Shock [backdated]
[OOC: set the evening of Sunday, October 23.]
It's mostly just a blur. A confusing, loud, painful, bright, scary blur. Mostly painful. And scary.
They shouldn't have done it. They shouldn't . . .
I remember talking to him, and I remember the sound of the park bench twisting around at his command. I remember the way it dug into me like thorns, too. Like a live thing. A hungry thing.
And there was - light. Brilliant red light. It hit him? Knocked him out? The bench stopped eating me, anyway.
Scott.
And the furry guy. Beast. Hank. Strong. Way too strong. Scott said he was hurt. I didn't mean that, not even for a stinking mutant. Though he didn't stink. Not really. It's just what you say. Especially when you're in my position.
My position. My position.
I walked right up to Magneto and asked him to kill me.
Oh, Jesus.
Oh, God.
10/24/2005 [backdated to 10/23/05]
Logfile from Leah.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Old Brownstone Apartments #300 - Leah
Plentiful light and air combine to make this tall and narrow apartment seem larger than its floor plan suggests. Directly opposite the entry's little foyer, a trio of high, leaded-glass windows dominates the main area: the central living room, the kitchen next to the entry, and the eating nook in the corner between kitchen and window. On the other side of the apartment lies private space: a tiny office next to the entry, the bedroom on the other side of a short hallway, and the bathroom between.
The decor is simple but pleasant with many touches of nature, from the polished woods of floor and furniture to the scattered arrangements of seashells, dried flowers, and framed landscapes that complete the essence of a peaceful haven.
--
Nothing to say in the ER while a slightly baffled RN patched up her bruised and torn legs. Nothing to say on the long, long, /long/ ride to Westchester. Nothing to say on the shorter (but still long! Somehow) walk up to her apartment. In fact, Leah doesn't say word one until she has her key in the door's lock. Then she blinks over her shoulder at Scott, as if surprised to see him there. Her face has been drawn into a fine, glassy pallor matched by the dull shine of her eyes. She licks her lips. "Do you ... uh, should you come in? Do you want to? I'm not sure what..."
"I'll just see you in, Leah," Scott says with endless calm -- undercut with just that slight edge of potential failure, confusion. He's but a few steps behind her, arms at his sides. "You've had a rough night."
Leah jangles a laugh that threatens hysteria -- stops. She shakes herself, biting hard on her lip now, hard enough to dent and bleed it. Doesn't seem to notice. Or care. She turns the key, opens the door, wanders in. The keys swing softly in the lock, left behind while she goes for the lights. Her apartment's musty, and there's a good many beer and whiskey bottles arrayed like tired soldiers on the coffee table, the dining table, and the kitchen counter.
The setting is taken in silently, bottles and bottles inventoried and added to bitten lip and confrontation with Magneto to increase tiredness ratio and add a sub-factor to Worry. Scott takes only a few steps after her, and lingering his eyes on the wall instead of those bottles notes, "Leah, I hate to ask. But. Why was Magneto trying to kill you?"
"Because he's Magneto." Surprise turns Leah around in the living room. Her hands absently flex at her sides: empty grasps at empty air. "He needs a reason? I'm a human. He's a mutant. He's a terrorist. And," she adds conversationally, "I really kinda wanted him to."
"Magneto occasionally needs a rea--" Scott almost defends, with reluctance, only to turn eyes sharp and focused on Leah on that last bit. "Leah. What the hell is going on?"
Leah blinks slowly. "What?"
"Suicide, Leah," Scott's tone segues into dry concern, "is usually not the product of some off impulse. Oh, hey. Provoke Magneto to kill me. Doesn't cross most people's minds too often."
"It's a sin, too," Leah says helpfully. "A big one. I guess I should confess. Or something. I don't..." Trailing off, she looks around the room. The bottles (mostly empty, but not all). A shirt flung worn and unwashed over a chair. A few knickknacks out of place. Then looks back, and now she's shaking. "Do you think he would've? Really would've? A bench, a park bench -- stupid fucking way to die--"
"Yes." Scott runs a finger along one earpiece of the visor. "He would have. Leah, leave confession alone -- why are you doing this?"
Leah stares at him. Stares at the floor. "'Cause I'm better off dead? For everyone."
"No. You're not. And you're not answering my question. What's happened?"
"No." Leah turns her back. Hugs herself. "I'm not having this conversation. I'm not. Just not. No. Go away, Scott." Tired, suddenly so tired, through the trembling. Even her voice sounds pale. "Thanks for taking me home, and I guess thanks for saving me--" sarcasm twists a knife in the words "--but I ... can't. I can't. Bad things. Bad."
"We can /help/ you." Scott gives the word an almost angry emphasis. "No one wants to see you destroy yourself. Least of all me. You're sick and you're frightened. Tell me why and I can do something."
Leah whispers, "You really, really can't. No one can help me. What can you do? What can anyone do?" Her voice breaks, crumples, and so does she, awkwardly and heavily to her knees on the hardwood floor. Still faced away from him, she hunches over herself and starts sobbing, a tired and wretched rhythm of breath and tears.
"We can-" Scott starts, cuts off, his head tilted with inappropriate quizzical angle to mark the crying, until the rest of him catches up. He gets to his knees himself and puts a necessarily awkward arm around her shoulders. "Leah," firm again. "Let me help."
Leah sobs on his leg, then. The nearest Scott-portion. All sobby and soggy with her raggedly sawed exertions. Her arms fumble blindly around him in turn, hugging his waist with desperate strength. She clings. She cries, and she clings.
Scott swallows, muted, and lets his arm settle more heavily, allowing quiet for the moment. The cling is neither resisted or reacted to coldly -- reacted to by intensification of support. Okay, okay.
After a few minutes, Leah's crying tapers into sniffling (and a few hiccups), and then she buries her head against him. "Oh, God. I'm sorry, Scott. I'm an idiot, and now you're all wet."
"You're not an idiot. It's fine." Scott's voice is quiet. "Leah. Beast's injured and I can't stay much longer. But I'll stop by later. Is this all right?"
"Bea--oh. Hank," and Leah jangles a laugh. /That/ laugh. Again. She flinches away from him more than simply 'moves,' and scoots limply against the back of the couch, to huddle there and peer at him with a child's wide, bruised eyes. "I'm sorry he's hurt. Yeah, go, go. You guys saved my life, huh? Tell him thanks. Shouldn't have kicked him like that. Sorry."
Scott's eyebrows compress over the visor, his expression divided, anxious. "It was dark, and we're frightening taken in isolation. He'll be okay." Scott rises slowly to his feet. "It happens."
Leah asks in a small voice, "Does it? To you guys? This what you do when you're not teaching shop?"
Scott draws his mouth in a long, wry line. "Well. If Magneto's spotted in Central Park, I suppose it's something of a community service to do something. With our various God-given curses. I have a few friends -- I called in a favor."
Leah blinks solemnly up at him. "Okay. I'm not really on the job, anyway, and you're not on the record." She tries a tremulous smile: brave girl, see?
"Yes, I would appreciate you not report overmuch on the off night activities of a bored school teacher with a hero complex." Scott lowers his chin. "Might get me in trouble with my boss if he thought I was playing Batman, ah?"
Leah tries a chuckle next. It comes out hoarse and strained, but it does come out. "Yes, Scott. No, Scott, I mean. I won't tell. I don't want you hurt, either," she tells him most earnestly. "Even if it's just your boss yelling at you. Okay?"
"Okay. I trust you." Half smile. "I'll talk to you later. Be careful." Scott turns on a heel.
"Yeah, right," Leah says softly and rests her head on her knees, an exhausted and bandaged ball of misery. She doesn't even watch him leave.
A pause. Then Scott exhales, and continues out. "Good night, Leah."
No response. Nothing to say, right to the end. Right /at/ the end.
[Log ends.]
It's mostly just a blur. A confusing, loud, painful, bright, scary blur. Mostly painful. And scary.
They shouldn't have done it. They shouldn't . . .
I remember talking to him, and I remember the sound of the park bench twisting around at his command. I remember the way it dug into me like thorns, too. Like a live thing. A hungry thing.
And there was - light. Brilliant red light. It hit him? Knocked him out? The bench stopped eating me, anyway.
Scott.
And the furry guy. Beast. Hank. Strong. Way too strong. Scott said he was hurt. I didn't mean that, not even for a stinking mutant. Though he didn't stink. Not really. It's just what you say. Especially when you're in my position.
My position. My position.
I walked right up to Magneto and asked him to kill me.
Oh, Jesus.
Oh, God.
10/24/2005 [backdated to 10/23/05]
Logfile from Leah.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Old Brownstone Apartments #300 - Leah
Plentiful light and air combine to make this tall and narrow apartment seem larger than its floor plan suggests. Directly opposite the entry's little foyer, a trio of high, leaded-glass windows dominates the main area: the central living room, the kitchen next to the entry, and the eating nook in the corner between kitchen and window. On the other side of the apartment lies private space: a tiny office next to the entry, the bedroom on the other side of a short hallway, and the bathroom between.
The decor is simple but pleasant with many touches of nature, from the polished woods of floor and furniture to the scattered arrangements of seashells, dried flowers, and framed landscapes that complete the essence of a peaceful haven.
--
Nothing to say in the ER while a slightly baffled RN patched up her bruised and torn legs. Nothing to say on the long, long, /long/ ride to Westchester. Nothing to say on the shorter (but still long! Somehow) walk up to her apartment. In fact, Leah doesn't say word one until she has her key in the door's lock. Then she blinks over her shoulder at Scott, as if surprised to see him there. Her face has been drawn into a fine, glassy pallor matched by the dull shine of her eyes. She licks her lips. "Do you ... uh, should you come in? Do you want to? I'm not sure what..."
"I'll just see you in, Leah," Scott says with endless calm -- undercut with just that slight edge of potential failure, confusion. He's but a few steps behind her, arms at his sides. "You've had a rough night."
Leah jangles a laugh that threatens hysteria -- stops. She shakes herself, biting hard on her lip now, hard enough to dent and bleed it. Doesn't seem to notice. Or care. She turns the key, opens the door, wanders in. The keys swing softly in the lock, left behind while she goes for the lights. Her apartment's musty, and there's a good many beer and whiskey bottles arrayed like tired soldiers on the coffee table, the dining table, and the kitchen counter.
The setting is taken in silently, bottles and bottles inventoried and added to bitten lip and confrontation with Magneto to increase tiredness ratio and add a sub-factor to Worry. Scott takes only a few steps after her, and lingering his eyes on the wall instead of those bottles notes, "Leah, I hate to ask. But. Why was Magneto trying to kill you?"
"Because he's Magneto." Surprise turns Leah around in the living room. Her hands absently flex at her sides: empty grasps at empty air. "He needs a reason? I'm a human. He's a mutant. He's a terrorist. And," she adds conversationally, "I really kinda wanted him to."
"Magneto occasionally needs a rea--" Scott almost defends, with reluctance, only to turn eyes sharp and focused on Leah on that last bit. "Leah. What the hell is going on?"
Leah blinks slowly. "What?"
"Suicide, Leah," Scott's tone segues into dry concern, "is usually not the product of some off impulse. Oh, hey. Provoke Magneto to kill me. Doesn't cross most people's minds too often."
"It's a sin, too," Leah says helpfully. "A big one. I guess I should confess. Or something. I don't..." Trailing off, she looks around the room. The bottles (mostly empty, but not all). A shirt flung worn and unwashed over a chair. A few knickknacks out of place. Then looks back, and now she's shaking. "Do you think he would've? Really would've? A bench, a park bench -- stupid fucking way to die--"
"Yes." Scott runs a finger along one earpiece of the visor. "He would have. Leah, leave confession alone -- why are you doing this?"
Leah stares at him. Stares at the floor. "'Cause I'm better off dead? For everyone."
"No. You're not. And you're not answering my question. What's happened?"
"No." Leah turns her back. Hugs herself. "I'm not having this conversation. I'm not. Just not. No. Go away, Scott." Tired, suddenly so tired, through the trembling. Even her voice sounds pale. "Thanks for taking me home, and I guess thanks for saving me--" sarcasm twists a knife in the words "--but I ... can't. I can't. Bad things. Bad."
"We can /help/ you." Scott gives the word an almost angry emphasis. "No one wants to see you destroy yourself. Least of all me. You're sick and you're frightened. Tell me why and I can do something."
Leah whispers, "You really, really can't. No one can help me. What can you do? What can anyone do?" Her voice breaks, crumples, and so does she, awkwardly and heavily to her knees on the hardwood floor. Still faced away from him, she hunches over herself and starts sobbing, a tired and wretched rhythm of breath and tears.
"We can-" Scott starts, cuts off, his head tilted with inappropriate quizzical angle to mark the crying, until the rest of him catches up. He gets to his knees himself and puts a necessarily awkward arm around her shoulders. "Leah," firm again. "Let me help."
Leah sobs on his leg, then. The nearest Scott-portion. All sobby and soggy with her raggedly sawed exertions. Her arms fumble blindly around him in turn, hugging his waist with desperate strength. She clings. She cries, and she clings.
Scott swallows, muted, and lets his arm settle more heavily, allowing quiet for the moment. The cling is neither resisted or reacted to coldly -- reacted to by intensification of support. Okay, okay.
After a few minutes, Leah's crying tapers into sniffling (and a few hiccups), and then she buries her head against him. "Oh, God. I'm sorry, Scott. I'm an idiot, and now you're all wet."
"You're not an idiot. It's fine." Scott's voice is quiet. "Leah. Beast's injured and I can't stay much longer. But I'll stop by later. Is this all right?"
"Bea--oh. Hank," and Leah jangles a laugh. /That/ laugh. Again. She flinches away from him more than simply 'moves,' and scoots limply against the back of the couch, to huddle there and peer at him with a child's wide, bruised eyes. "I'm sorry he's hurt. Yeah, go, go. You guys saved my life, huh? Tell him thanks. Shouldn't have kicked him like that. Sorry."
Scott's eyebrows compress over the visor, his expression divided, anxious. "It was dark, and we're frightening taken in isolation. He'll be okay." Scott rises slowly to his feet. "It happens."
Leah asks in a small voice, "Does it? To you guys? This what you do when you're not teaching shop?"
Scott draws his mouth in a long, wry line. "Well. If Magneto's spotted in Central Park, I suppose it's something of a community service to do something. With our various God-given curses. I have a few friends -- I called in a favor."
Leah blinks solemnly up at him. "Okay. I'm not really on the job, anyway, and you're not on the record." She tries a tremulous smile: brave girl, see?
"Yes, I would appreciate you not report overmuch on the off night activities of a bored school teacher with a hero complex." Scott lowers his chin. "Might get me in trouble with my boss if he thought I was playing Batman, ah?"
Leah tries a chuckle next. It comes out hoarse and strained, but it does come out. "Yes, Scott. No, Scott, I mean. I won't tell. I don't want you hurt, either," she tells him most earnestly. "Even if it's just your boss yelling at you. Okay?"
"Okay. I trust you." Half smile. "I'll talk to you later. Be careful." Scott turns on a heel.
"Yeah, right," Leah says softly and rests her head on her knees, an exhausted and bandaged ball of misery. She doesn't even watch him leave.
A pause. Then Scott exhales, and continues out. "Good night, Leah."
No response. Nothing to say, right to the end. Right /at/ the end.
[Log ends.]