[ This is when I forget to breathe -- ]
WHO: Monet and OPEN.
WHEN: After Monet arrives at the Institute.
WARNINGS: Violence to punching bags. :(
SUMMARY: Above warning should be a satisfactory summary.
FORMAT: Quicklog is probably easiest
[ Monet finds the gym at the Institute easily, slipping in unnoticed. When she'd first seen her brother's post on the Network, she'd only frozen in fear as memories carefully tucked away began to make their frightening way to the surface. Now. Now her entire body shakes with anger at his unbidden intrusion in her life again. He never could just leave well enough alone, not now, not ever, not even when they were children. She almost laughs -- she was always his favorite.
She takes her time unzipping her boots, removing her coat, putting up her hair, making her way to the punching bags. She's not dressed for this but she doesn't care, because if she doesn't redirect her anger somehow, she doesn't know what she'll do. There's so much force behind her first punch that the air moves with with it, and her fist doesn't even make contact before the bag crumples in on itself and tears open, dripping sand in a circle on the floor. She delivers a high kick, and another punch, and a perfect roundhouse, all the while imagining that the groans of the burning vinyl were those of her brother, begging and pleading for the forgiveness and the mercy he'd failed her show her.
If she concentrates on this -- on her bloodied knuckles screaming in pain, on the sand whirling around her, on the cold sweat forming on her brow -- then she can ignore the tears pooling in her eyes, and the hard tug on her heart that feels suspiciously like breaking. ]
WHEN: After Monet arrives at the Institute.
WARNINGS: Violence to punching bags. :(
SUMMARY: Above warning should be a satisfactory summary.
FORMAT: Quicklog is probably easiest
[ Monet finds the gym at the Institute easily, slipping in unnoticed. When she'd first seen her brother's post on the Network, she'd only frozen in fear as memories carefully tucked away began to make their frightening way to the surface. Now. Now her entire body shakes with anger at his unbidden intrusion in her life again. He never could just leave well enough alone, not now, not ever, not even when they were children. She almost laughs -- she was always his favorite.
She takes her time unzipping her boots, removing her coat, putting up her hair, making her way to the punching bags. She's not dressed for this but she doesn't care, because if she doesn't redirect her anger somehow, she doesn't know what she'll do. There's so much force behind her first punch that the air moves with with it, and her fist doesn't even make contact before the bag crumples in on itself and tears open, dripping sand in a circle on the floor. She delivers a high kick, and another punch, and a perfect roundhouse, all the while imagining that the groans of the burning vinyl were those of her brother, begging and pleading for the forgiveness and the mercy he'd failed her show her.
If she concentrates on this -- on her bloodied knuckles screaming in pain, on the sand whirling around her, on the cold sweat forming on her brow -- then she can ignore the tears pooling in her eyes, and the hard tug on her heart that feels suspiciously like breaking. ]