Room 505, Then the Fifth Floor Girls' Restroom, Monday Morning
Without classes three days a week, including Mondays, you'd think Katchoo would start off most of her days by sleeping in.
That wasn't entirely true, though, given that this morning, as most mornings, she was tossing and turning, mumbling incoherently in her sleep. Which was pretty normal in comparison to the dream.
For one, she was wearing lipstick and a dress. A slinky strappy dress, at that, and carrying a basket of flowers as she sauntered barefoot through a park, singing Gershwin as butterflies did delicate aerial dances and birds chirped in harmony.
"I'm a little lamb who's lost in a wood, I know I could always be good to one who'll watch over me . . ."
And then the lovestruck squirrel flopped out over a branch to make squirrelly moon-eyes at her, complete with hearts floating up into the air, while its squirrel spouse glared daggers. This . . . didn't strike Katchoo as remotely weird, but when both squirrels squeaked in alarm it was a different story.
"Uh oh."
"Oh no!"
Katchoo shot a look over her shoulder, suddenly apprehensive. "What?"
"Cheese it!" yelped one of the squirrels, scrambling up into the tree with the other hot on its heels. "It's the alarm!"
Katchoo pressed herself back against the trunk of the tree, for all the good that'd do her exclamation of "I gotta hide!" Fortunately common sense kicked in about a half second later and she managed to clamber up onto the lowest sturdy branch.
Damn that half second, though.
"I see you up there!" hollered the alarm, sprinting toward her on its spindly clockwork legs and twirling a lasso in midair. How a clock could look that pissed off . . .
"Go away!" She crouched on the branch, trying to wrap her arms around the tree trunk. "Leave me alone!" Then the lasso was wrapping tightly around her ankle, and damn if she could tell when exactly that had happened. "Agh!"
"No way, chickie-babe," the clock yelled, and with one mighty yank of the kind that no alarm clock should be able to pull off Katchoo was dangling from the branch, feet flailing, fingers slipping. "I'm takin' you out of this fog and that's that!"
"Please! Just five more minutes!" she yelped.
The clock responded with a skeevy snicker that sent an unpleasant shiver crawling up her spine. "Heh, heh . . . I see Paris, I see France!"
Stupid dress. Stupid pervy clock.
One of the squirrels poked back out of its hole and for a moment Katchoo thought it would help her -- hey, if an alarm clock could nearly pull her out of the tree, maybe a squirrel could pull her back up. "Wait! Hold it! Did you smell that?" So much for help.
"What?" asked Katchoo, who'd just managed to pull herself up as far as her forearms onto the branch. "What do you smell?"
The squirrel glanced around apprehensively. "Something . . ." *sniff* *sniff* "Something's dying!" It whirled and pointed straight at her, accusatory. "It's YOU!"
"Wha . . . no!" she blurted out.
Now the clock was laughing again, less pervy and more gleefully mocking. "Dead girl! Dead girl! Dead girl!"
"Shut up!" she yelled as she began to slip again.
"Dead girl! Dead girl! Dead gi --"
Then small furry feet were stomping on her fingers, and her grip started slipping faster, and . . .
"You don't belong here! You don't belong anywhere!" The squirrel was doing a Mexican hat dance on her fingers now. "Get off my tree!!!"
"Ow!" Nails, digging painfully into bark and still not doing a thing to slow the inevitable fall . . .
"Go away and die!" screeched the squirrel.
"No! No! Please, no!" The inevitable fall was now just a fall, over the clock's repeated chant of "Dead girl! Dead girl!"
And then she was falling . . . and falling . . . and sitting up in bed, soaked with sweat. "AGH! Oh, God."
The alarm clock on her nightstand wasn't yelling, and it didn't have a face, and it wasn't trying to lasso her ankle, but that didn't stop Katchoo from giving it a death glare, then lashing out with one arm to knock it across the room with a frustrated, wordless yell. Seeing the clock go crashing into the door and fall, its face cracked in five places, to the ground wasn't enough, either, and she got out of bed, grabbed it, and stalked down the hall to the bathroom.
Repeated attempts to flush the clock down the toilet kind of made her feel a little better.
[OOC: Establishy, but open if you happen to wander into the bathroom or want to react to the noise. Dream sequence novelized from Strangers in Paradise Volume 2, Issue 2. Sadly not as fun in text as in graphic form, though. Bwee for using the icon in context finally.]
That wasn't entirely true, though, given that this morning, as most mornings, she was tossing and turning, mumbling incoherently in her sleep. Which was pretty normal in comparison to the dream.
For one, she was wearing lipstick and a dress. A slinky strappy dress, at that, and carrying a basket of flowers as she sauntered barefoot through a park, singing Gershwin as butterflies did delicate aerial dances and birds chirped in harmony.
"I'm a little lamb who's lost in a wood, I know I could always be good to one who'll watch over me . . ."
And then the lovestruck squirrel flopped out over a branch to make squirrelly moon-eyes at her, complete with hearts floating up into the air, while its squirrel spouse glared daggers. This . . . didn't strike Katchoo as remotely weird, but when both squirrels squeaked in alarm it was a different story.
"Uh oh."
"Oh no!"
Katchoo shot a look over her shoulder, suddenly apprehensive. "What?"
"Cheese it!" yelped one of the squirrels, scrambling up into the tree with the other hot on its heels. "It's the alarm!"
Katchoo pressed herself back against the trunk of the tree, for all the good that'd do her exclamation of "I gotta hide!" Fortunately common sense kicked in about a half second later and she managed to clamber up onto the lowest sturdy branch.
Damn that half second, though.
"I see you up there!" hollered the alarm, sprinting toward her on its spindly clockwork legs and twirling a lasso in midair. How a clock could look that pissed off . . .
"Go away!" She crouched on the branch, trying to wrap her arms around the tree trunk. "Leave me alone!" Then the lasso was wrapping tightly around her ankle, and damn if she could tell when exactly that had happened. "Agh!"
"No way, chickie-babe," the clock yelled, and with one mighty yank of the kind that no alarm clock should be able to pull off Katchoo was dangling from the branch, feet flailing, fingers slipping. "I'm takin' you out of this fog and that's that!"
"Please! Just five more minutes!" she yelped.
The clock responded with a skeevy snicker that sent an unpleasant shiver crawling up her spine. "Heh, heh . . . I see Paris, I see France!"
Stupid dress. Stupid pervy clock.
One of the squirrels poked back out of its hole and for a moment Katchoo thought it would help her -- hey, if an alarm clock could nearly pull her out of the tree, maybe a squirrel could pull her back up. "Wait! Hold it! Did you smell that?" So much for help.
"What?" asked Katchoo, who'd just managed to pull herself up as far as her forearms onto the branch. "What do you smell?"
The squirrel glanced around apprehensively. "Something . . ." *sniff* *sniff* "Something's dying!" It whirled and pointed straight at her, accusatory. "It's YOU!"
"Wha . . . no!" she blurted out.
Now the clock was laughing again, less pervy and more gleefully mocking. "Dead girl! Dead girl! Dead girl!"
"Shut up!" she yelled as she began to slip again.
"Dead girl! Dead girl! Dead gi --"
Then small furry feet were stomping on her fingers, and her grip started slipping faster, and . . .
"You don't belong here! You don't belong anywhere!" The squirrel was doing a Mexican hat dance on her fingers now. "Get off my tree!!!"
"Ow!" Nails, digging painfully into bark and still not doing a thing to slow the inevitable fall . . .
"Go away and die!" screeched the squirrel.
"No! No! Please, no!" The inevitable fall was now just a fall, over the clock's repeated chant of "Dead girl! Dead girl!"
And then she was falling . . . and falling . . . and sitting up in bed, soaked with sweat. "AGH! Oh, God."
The alarm clock on her nightstand wasn't yelling, and it didn't have a face, and it wasn't trying to lasso her ankle, but that didn't stop Katchoo from giving it a death glare, then lashing out with one arm to knock it across the room with a frustrated, wordless yell. Seeing the clock go crashing into the door and fall, its face cracked in five places, to the ground wasn't enough, either, and she got out of bed, grabbed it, and stalked down the hall to the bathroom.
Repeated attempts to flush the clock down the toilet kind of made her feel a little better.
[OOC: Establishy, but open if you happen to wander into the bathroom or want to react to the noise. Dream sequence novelized from Strangers in Paradise Volume 2, Issue 2. Sadly not as fun in text as in graphic form, though. Bwee for using the icon in context finally.]