Post by Emily on Oct 27, 2015 0:25:22 GMT -8
CAST: Hannah Fein (scalesenpointe@aol.com)
SUMMARY: Written in December of 2014, following Hannah’s release from the hospital in the wake of a demonic uprising that turned most of her friends into missing persons reports. The ones that are left seem to have moved on with their lives as though nothing happened, already, leaving her to try to cope with the loss alone. She decides to leave for London.
TW:
Tsh-tap-tap, tsh-tap-tap, tsh-tap-tap. A mild-mannered snare drum in three-quarter time caught Hannah’s attention as she wandered through the streets of downtown Durham.
Darkness had already fallen and recently lit street lamps were still dim in the light they cast over cobblestone streets. She tucked cold waves of coppery hair behind her right ear as the rest of the buskers chimed in, one part at a time.
The first was a man in a green scarf and plaid cap with a round, kind face. The blonde curls that peeked out from under his cap also lived on his face in a well-kept beard. He played acoustic guitar; mid-range and with an unrestrained, throaty strum that made her smile. His singing voice wasn’t perfect. It was too soft, and he sung through his nose instead of from his gut, but it was sincere.
She appears composed, so she is, I suppose
Who can really tell?
She shows no emotion at all
Stares into space like a dead China doll
The smile on Hannah’s face flickered like the flame of a candle that just couldn’t seem to burn through wick at a steady pace. She paused to hear the song out with her hands stuffed into the pockets of a borrowed mustard yellow peacoat that smelled like marijuana and incense, a myriad of images and emotions playing on some pull-down screen behind her hazel eyes that only she could see.
A plaintive violin, played by a statuesque woman with short, brunette hair and sweet, appled cheeks joined in a few measures later.
‘Cause I’m doing just fine hour to hour, note to note
Here it is, the revenge to the tune,
‘You’re no good,
You’re no good, you’re no good, you’re no good’
Can’t you tell that it’s well understood?
“Do you have any idea what all of those people went through to bring you back, Hannah? I’m not just going to let you…” Angry words from the night before were still ringing in her ears, despite that she had sobered up well more than twelve hours ago. Her knuckles went white inside her coat pocket as her fingers curled into a fist, there, and clenched down on themselves.
Everyone was glad that she was back. Everyone was glad that she was safe. In fact, she was really getting tired of the word ‘glad.’ One person even seemed proud that she had pulled through, somehow, but she didn’t see how she had anything to do with it. If the search party that had been sent down into the catacombs after her had been any further delayed, it would have been curtains for her. It could have been curtains for them, too. They had all taken enormous risks – some sacrificing souls, one a life – to bring her back.
She knew damn well that she could never repay them. She would have never asked them to do what they did. That was why it took her a full thirty seconds to decide whether or not to break her first bottle of liquor over that guy’s head when he wrenched open that wound and poured it full of salt. He was lucky that his sister had earlier whispered a blessing over one of her shot glasses prior to pouring Hannah another, ensuring that she wouldn’t completely lose herself in the haze.
If only Hannah felt more sure that she had been true to herself in choosing humility and kindness over pain and rage. It would have been so easy to give in to the latter. So fucking easy.
The piano player reminded her of Gideon. He was tall and square-jawed with striking blue eyes. The way he played reminded her of the piano players in old Western movies. He was even wearing a bowler hat.
I’m here today and expected to stay on and on and on
I’m tired
I’m tired
It’s okay, it’s all right, nothing’s wrong
Something was wrong, though. Something was very wrong. A voice inside her head wouldn’t stop screaming.
Nobody would tell her what happened; at least not the whole story. Was she supposed to erase the question mark at the end of every sentence that came out of her mouth, now? How was she supposed to confront the trauma that was slowly crippling her spirit if everyone else wanted to sweep it under the rug so that they could go back to their ice cream parlors and their dance clubs and the innocence that she wasn’t sure she’d ever feel, again?
Leave it to her to end her first date with a bloodletting and a demonic uprising instead of a kiss.
She probably wouldn't need to give up that ghost. He'd probably already given her up.
Tell Mr. Man with impossible plans to just leave me alone
In the place where I make no mistakes
In the place where I have what it takes
Maybe it was for the best if he stayed… wherever he was. After all, there are some dragons that not even a knight in tattooed armor can conquer.
Maybe she deserved his desertion. Maybe she deserved desertion in general.
With a wistful look in her eyes, Hannah dropped a few Euros into the open guitar case laying at the bald, portly celloist’s feet. Quiet steps led her onward into the night, where a train into London was waiting for her.
I’m never gonna know you, now, but I’m gonna love you, anyhow
SUMMARY: Written in December of 2014, following Hannah’s release from the hospital in the wake of a demonic uprising that turned most of her friends into missing persons reports. The ones that are left seem to have moved on with their lives as though nothing happened, already, leaving her to try to cope with the loss alone. She decides to leave for London.
TW:
Tsh-tap-tap, tsh-tap-tap, tsh-tap-tap. A mild-mannered snare drum in three-quarter time caught Hannah’s attention as she wandered through the streets of downtown Durham.
Darkness had already fallen and recently lit street lamps were still dim in the light they cast over cobblestone streets. She tucked cold waves of coppery hair behind her right ear as the rest of the buskers chimed in, one part at a time.
The first was a man in a green scarf and plaid cap with a round, kind face. The blonde curls that peeked out from under his cap also lived on his face in a well-kept beard. He played acoustic guitar; mid-range and with an unrestrained, throaty strum that made her smile. His singing voice wasn’t perfect. It was too soft, and he sung through his nose instead of from his gut, but it was sincere.
She appears composed, so she is, I suppose
Who can really tell?
She shows no emotion at all
Stares into space like a dead China doll
The smile on Hannah’s face flickered like the flame of a candle that just couldn’t seem to burn through wick at a steady pace. She paused to hear the song out with her hands stuffed into the pockets of a borrowed mustard yellow peacoat that smelled like marijuana and incense, a myriad of images and emotions playing on some pull-down screen behind her hazel eyes that only she could see.
A plaintive violin, played by a statuesque woman with short, brunette hair and sweet, appled cheeks joined in a few measures later.
‘Cause I’m doing just fine hour to hour, note to note
Here it is, the revenge to the tune,
‘You’re no good,
You’re no good, you’re no good, you’re no good’
Can’t you tell that it’s well understood?
“Do you have any idea what all of those people went through to bring you back, Hannah? I’m not just going to let you…” Angry words from the night before were still ringing in her ears, despite that she had sobered up well more than twelve hours ago. Her knuckles went white inside her coat pocket as her fingers curled into a fist, there, and clenched down on themselves.
Everyone was glad that she was back. Everyone was glad that she was safe. In fact, she was really getting tired of the word ‘glad.’ One person even seemed proud that she had pulled through, somehow, but she didn’t see how she had anything to do with it. If the search party that had been sent down into the catacombs after her had been any further delayed, it would have been curtains for her. It could have been curtains for them, too. They had all taken enormous risks – some sacrificing souls, one a life – to bring her back.
She knew damn well that she could never repay them. She would have never asked them to do what they did. That was why it took her a full thirty seconds to decide whether or not to break her first bottle of liquor over that guy’s head when he wrenched open that wound and poured it full of salt. He was lucky that his sister had earlier whispered a blessing over one of her shot glasses prior to pouring Hannah another, ensuring that she wouldn’t completely lose herself in the haze.
If only Hannah felt more sure that she had been true to herself in choosing humility and kindness over pain and rage. It would have been so easy to give in to the latter. So fucking easy.
The piano player reminded her of Gideon. He was tall and square-jawed with striking blue eyes. The way he played reminded her of the piano players in old Western movies. He was even wearing a bowler hat.
I’m here today and expected to stay on and on and on
I’m tired
I’m tired
It’s okay, it’s all right, nothing’s wrong
Something was wrong, though. Something was very wrong. A voice inside her head wouldn’t stop screaming.
Nobody would tell her what happened; at least not the whole story. Was she supposed to erase the question mark at the end of every sentence that came out of her mouth, now? How was she supposed to confront the trauma that was slowly crippling her spirit if everyone else wanted to sweep it under the rug so that they could go back to their ice cream parlors and their dance clubs and the innocence that she wasn’t sure she’d ever feel, again?
Leave it to her to end her first date with a bloodletting and a demonic uprising instead of a kiss.
She probably wouldn't need to give up that ghost. He'd probably already given her up.
Tell Mr. Man with impossible plans to just leave me alone
In the place where I make no mistakes
In the place where I have what it takes
Maybe it was for the best if he stayed… wherever he was. After all, there are some dragons that not even a knight in tattooed armor can conquer.
Maybe she deserved his desertion. Maybe she deserved desertion in general.
With a wistful look in her eyes, Hannah dropped a few Euros into the open guitar case laying at the bald, portly celloist’s feet. Quiet steps led her onward into the night, where a train into London was waiting for her.
I’m never gonna know you, now, but I’m gonna love you, anyhow