A Life Flickering, Pt. I
Date: Wednesday, 16th August
Time: Very, very late
Location: Deirdre's home and then the psychiatric ward at St. Mungo's
Characters Involved: Deirdre Burke and NPCs
Rating: R for language and impending violence
Deirdre had forgotten how much she loved the occasional dearth of ordered consciousness known as sleep. Blackness. Oblivion granted temporarily somewhere between the smooth coolness of the sheets on hot skin.
Mab knew she needed it; the hollows beneath her eyes were swollen and smudged with dark. Movement towards a goal only seemed to bring about greater disorientation. Her head was decidedly lighter than could have been healthy, and she felt as though she were floating above her body as she went through the motions of a day. This was ironic, for she was also positive that her limbs grew thinner and heavier and weaker with every passing hour. Lights were too bright, and everything was tinged with a pale crimson. Her head literally nodded at her desk; it was an impossible task to keep her eyelids open. Deirdre was quicker to snap at perceived incompetence, and both her attention span and temper were growing dangerously short. Her tea was not working any longer, unless it was to add a bit of a tremble to her fingers. She was, in short, a walking example of sleep deprivation.
The gruff voice of her professor kept rattling in her head, and she felt as though she were standing in the dim corridors of the university sleep lab back in New York. ”Cytokines drop drastically, adversely affecting the immune system. Hallucinations are not uncommon at this stage. Insulin production plummets, as does the body’s ability to react to glucose. Irritability and moodiness are by now a norm. One might theorize that the majority of “road rage” incidents are caused by a massive sleepiness epidemic!”
But it was okay now. Everything was peachy and she was dead between the sheets and hidden in the mountains of pillows. Her bloodshot eyes had cemented shut as soon as she slipped from her clothing. The summer air filtered through her gardens and drifted, fragrant, through her open windowpane. But it didn’t matter. She could sleep now.
That particular “now” was lost exactly fifteen minutes later when a brain-rending skriitching and thumping of talons and wings on glass heralded the less-than-graceful entry into her bedroom of a particularly large Screech Owl, which evidently felt the need to drop its letter on her face before crash-landing at her feet.
The rectangle of white remained balanced on her forehead. Ordinarily, she would have started up and out of bed at this rude awakening, but her body was really failing to see any good reason to move at present.
“No. Just…no.”
She reluctantly peeled an eye open to regard the intimidating intruder. His round yellow eyes peered back impassively, reflecting the moon through the window. Deirdre directed a halfhearted kick in the bird’s direction (eliciting nothing more than an indignant flap of its wings to regain its balance) before languidly tearing open the envelope and pulling her wand from the bedclothes.
Lumos, you fucking arsebag cunt bugger shite feck it all… (her strings of obscenities, when elicited, were really things of wonder)
It was, evidently, a pressing matter. Below the bureaucratic EMERGENCY and URGENT and PRESENCE REQUIRED, a night orderly of which she was particularly fond had scrawled:
It’s David. - Geoff
It physically hurt to remove herself from the bed, but Deirdre managed it in record time.
______________________________
The wide, unforgiving, ivory hallways of the psych dormitories were eerily quiet tonight, and every footstep echoed several times over. Eventually, she found the center of activity: a gaggle of young orderlies, looking rather strange in their matching white uniforms and horrified expressions, were pressed around the circular window to one room when she arrived. Geoff approached to debrief, though she only managed to take in half of the offered information. Can’t get close…he rips another chunk out of himself whenever we reach for the door…says he’ll go for his own throat if we go for our wands…you sure you’re all right…you look like hell…
The last bit she caught.
“Fuck off and let me do my job.”
She shoved unceremoniously through the crowd, shamelessly throwing a sharp elbow or two. All arrogance was lost, however, when she caught a glimpse of her charge through the portal. David was crouched in the far corner of the room, feet resting in a growing pool of his own blood. His inner forearms were...missing, though she thought she detected lingering shreds of epidermis around the now-visible veins nestled beneath. The expression on his face was one of grim determination, a harrowed and hollow look of frantic madness. This was not the man that had been brought in three nights ago.
Burke pressed her palms against the portal, and made sure the act of handing her wand off to the nearest Healer was obvious to the sole occupant of the room. Then, slowly, she turned the latch and stepped inside.
______________________________
Time: Very, very late
Location: Deirdre's home and then the psychiatric ward at St. Mungo's
Characters Involved: Deirdre Burke and NPCs
Rating: R for language and impending violence
Deirdre had forgotten how much she loved the occasional dearth of ordered consciousness known as sleep. Blackness. Oblivion granted temporarily somewhere between the smooth coolness of the sheets on hot skin.
Mab knew she needed it; the hollows beneath her eyes were swollen and smudged with dark. Movement towards a goal only seemed to bring about greater disorientation. Her head was decidedly lighter than could have been healthy, and she felt as though she were floating above her body as she went through the motions of a day. This was ironic, for she was also positive that her limbs grew thinner and heavier and weaker with every passing hour. Lights were too bright, and everything was tinged with a pale crimson. Her head literally nodded at her desk; it was an impossible task to keep her eyelids open. Deirdre was quicker to snap at perceived incompetence, and both her attention span and temper were growing dangerously short. Her tea was not working any longer, unless it was to add a bit of a tremble to her fingers. She was, in short, a walking example of sleep deprivation.
The gruff voice of her professor kept rattling in her head, and she felt as though she were standing in the dim corridors of the university sleep lab back in New York. ”Cytokines drop drastically, adversely affecting the immune system. Hallucinations are not uncommon at this stage. Insulin production plummets, as does the body’s ability to react to glucose. Irritability and moodiness are by now a norm. One might theorize that the majority of “road rage” incidents are caused by a massive sleepiness epidemic!”
But it was okay now. Everything was peachy and she was dead between the sheets and hidden in the mountains of pillows. Her bloodshot eyes had cemented shut as soon as she slipped from her clothing. The summer air filtered through her gardens and drifted, fragrant, through her open windowpane. But it didn’t matter. She could sleep now.
That particular “now” was lost exactly fifteen minutes later when a brain-rending skriitching and thumping of talons and wings on glass heralded the less-than-graceful entry into her bedroom of a particularly large Screech Owl, which evidently felt the need to drop its letter on her face before crash-landing at her feet.
The rectangle of white remained balanced on her forehead. Ordinarily, she would have started up and out of bed at this rude awakening, but her body was really failing to see any good reason to move at present.
“No. Just…no.”
She reluctantly peeled an eye open to regard the intimidating intruder. His round yellow eyes peered back impassively, reflecting the moon through the window. Deirdre directed a halfhearted kick in the bird’s direction (eliciting nothing more than an indignant flap of its wings to regain its balance) before languidly tearing open the envelope and pulling her wand from the bedclothes.
Lumos, you fucking arsebag cunt bugger shite feck it all… (her strings of obscenities, when elicited, were really things of wonder)
It was, evidently, a pressing matter. Below the bureaucratic EMERGENCY and URGENT and PRESENCE REQUIRED, a night orderly of which she was particularly fond had scrawled:
It’s David. - Geoff
It physically hurt to remove herself from the bed, but Deirdre managed it in record time.
______________________________
The wide, unforgiving, ivory hallways of the psych dormitories were eerily quiet tonight, and every footstep echoed several times over. Eventually, she found the center of activity: a gaggle of young orderlies, looking rather strange in their matching white uniforms and horrified expressions, were pressed around the circular window to one room when she arrived. Geoff approached to debrief, though she only managed to take in half of the offered information. Can’t get close…he rips another chunk out of himself whenever we reach for the door…says he’ll go for his own throat if we go for our wands…you sure you’re all right…you look like hell…
The last bit she caught.
“Fuck off and let me do my job.”
She shoved unceremoniously through the crowd, shamelessly throwing a sharp elbow or two. All arrogance was lost, however, when she caught a glimpse of her charge through the portal. David was crouched in the far corner of the room, feet resting in a growing pool of his own blood. His inner forearms were...missing, though she thought she detected lingering shreds of epidermis around the now-visible veins nestled beneath. The expression on his face was one of grim determination, a harrowed and hollow look of frantic madness. This was not the man that had been brought in three nights ago.
Burke pressed her palms against the portal, and made sure the act of handing her wand off to the nearest Healer was obvious to the sole occupant of the room. Then, slowly, she turned the latch and stepped inside.
______________________________