly poor taste.
The oppressive tyrant of a headache willed her into the fetal position, but the scrappy rebellious panic attack rallied it's resources and launched a surprise counterattack, seizing control of the central nervous system and forcing the eyes wide open; her body up into a sitting position.
This very well might be hell.
Her entire frame felt as though it were being stretched in every direction while simultaneously being flatironed, and the rhinoceros on her interior kettle drum gave birth to octoplets, all healthy bouncing baby rhinoceri. The room was disgusting; cluttered and dirty and decorated entirely without aesthetic sensibilities. Daylight seared in through the window at a sharp angle, illuminating solid beams of dustmotes. Brynn cast desperately about fro some sign of her clothing, but saw nothing but dirty men's clothing and dirty men's dishes and dirty men's magazines. Fear and rage and pain and indignity all honked viciously at one another, none entirely certain which had the right of way. It wasn't just that she'd never been in this situation before - she honestly hadn't even contemplated the possibility of a situation quite like this and she wholly lacked the frame work to assess it.
From high on it's throne, her headache demanded that she flop back and deal with this later, but the allied panic attack rebellion had already activated the fight or flight protocols and lacking anyone or anything useful to slap, Brynn twisted out of bed, wrapping the coarse sheet around her as best she could. Something crunched slightly under her left foot, she gritted her teeth and bore on. Something squished under her right foot, which was slightly too much to bear in her present state. She allowed a guttural warrioress cry escape from her lips, and charged the door. Her half-formed plan was to kill anyone in the adjoining room the storm out into the world barefoot and clad in a sheet and stomp her way back to her apartment, to normalcy. She heaved the door open, small white wisps strobing in her eyes, the sight that greeted her stopped her rather coolly in her tracks. A small bespectacled boy sat on the floor in the next room, playing a video game, his mouth slightly agape. His mouth opened wider at the sight of Brynn, then he rubbed his nose on his wrist, turned over his shoulder and said “Da?” in a tone that subtlely suggested that the speaker's life might very well be in danger but he couldn't really be sure, and if it wasn't it would be awfully rude to voice that particular concern.
A somewhat rotund and balding man in a vest poked his head round the corner. He grinned a car salesman's grin, and said in powerfully british accent, “Well look who's up and about, then! Your knickers will be dry in mo', do y'fancy a bit of tea and toast until then?”
The panic attack coalition had utterly lost momentum, and the tyrant reasserted it's fascist rule. Brynn made it about as far as “Whu-?” before the world lost color and she fell ten thousand feet to blessed unconsciousness on the floor.