I hate weddings. People'd poke me saying 'You're next'. Then I started doing it to them at funerals.

[glass-beddau.livejournal.com]

[Monday, December 21 (day 204)]
[Evening, the closet]

Dorian Gray-- oh, I am going to kill you. Fine that it won't take, but this--

Rather close in here, and can at least see well enough though that's no thanks to aught in the way of lighting, and it's not even dusty. That much I'd expect, but who the bloody hell puts a lock on their closet? But it's a well-made one, I can tell that, the doors fitted neat against each other, and my prying at the join of them t'see if there's room between to shift the lock gets me nothing but nails split to the quick.

Wanda, dammit. Drive my shoulder into the door, and the jolt's enough to rattle in my teeth. Can feel the wood shudder, but the lock holds steady. Can imagine the tongue of it, metal slotted indifferent into wood. Think I cannot break it, know I cannot keep from trying.

She was my friend, she was someone worth knowing, I remember that. I need to see this.

Another slam into the door, and nothing again. It's dark out by now, know that. Weighing out calling the Shuck, seeing if he'd get me out. Imagine he showed up in here, he couldn't but do otherwise; there's scarce enough room for me. Sure as hell not enough room t'work up any momentum t'speak of against the damn door--

And still it's Dorian's--well, may not be his home, but his. Slept and waited here with him, I'll not call the Shuck to that.

Sigh and sit down, my back to the closet door. Not much bloody point in yelling; don't know if Dorian's still in earshot, but can guess he's sure as hell not minded to let me out. Closet's too damn cramped t'brace my feet against the back of it and push properly, and my knife's in my coat, which I left in the room.

Can feel the minutes slipping away, blood through an hourglass.

Dammit to a bleeding hell, Wanda. 'm sorry. Ought've been there for you.

[Closed]

I hate weddings. People'd poke me saying 'You're next'. Then I started doing it to them at funerals.

[glass-beddau.livejournal.com]

[Monday, December 21 (day 204)]
[Evening, the closet]

Dorian Gray-- oh, I am going to kill you. Fine that it won't take, but this--

Rather close in here, and can at least see well enough though that's no thanks to aught in the way of lighting, and it's not even dusty. That much I'd expect, but who the bloody hell puts a lock on their closet? But it's a well-made one, I can tell that, the doors fitted neat against each other, and my prying at the join of them t'see if there's room between to shift the lock gets me nothing but nails split to the quick.

Wanda, dammit. Drive my shoulder into the door, and the jolt's enough to rattle in my teeth. Can feel the wood shudder, but the lock holds steady. Can imagine the tongue of it, metal slotted indifferent into wood. Think I cannot break it, know I cannot keep from trying.

She was my friend, she was someone worth knowing, I remember that. I need to see this.

Another slam into the door, and nothing again. It's dark out by now, know that. Weighing out calling the Shuck, seeing if he'd get me out. Imagine he showed up in here, he couldn't but do otherwise; there's scarce enough room for me. Sure as hell not enough room t'work up any momentum t'speak of against the damn door--

And still it's Dorian's--well, may not be his home, but his. Slept and waited here with him, I'll not call the Shuck to that.

Sigh and sit down, my back to the closet door. Not much bloody point in yelling; don't know if Dorian's still in earshot, but can guess he's sure as hell not minded to let me out. Closet's too damn cramped t'brace my feet against the back of it and push properly, and my knife's in my coat, which I left in the room.

Can feel the minutes slipping away, blood through an hourglass.

Dammit to a bleeding hell, Wanda. 'm sorry. Ought've been there for you.

[Closed]