03-04-2014, 11:40 PM
Amber was not entirely truthful when she told Flood last time she saw him that leaving him dropped her right back where he'd found her. She's been crashing on couches which isn't the most luxurious lifestyle, but at least it's not an unfurnished shithole of a studio off Federal. And the people she stays with, acquaintances really, don't usually ask for repayment in cash, so she manages to keep herself fairly well fed even between jobs. Sometimes she even has enough leftover to splurge on a good meal at a nice steakhouse (someone please tell Amber that Rock Bottom Brewery is not a "nice steakhouse"), a case of better than piss beer, and paint supplies.
It may seem strange that a woman who paints for a living - murals on the sides of businesses lately, which has been surprisingly lucrative - would choose to do it in her spare time. But for Amber it's not a job, really. Someone else dictates what they'd like on the side of their building and they pay her money to bring that vision to life, but even that is a form of release. It's better in the privacy of...someone's home. Artistically she goes wherever the mood takes her, doing whatever she wants, or pouring out whatever happens to come flowing out of the paintbrush. It's all release, and she is never more relaxed than when she's in front of a canvas.
Not having her own space (oh how she pines for certain rooms on a certain floor of a certain house sometimes!) means she has to get creative with where she works. Today she's set up in someone's bathroom, drop clothes laid out all over the counter top with a small 12"x12" canvas propped up against the mirror. There are a few tubes of oil paints arranged to her left, brushes to the right. The sink is full of clear clean water, with a container of industrial strength cleanser for when it's time to drain it out. The setup is awkward, but Amber doesn't mind. She's willing to be flexible if it means she gets to lose herself for an hour or two.
She pulls back her hair - only a little longer now than when she left, with about a pinky's width of brown between her scalp and her red streaks - puts on a pair of cheap headphones, and turns on her mp3 player. As the electronic vocals of Rotersand are pumped into her brain, rattling her skull, Amber closes her eyes and moves to the beat for a few seconds before she swipes up a tube of paint and starts working.
There was a time when doing this meant that her mind was clear as a fucking bell. That was before she met him. Such disdain she feels for him, such anger, such desire. Such fear. And yet, like a tuft of static-charged fuzz that floats and wanders and drifts and curls in the air only to zip onto the nearest bit of fabric, her mind always goes arrowing straight back to him, ever since that night in the clock tower. It does so now, just as it does when she's working. But it's different in a little closed off bathroom than it is on a street in broad daylight in front of everyone. In here, as she flicks lines and swirls of color onto the little canvas, her mind is relaxed. It is free from the fear she felt the last few times she saw him, the fear that stayed with her since and kept her hidden away indoors after the sun went down. And that's how mind starts to wander back to those last times.
And how strange it all seems now. Telling her he'd listen and try to understand the night she left. The night on the roof. She frowns as it tries to encroach on her attempt at clarity, and for a few minutes she lingers on that night. On her fear and her heartache. He plucked her up, wrapping her in a blanket of abject terror that overwhelmed her senses and left her unconscious for she still doesn't know how long. Then he was there, trying to force his bite on her, telling her that she wasn't a woman to him and he wasn't a man. She realizes suddenly that her whole body is tense and she doesn't hear the music for the pounding of her blood in her ears. Stepping back, she breathes. She shakes herself out like she's in a ring against an unexpectedly formidable opponent. Or like she'd just been gripping her brush in a vice grip; it takes a few moments for her fingers to uncurl, moments she spends sitting on the closed toilet seat examining the wallpaper.
When she's relaxed again she examines her work, and she frowns at it. Tilts her head this way, that way, this way again, examining it more critically than she had the floral patterns on the walls. She starts on it again and this time she focuses on keeping calm. She breathes slowly, relaxes...just paint, Amber.
And paint she does, thinking about his face that last night. His words to her. What he offered her. It wasn't to get her out of his sight, was it? He acted like he didn't want her but that was just--
She stops suddenly, looks at what she's thoughtlessly put on the canvas. His face the way it looked the last time she saw him, before he compared her to mold and she lost her fucking mind. It is...no, that just won't fucking do. Taking up her Exacto knife she slashes the thing to ribbons and dumps some of those ribbons into the waste basket. She takes more out to the garage and dumps them in the large bins, puts some more in the kitchen trash can, and still more in another room's waste basket. This way no one will ever find the pieces and put them back together. Because even now after the last month and a half she's still bound to him, still loyal and above all still protective.
The only people who will ever see Flood looking caring or soft are the people he chooses to show that face to himself.
=====
[[there were timestamps until i accidentally refreshed the window i was typing out this post in originally]]
niko
First: Zen out (paint)
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (2, 4, 6, 7, 7, 8, 9) ( success x 5 )
niko
Second: Zen out (mull over things, -1 diff for zen-like mindset)
Dice: 5 d10 TN5 (1, 2, 3, 3, 9) ( success x 1 )
niko
Of fucking course
niko
Extending!
Dice: 5 d10 TN5 (1, 3, 5, 7, 8) ( success x 3 )
jamie
LOL
It may seem strange that a woman who paints for a living - murals on the sides of businesses lately, which has been surprisingly lucrative - would choose to do it in her spare time. But for Amber it's not a job, really. Someone else dictates what they'd like on the side of their building and they pay her money to bring that vision to life, but even that is a form of release. It's better in the privacy of...someone's home. Artistically she goes wherever the mood takes her, doing whatever she wants, or pouring out whatever happens to come flowing out of the paintbrush. It's all release, and she is never more relaxed than when she's in front of a canvas.
Not having her own space (oh how she pines for certain rooms on a certain floor of a certain house sometimes!) means she has to get creative with where she works. Today she's set up in someone's bathroom, drop clothes laid out all over the counter top with a small 12"x12" canvas propped up against the mirror. There are a few tubes of oil paints arranged to her left, brushes to the right. The sink is full of clear clean water, with a container of industrial strength cleanser for when it's time to drain it out. The setup is awkward, but Amber doesn't mind. She's willing to be flexible if it means she gets to lose herself for an hour or two.
She pulls back her hair - only a little longer now than when she left, with about a pinky's width of brown between her scalp and her red streaks - puts on a pair of cheap headphones, and turns on her mp3 player. As the electronic vocals of Rotersand are pumped into her brain, rattling her skull, Amber closes her eyes and moves to the beat for a few seconds before she swipes up a tube of paint and starts working.
There was a time when doing this meant that her mind was clear as a fucking bell. That was before she met him. Such disdain she feels for him, such anger, such desire. Such fear. And yet, like a tuft of static-charged fuzz that floats and wanders and drifts and curls in the air only to zip onto the nearest bit of fabric, her mind always goes arrowing straight back to him, ever since that night in the clock tower. It does so now, just as it does when she's working. But it's different in a little closed off bathroom than it is on a street in broad daylight in front of everyone. In here, as she flicks lines and swirls of color onto the little canvas, her mind is relaxed. It is free from the fear she felt the last few times she saw him, the fear that stayed with her since and kept her hidden away indoors after the sun went down. And that's how mind starts to wander back to those last times.
And how strange it all seems now. Telling her he'd listen and try to understand the night she left. The night on the roof. She frowns as it tries to encroach on her attempt at clarity, and for a few minutes she lingers on that night. On her fear and her heartache. He plucked her up, wrapping her in a blanket of abject terror that overwhelmed her senses and left her unconscious for she still doesn't know how long. Then he was there, trying to force his bite on her, telling her that she wasn't a woman to him and he wasn't a man. She realizes suddenly that her whole body is tense and she doesn't hear the music for the pounding of her blood in her ears. Stepping back, she breathes. She shakes herself out like she's in a ring against an unexpectedly formidable opponent. Or like she'd just been gripping her brush in a vice grip; it takes a few moments for her fingers to uncurl, moments she spends sitting on the closed toilet seat examining the wallpaper.
When she's relaxed again she examines her work, and she frowns at it. Tilts her head this way, that way, this way again, examining it more critically than she had the floral patterns on the walls. She starts on it again and this time she focuses on keeping calm. She breathes slowly, relaxes...just paint, Amber.
And paint she does, thinking about his face that last night. His words to her. What he offered her. It wasn't to get her out of his sight, was it? He acted like he didn't want her but that was just--
She stops suddenly, looks at what she's thoughtlessly put on the canvas. His face the way it looked the last time she saw him, before he compared her to mold and she lost her fucking mind. It is...no, that just won't fucking do. Taking up her Exacto knife she slashes the thing to ribbons and dumps some of those ribbons into the waste basket. She takes more out to the garage and dumps them in the large bins, puts some more in the kitchen trash can, and still more in another room's waste basket. This way no one will ever find the pieces and put them back together. Because even now after the last month and a half she's still bound to him, still loyal and above all still protective.
The only people who will ever see Flood looking caring or soft are the people he chooses to show that face to himself.
=====
[[there were timestamps until i accidentally refreshed the window i was typing out this post in originally]]
niko
First: Zen out (paint)
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (2, 4, 6, 7, 7, 8, 9) ( success x 5 )
niko
Second: Zen out (mull over things, -1 diff for zen-like mindset)
Dice: 5 d10 TN5 (1, 2, 3, 3, 9) ( success x 1 )
niko
Of fucking course
niko
Extending!
Dice: 5 d10 TN5 (1, 3, 5, 7, 8) ( success x 3 )
jamie
LOL