RP: Fix me. Please?
Date: 23 March
Characters: Libby Weaver, Tobias Whitehall
Location: Therapy at the Whitehall residence
Status: Private
Summary: Therapy. More Therapy.
Completion: Complete
Libby shifted into park and turned off the car, tucking the keys into her bag and sitting back in the seat. Dr. Whitehall's house hadn't changed much except for the riot of green that was emerging from everywhere. She could see glimpses of the garden that she'd watched bloom through the wide window in his office, the garden she'd photographed through the glass, and a thousand other things that had grown from brown and twiggy to green and lush.
Everything was changing. Growing. Blooming. Everything but her. She'd been coming to therapy, going to work, hiding at home. Her room had become a gallery of sorts, walls littered with a collection of photographs. Photos of her collections, of pills, of flowers, of bits of ribbon and lace. Scraps of wool. Twigs and leaves. She glanced at her bag, then reached and lifted the flap. She'd found a large babyfood jar at the diner and had washed it out, and it housed a rainbow selection of her leftover pills, easier to carry with her than the quart jar at home. Her camera. Her wallet. A book she kept meaning to start.
Her watch beeped and she jumped, then reached to close the bag and pull it over her shoulder. It was time. She shouldn't be late.
Libby rolled up her window and locked the door before walking up to the entrance that led to the cozy office. She knocked once because it still felt rude not to, then opened the door and let herself in. "Hello, Beatrix," she said to the dog, the only occupant of the room, and sank onto the rug next to her. She'd found a friend in the calm animal, and it had become her habit to settle on the floor with her. "He's making tea again, isn't he? Or getting us a biscuit we don't really need..."
Characters: Libby Weaver, Tobias Whitehall
Location: Therapy at the Whitehall residence
Status: Private
Summary: Therapy. More Therapy.
Completion: Complete
Libby shifted into park and turned off the car, tucking the keys into her bag and sitting back in the seat. Dr. Whitehall's house hadn't changed much except for the riot of green that was emerging from everywhere. She could see glimpses of the garden that she'd watched bloom through the wide window in his office, the garden she'd photographed through the glass, and a thousand other things that had grown from brown and twiggy to green and lush.
Everything was changing. Growing. Blooming. Everything but her. She'd been coming to therapy, going to work, hiding at home. Her room had become a gallery of sorts, walls littered with a collection of photographs. Photos of her collections, of pills, of flowers, of bits of ribbon and lace. Scraps of wool. Twigs and leaves. She glanced at her bag, then reached and lifted the flap. She'd found a large babyfood jar at the diner and had washed it out, and it housed a rainbow selection of her leftover pills, easier to carry with her than the quart jar at home. Her camera. Her wallet. A book she kept meaning to start.
Her watch beeped and she jumped, then reached to close the bag and pull it over her shoulder. It was time. She shouldn't be late.
Libby rolled up her window and locked the door before walking up to the entrance that led to the cozy office. She knocked once because it still felt rude not to, then opened the door and let herself in. "Hello, Beatrix," she said to the dog, the only occupant of the room, and sank onto the rug next to her. She'd found a friend in the calm animal, and it had become her habit to settle on the floor with her. "He's making tea again, isn't he? Or getting us a biscuit we don't really need..."