06-11-2013, 12:40 AM
Monday, 6/3/13
It's not been a good day for Sid Rhodes. She met a man in City Park. Their encounter was brief, but terrible. After their encounter she ran all the way home, almost literally. And when she got home she ran down to her room, and she bolted herself in, and she did not emerge for almost a day and a half. Frank tried to check on her once, came all the way down when she didn't respond to his texts and knocked quietly. Her door is always closed and sometimes her truck is in the drive when she's not home, but somehow he knew she had to be in there. She did not answer. So he went back upstairs and he left her alone. She would come out eventually, she had to.
And she did. Very late the next evening she climbed up the steps into the dining area, her hair bedraggled and her skin ashen, in a t-shirt and an old pair of boxers. She looked worse than she would have if she'd just sat in her room all those hours, crying and wishing she could disappear. That was only the first day. After that she'd tried, again, to force her Will on reality. She has a greater understanding of some things, she knows she does, but the application takes everything out of her. Maybe practice will make it easier. Maybe it will always be hard. But she wouldn't be who she is if she didn't experiment.
Frank, sitting on the couch and watching a DVR'd episode of Regular Show, heard the basement door creak open. A few minutes later, the timer on the microwave went off, and a few minutes after that, Sid shuffled her way into the living room to curl up on the opposite leg of the L-shaped couch, a plate with a few leftovers and a huge pile of Oreos held in one hand, a tall glass of milk in the other. Both are placed on the coffee table so that she can peel the blanket from the back of the couch and wrap herself up into a fuzzy black coccoon. Reclaiming her plate and her glass, she turns her face toward the television.
"Is this new?"
Frank looks her over, looks like he wants to ask her something, how she's doing, where she's been, why she's been hiding. Instead he says, "Yeah." He doesn't press her. Sometimes that gets her to open up, or at least to talk.
Sid doesn't want to talk about it. An hour later she puts her dishes away and shuffles back downstairs. This time, though, she reemerges after about twelve hours of hard sleep.
Life goes on, after all.
It's not been a good day for Sid Rhodes. She met a man in City Park. Their encounter was brief, but terrible. After their encounter she ran all the way home, almost literally. And when she got home she ran down to her room, and she bolted herself in, and she did not emerge for almost a day and a half. Frank tried to check on her once, came all the way down when she didn't respond to his texts and knocked quietly. Her door is always closed and sometimes her truck is in the drive when she's not home, but somehow he knew she had to be in there. She did not answer. So he went back upstairs and he left her alone. She would come out eventually, she had to.
And she did. Very late the next evening she climbed up the steps into the dining area, her hair bedraggled and her skin ashen, in a t-shirt and an old pair of boxers. She looked worse than she would have if she'd just sat in her room all those hours, crying and wishing she could disappear. That was only the first day. After that she'd tried, again, to force her Will on reality. She has a greater understanding of some things, she knows she does, but the application takes everything out of her. Maybe practice will make it easier. Maybe it will always be hard. But she wouldn't be who she is if she didn't experiment.
Frank, sitting on the couch and watching a DVR'd episode of Regular Show, heard the basement door creak open. A few minutes later, the timer on the microwave went off, and a few minutes after that, Sid shuffled her way into the living room to curl up on the opposite leg of the L-shaped couch, a plate with a few leftovers and a huge pile of Oreos held in one hand, a tall glass of milk in the other. Both are placed on the coffee table so that she can peel the blanket from the back of the couch and wrap herself up into a fuzzy black coccoon. Reclaiming her plate and her glass, she turns her face toward the television.
"Is this new?"
Frank looks her over, looks like he wants to ask her something, how she's doing, where she's been, why she's been hiding. Instead he says, "Yeah." He doesn't press her. Sometimes that gets her to open up, or at least to talk.
Sid doesn't want to talk about it. An hour later she puts her dishes away and shuffles back downstairs. This time, though, she reemerges after about twelve hours of hard sleep.
Life goes on, after all.