RP: Buzzed
Date: October 10, 2011
Characters: Stephen Ross
Location: Ross Apartment
Status: Private (though if someone wants to tag in somehow, I'm game)
Summary: Stephen gives himself a haircut.
Completion: Complete
The trimmer hummed in his hand and he stared at himself in the mirror. His hair was getting long and hung in limp shocks around his face. The hum went on like a long aching note swelling up in his chest and pulsing outward toward his skin. Tiny prickling hairs rose from the skin of his arm in stiff attention.
There was money for a barber visit, a quick trip, a tiny footnote in his day. A trim back to the same hairstyle he’d worn for the past ten years. He imagined that he was mostly unchanged from the last surge of adolescent gawkiness in middle school. A few inches of height and clearer skin maybe, but otherwise the same dull throb of nothing and being no one. A cipher.
He thumbed the switch on the trimmer another notch and before he could second guess himself, ran it over his head. Blond hair showered down in a gleaming rain, drifting on an invisible breeze. Hand rock steady, he worked at it until there was a bare inch left, an even light fuzz that did little to hide his nearly naked skull. Switching off the trimmer, he ran his hand over his scalp, dislodging the stray hair.
The discarded hair had fallen in a circle at his feet, a gleaming halo that the DirtDevil greedily cleared away. Deed done and the evidence disposed of, he retreated to his room. He ran his hand over and over the light fuzz, relishing the prickly yield of it. His bed, unmade, welcomed the fall of his body and his pillow accommodated the new terrain of his head. Unbidden, his hand drifted to the neck of his guitar, hoisting it over his prone belly and idly picking at the unamplified strings.
There is a time for everything, Dr. Whitehall had said at their last session, when you are ready the next thing will come. What we talk about here is all preparation for whatever you do next.
Stephen closed his eyes and cautiously, ventured into the dark silent well that held that vast nothing of his heart. He scaled down the cool damp walls and found something new. There was sadness, despair and depression, the beasts at last named and in naming, partially conquered. Beyond them, new and glittering promises, hope, contentment, anger, frustration, lust and love.
He was greater than the sum of his parts, could not put a single word to what might be going on his head. There was music now and the beginning of a song taking shape. Something terrible and new. Raw and without mercy. He only had to be brave enough to continue walking towards it.
Eyes closed, mind drifting, Stephen started to hum.
Characters: Stephen Ross
Location: Ross Apartment
Status: Private (though if someone wants to tag in somehow, I'm game)
Summary: Stephen gives himself a haircut.
Completion: Complete
The trimmer hummed in his hand and he stared at himself in the mirror. His hair was getting long and hung in limp shocks around his face. The hum went on like a long aching note swelling up in his chest and pulsing outward toward his skin. Tiny prickling hairs rose from the skin of his arm in stiff attention.
There was money for a barber visit, a quick trip, a tiny footnote in his day. A trim back to the same hairstyle he’d worn for the past ten years. He imagined that he was mostly unchanged from the last surge of adolescent gawkiness in middle school. A few inches of height and clearer skin maybe, but otherwise the same dull throb of nothing and being no one. A cipher.
He thumbed the switch on the trimmer another notch and before he could second guess himself, ran it over his head. Blond hair showered down in a gleaming rain, drifting on an invisible breeze. Hand rock steady, he worked at it until there was a bare inch left, an even light fuzz that did little to hide his nearly naked skull. Switching off the trimmer, he ran his hand over his scalp, dislodging the stray hair.
The discarded hair had fallen in a circle at his feet, a gleaming halo that the DirtDevil greedily cleared away. Deed done and the evidence disposed of, he retreated to his room. He ran his hand over and over the light fuzz, relishing the prickly yield of it. His bed, unmade, welcomed the fall of his body and his pillow accommodated the new terrain of his head. Unbidden, his hand drifted to the neck of his guitar, hoisting it over his prone belly and idly picking at the unamplified strings.
There is a time for everything, Dr. Whitehall had said at their last session, when you are ready the next thing will come. What we talk about here is all preparation for whatever you do next.
Stephen closed his eyes and cautiously, ventured into the dark silent well that held that vast nothing of his heart. He scaled down the cool damp walls and found something new. There was sadness, despair and depression, the beasts at last named and in naming, partially conquered. Beyond them, new and glittering promises, hope, contentment, anger, frustration, lust and love.
He was greater than the sum of his parts, could not put a single word to what might be going on his head. There was music now and the beginning of a song taking shape. Something terrible and new. Raw and without mercy. He only had to be brave enough to continue walking towards it.
Eyes closed, mind drifting, Stephen started to hum.